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FRASER'S 


MAGAZINE 


FOR 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 


VOL.   XXXIII. 


JANUAliY  TO  JUNE,  1846. 


LONDON: 

O.   W.   NICKISSON,  215    REGENt   StREET. 
(Successor  to  the  late  James  Fraser); 

AND  SOLD  8T  ALL  BOOKSELLERS  AND  NEWSMEN 
IN  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 


FRASER'S    MAGAZINE 


FOR 


TOWN    AND   COUNTRY. 


Vol.  XXXIII.  JANUARY,  1846.  No.  CXCIU. 


CONTENTS. 

PAOl 

OUR  CHIMES  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR 1 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  CRlBiE,  WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM  FABilLIAR  HIS- 
TORY. 

NO.  I.     WILLIAM  BOSVB .' 7 

PRINCIPAL  CAMPAIGNS  IN  THE  RISE  OF  NAPOLEON.    BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 
THE  "  FALL  OF  NAPOLEON." 

NO.  I.     THS  ITALIAN  CAMPAIQNS ^ 

ON  THE  HISTORY  OF  PANTOMIMES.    IN  A  LETTER  TO  OLIVER  YORKE,  ESQ.    43 
THE  PRIDE   OF   A   SPOILED   BEAUTY. 

CBAPTIBI 46 

PUBLIC  PATRONAGE  OF  MEN  OF  LETTERS 58 

THE  FIRST  FLOWER-PAINTER.    A  LEGEND  OF  SIC  YON  72 

CONTEMPORARY  ORATORS.    NO.  VI.    THE  RIGHT  HON.  T.  B.  MACAULAY  ••  77 

TITMARSH'S  TOUR  THROUGH  TURKEYDOM 85 

OF  RAILWAYS.   BY  MORGAN  RATTLER,  ESQ.  M.A.,  AN  APPRENTICE  OF  THE 

LAW 97 

THE  LADY  OF  ELM- WOOD. 

CHAPTNB  I t 113 

CBAPTSmil •*••    IIB 

RONSARD  TO  HIS  MISTRESS.     BY  MICHAEL  ANGELO  TITMARSH  120 

MYSTERIES  OF  THE  CABINET •'•••  121 


LONDON: 

G.  W.   NICKISSON,   215   REGENT  STREEt, 
(Successor  to  the  late  James  Eraser)* 


IIJKGC.XLTI. 


FRASER'S    MAGAZINE 


FOR 


TOWN   AND   COUNTRY, 


Vol.  XXXIV.  FEBRUARY,  1846.  No.  CXCIII. 


CONTENTS. 

PA«S 

AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  CHAPTER  ON  STRAWS.    BEING  THE  FIRST  SPECIMEN 

.     OF  A  NEW  DICTIONARY  1»7 

CONTEMPORARY  ORATORS.  NO.  VIL  THE  RIGHT  HON.  SIR  JAMES  GRAHAM    136 

THE  LEGEND  OF  GELNUAU8EN.      FROM  THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  TWELFTH 

CENTURY ; 143 

PRINCIPAL  CAMPAIGNS  IN  THE  RISE  OF  NAPOLEON.    BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 
THE  "  FALL  OF  NAPOLEON." 

HO.fI.     THB  ITAUAX  CA»AlQKt 157 

THE  PRIDE   OF  A  SPOILED  BEAUTY. 

CBAPm  II.  AKD  CONCLUfllOlV ISO 

LATIN  PAMPHLETEERS.    SALLUST 194 

A  LETTER  FROM  RIPPOLDSAU    211 

LOVE,  PRESENT  AND  PAST    226 

A  DINNER  IN  ANCIENT  EGYPT 299 

A  FALSE  ALARM.    A  TRUE  STORY   232 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  CRIME,  WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM  FAMILL/Ul  HIS- 
TORY, 

KO.II.     TBAKCtS  DAttO  ITiaM 835 

POSITION  OF  MINISTERS , 246 


LONDON: 

G.  W.   NICKISSON,   215   REGENT  Sf  ft.fiET, 
{Successor  to  the  late  James  FRASfiR).* 


MJ>CCC.XLyX. 


FRASER'S    MAGAZINE 


FOR 


TOWN    AND   COUNTRY. 


Vol.  XXXIIL  MARCH,  1846.  No.  CXCV. 


CONTENTS. 

PAOB 

MR.  NEWMAN;  HIS  THEORIES  AND  CHARACTER 253 

LE  JEU  DE  NOEL.    FROM  THE  NOTES  OF  AN  OLD  TRAVELLER    269 

TO  ONE  WHO  WAS  MOYSD  TO  TEARS  AT  SIGHT  OF  IMHOFF'S  STATUE  OF 

HAGAR  AT  ROBfE 276 

PRINCIPAL  CAMPAIGNS  IN  THE  RISE  OF  NAPOLEON.  BT  THE  AUTHOR  OF 
THE  ••  FALL  OF  NAPOLEON." 

NO.  ni.     THE  ITALIAN  CAMPAIGNS 276 

COUNSEL  MAL-A-PROPOS 288 

MARGARRT  LUCAS,.  DUCHESS  OF  NEWCASTLE 292 

MILLINERS*  APPRENTICES 308 

CONTEAIPORARY  ORATORS.     NO.  VIU.     LORD  PALMERSTON    317 

THE  VILLAGE  OF  LORETTE,  AND  THE  NEW  SETTLEMENT  OF  VALE 
CARTIER. 

THX  TILLAOB  OF  LOBSTTS 323 

THB  NXW  BETTLBIIBNT  OF  TALB  CABTIBB 326 

A  BROTHER  OF  THE  PRESS.— ON  THE  HISTORY  OF  A  LITERARY  MAN, 
[LAMAN  BLANCHARD,]  AND  THE  CHANCES  OF  THE  LITERARY  PRO- 
FESSION. IN  A  LETTER  TO  THE  REVEREND  FRANCIS  SYLVESTER  AT 
ROME.    FROM  MICHAEL  ANGELO  TITMARSH,  ESQ 332 

THE  COMMON  LODGING-HOUSE 342 

MODERN  PAINTERS,  Ac 868 

WHAT  IS  THE  POSITION  OF  SIR  ROBERT  PEEL  AND  HIS  CABINET  ? 369 


LONDON: 

G.  W.   NICKISSON,   215  REGENT  STREET, 
{Successor  to  the  late  James  Eraser). 


M.DCCC.XLYI. 


speedily  ^^  ^0  Published, 
A  BOOK  OF  HIGHLAND  MIN8TRELS7. 


Poem*  and  Ballads,  with  Prose  Introductions,  descriptire  of  the  Uanners  and 
Superstitions  of  the  Scottisb  Highlander. 

ByMrs.D.OGILVY. 

Handsomel/  printed  m  One  Volnmei  Foolscap  4to.,  profusely  lUuitrated  from 
Drawings  by  R.  R.  M'Isn,  Esq. 

O.  W.  NICKII80M,  918  RIOSMT  STRUT. 


\ 


FRASER'S    MAGAZINE 


FOR 


TOWN   AND   COUNTRY. 


Vol.  XXXIII.  APRIL,  1846.  No.  CXCVL 


CONTENTS. 

PAOl 

OF  THE  SFAIN8  AND  THE  SPANIARDS.    BT  MORGAN  RATTLER 380 

MILLYL .    A  TALE  OF  FACT  IN  HUBfBLE  LIFE   3»5 

PRINCIPAL  CAMPAIGNS  IN  THE  RISE  OF  NAPOLEON.    BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 
THE  "  FALL  OF  NAPOLEON." 

NO.  rv.     THB  ITALIAN  ClKPAIOm ;• ^13 

AN  ANECDOTE  ABOUT  AN  OLD  HOUSE    ^^ 

MUS.SUS    437 

DINING  OUT 445 

VELASCO;  OR,  MEMOIRS  OF  A  PAGE 456 

FEMALE  AUTHORSHIP   4G0 

CONTEMPORARY  ORATORS.    NO.  IX.    EARL  GREY  AND  LORD  MORPETH. 

I.  SAKLOKKT 466 

II.  LOKDXOEPITB   • 474 

THE  8IKHB-. THEIR  RISE  AND  PROGRESS 478 

MURILLO  ;  OR,  THE  PAINTER  WITHOUT  AMBITION   , 488 

ON  SOME  ILLUSTRATED   CHILDREN'S  BOOKS.    BY  MICHAEL  ANGELO  TIT- 
MARSH 496 

ANNETTE  , 603 


LONDON : 

G.  W.   NICKISSON,   215  REGENT  STR;EET, 
{Successor  to  the  late  James  Eraser). 


MJ>CCC.XLyi. 


FRASER'S    MAGAZINE 


POR 


TOWN   AND   COUNTRY, 


Vol.  XXXIII.  MAY,  1846.  No.  CXCVIL 


CONTENTS. 

THE  OLD  JUDOB ;   OB,  LIFE  IN  A  COLONY.     THE  LOME  HOUSE.     BT  THE 

AUTHOR  OF  «'8AM  SLICK  THE  CLOCKMAKER,**  "THE  ATTAeH^,**  ETC.  506 

80METHINO  MORE  ABOUT  VICTOR  HUGO A13 

THE  CHAMBER  OF  THE  BELL HO 

PRINCIPAL  CAMPAIGNS  IN  THE  RISE  OF  NAPOLEON.    BT  THE  AUTHOR  OF 
THE  **  FALL  OF  NAPOLEON.'* 

HO.  V.     THX  OAXTAIOH  or  ICABmOO ••  MS 

ELEPHANT-SHOOTING  IN  CETLON Ml 

PAST  AND  PRESENT  CONDITION  OF  BRITISH  POETRY    «77 

THE  FIGHT  WITH  THE  DRAGON.    FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  SCHILLER 691 

ARNOLD'S  LECTURES  ON  MODERN  HISTORY 696 

THE  SIRHS  AND  THE  LATE  CAMPAIGN    606 

ON  A  LATE  FRENCH  TRIAL 691 


LONDON: 

G.  W,  NICKISSON,  215  REGENT  STRfiET, 
{Successor  to  the  late  James  Fraser). 


MJ>CCC.ZLtl. 


^ 


FRASER*S   MAGAZINE 


roE 


TOWN   AND  COUNTRY. 


Vol.  XXXIII.  JUNE,  1846.  No.  CXCVIII. 


CONTENTS. 

MAHREM  TftA]>tn01l8»  AUD  BUFUBTITIOKS  OV  TUI  ItllTLANtlMIIII  ....    Ml 

PBJHCIPAL  CAMFAiaJXB  Of  THE  RUI  OF  M APOLIOW.  BY  TMK  AVTHMH  0¥ 
THE  **  FALL  OF  N APOLBOM." 

■OuTL     Xn  CAMT AMM  or  AOnaUBI    •••«.iitf««t««Mt*fiti  MtiMi.  If  Mil     MV 

01IBBOGAB8 «....,..  m  ..  n  ..     tHKl 

A  LETTER  TO  OUVBS  TOBKB  OM  FRBlfOn  MBWIPArMM  AMU  IIMWN- 
FAFBB  WEITSRfl*  FSEHCH  FABCBUKfl  AMD  FBUILLETOMIiTi,  yMlOMtm 
DUELLISTS.  FBBNCH  ACTRESSES,  ETC.  BY  BBBJAMIN  UI^VBT,  FON* 
MERLT  A  BENeHERMAH  AMD  TREMOHERMAN  IM  TUN  IMMMH  TBMFUO, 
BOW  A  RENTIER  OF  THE  RUE  RIVOU  IB  PARIS • «M 

ERBEST  WALKnnrOBirs  OPIBION  OF  SEVILLE.  IB  A  LETTER  TO  MR. 
GRUBLET * Mi 

RBUOIOUS  MOTEMEBT  IB  OBRMABT    9H 

PAST  ABD  PRESEBT  COBDITIOB  OF  BRITISH  POETRY. 

VAST  u.  Ain»  oovcLonov - •••••••..••***.••    TW 

EDUCATIOB  IB  THE  ARMT • Vt^ 

OOBTBMPORART  ORATORS. 

THE  CAOEDLARK TM 

THE  B.  O.  ABD  THE  B.  O.    A  FEW  WORDS  OB  THE  OAUOE  DISPUTE Ttt 

IBDEZ M..M ».«.M*.M.« 'it 


LONDON  J 

O.  W,  NICK18S0N,  216  REOENT  STREET, 
(Succesiof  (if  ih^  taie  Jamm  Fraskr)* 


ll.lrOO«.Rttl« 


FRASER'S    MAGAZINE 


FOB 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 


No.  CXCIII.        JANUARY,  1846.       Vol.  XXXIII. 


OUR  CHIMES  POE  THE  NEW  YEAR. 


"  How  soft  the  muiio  of  those  TiUaee. 

bells. 
Falling  at  intervals  upon  the  ear 
In  cadence  sweet,  now  dying  all  away. 
Now  pealing  loud  again,  and  louder  still. 
Clear  and  sonorous  as  the  gale  comes  on ! 
With  easy  force  it  opens  all  the  cells 
Where  mem'ry  slept.    WhercTer  I  have 

heard 
A  kindred  melody,  tlie  scene  recurs. 
And  with  it  all  its  pleasures  and  its 

pains. 
Such  comprehensive   views    the   spirit 

takes. 
That  in  a  few  short  moments  I  retrace 
(As  in  a  map  the  voyager  his  conrse) 
The  winding  of  my  way." 

^  Cowper  had  heard  the  chimes 
ringing  in  more  than  forty  new  years, 
when  he  wrote  these  beautiful  verses, 
and  had  experienced  the  mekncholy 
truth  of  Pope's  remark,  that  every 
year  carries  something  dear  away 
with  it ;  yet  not  destroying  or  defac- 
ing, but  only  removing  it  into  a  softer 
and  .more  soothing  twilicrht.  Pons- 
sin^s  charming  picture  of  a  Tomb  in 
Arcadia,  is  only  the  past  year  put 
into  an  allegory.  And  if  so,  this  is 
the  hour  to  read  it  in ;  when,  in  the 
happy  words  of  a  late  naturalist,  the 
repose  of  wearied  nature  seems  to 
mark  the  decline  and  termination  of 
existence  in  many  things  that  ani- 
mated the  green  and  joyous  months 
of  summer.  The  rare  note  of  a  bird 
is  feeble  and  melancholy,  andno  insect 
hums  in  the  field ;  the  breeze  passes 

TOL.  aXXXU.  HO.  CXCIII. 


by  us  like  a  sigh ;  we  hear  it,  and  it 
is  gone  for  ever. 

JProm  this  solemn  steeple  of  time  to 
which  we  have  ascended  by  three  hun- 
dred and  sixty-five  steps,  what  a  vast 
and  diversified  landscape  is  open  to 
our  eyes  I  A  rich  and  woody  scene ! 
That  elm-tree,  which  waved  its  dark 
branches  before  iEueas  in  his  sub- 
terranean pilffrimage,  might  have 
been  planted  nere,  with  its  change- 
fulness,  its  shadows,  and  its  dreams : 

"  Quam  sedem  somnia  vulgo 
Vana  tenere  ferunt,  foliisque  sab  omnibus 
bsrent." 

How  much  hoped  for,  and  how 
little  won ;  what  copious  sowing,  and 
what  a  blight  upon  the  fruit !  What 
tremendous  leaps  of  ambition  that 
lifted  us  to  nothing,  but  only  ex- 
hibited us,  like  Swift*s  landlord,  al- 
ways climbing,  and  always  in  the 
same  place ;  and  vet  when  the  cold 
and  frosty  lisht  oi  reasoning  memory 
plays  over  tnese  visions  and  dreams 
of  the  past,  they  seem  to  sparkle  with 
a  certain  beauty.  The  winter  tree 
of  the  poet  might  be  taken  for  their 
image: — 

"  The  erystal  drops 
That  trickle  down  the  branches,  fast  con« 

geal'd. 
Shoot  into  pillars  of  pellucid  length, 
And  prop  the  pile  they  but  adorn*d  be*, 

fore. 
Here  grotto  within  grotto  safe  de£es 

B 


Our  Chimes  for  the  New  Year. 


[January, 


Th«  Bunbeam ;  there  emboss*d  and  fretted 

wild. 
The  growing  wonder  takes  a  thouaand 

ahapea. 
Capricious,  ia  which  faocj  seeks  in  yain 
The  likeness  of  some  object  seen  before." 

We  said  that  Poussin's  picture 
of  a  Tomb  in  Arcadia  is  omy  the 
past  ^ear  put  into  an  allegoiy ;  and 
It  is  in  the  very  nature  of  bells  to 
bring  out  this  tone  of  sorrow.  Every 
chime  has  its  connecting  toll.  Even 
in  the  festival  and  enjoyment  of  life 
the  sound  is  audible  to  the  heart. 
The  voluptuary  hears  it.  *M  feel  a 
something  which  makes  me  think 
that)  if  I  ever  reach  near  to  old  age, 
like  Swift,  I  shall  die  at  top  first. 
This  was  the  apprehension  of  Lord 
Bvron.  He  tried  to  sneer  it  away. 
He  did  not  fear  idiotcy  or  madness ; 
he  even  supposed  that  some  quieter 
stages  of  both  might  be  preferable  to 
much  of  what  men  think  the  pos- 
session of  their  senses.  In  the  gar- 
den of  his  fancy  he  had  a  sepulchre, 
and  this  spectral  tomb  of  intellect  cast 
a  dreary  shade  over  the  bloom  of 
Arcadia.  The  past  year  put  into  an 
allegory! — ^j^es,  but  everv  year  in- 
creases the  size  of  that  tomb.  At  first, 
flowers  overhang  and  conceal  it,  but 
it  gradually  grows  and  lours  upon 
the  eye.  Conscience  is  served  by 
industrious,  though  invisible  genu, 
who  are  perp^ually  labouring. 
Swift  saw  it  durmg  many  vears ;  one 
might  say  that  he  watched  it  build- 
ing. He  was,  indeed,  the  most  awful 
illustration  of  it.  His  death  was  a 
show  in  the  literal  sense.  During 
the  two  dreadfhl  vears  of  the  malady, 
his  servants  exnibited  him.  The 
father  of  one  of  Walter  Scott's  most 
intimate  friends  might  have  gratified 
his  curiosity  in  this  manner. 

We  are  standing  on  this  steeple  of 
time,  and  reflection  clears  the  air, 
and  memory  rings  her  bells  all  to  no 
purpose  and  in  vain,  if  we  do  not 
review  the  path  we  have  been  tread- 
ing, and  mark  out  a  directer  as  well 
as  a  safer  one  for  the  next  journey. 
We  shall  derive  no  benefit  firom 
climbing  to  the  top,  if  we  carry  with 
us  no  increase  of  knowledge  when 
we  go  down.  Even  while  Gray  was 
complaining  that  his  own  hours  glided 
uselessly  ^,  he  umd  Mason  to 
activity,  ana  dedsred  his  admintiott 
of  those  travellers  who  leave  some 

traces  of  their  foot«tepei  hehi&d  tbem. 


"  Do  not  sit  making  verses  that  never 
will  be  written,"  was  the  lively  re- 
monstrance of  Mrs.  Thrale  to  her 
stout  fHend  the  philosopher,  when 
he  had  exchanged  the  indolence  of 
swinging  upon  gates  for  the  idleness 
of  meaning  to  write.  We  cannot 
help  growmg  older,  but  the  great 
thing  is  to  grow  wiser.  Each  suc- 
cessive week  locks  the  gate  of  its  pre- 
decessor; but  though  it  closes  the 
gate,  it  keeps  the  key.  Thus  every 
week  is  a  monument  guarded  and 
shewn  by  the  week  that  follows  it ; 
and,  when  studded  with  the  rich 
jewels  of  wise  hours  and  holy  minutes. 
It  not  only  diffuses  a  light  into  the 
distance,  but  attracts  and  cheers  other 
pilgrims  as  well  as  ourselves.  Of  all 
the  graves  that  ought  to  be  visited, 
those  of  departed  years  have  ihe 
strongest  interest  for  ourselves. 

Crusader  of  eastern  lands,  or  martyr 
of  our  own,  may  be  more  dazzling  to 
our  hxkcy,  or  more  eloquent  to  our 
hearts ;  but  neither  speaks  such  so- 
lemn lessons.  The  dust  of  our  own 
creations — our  hopes,  our  thoughts, 
our  virtues,  and  our  sins — are  to  us 
the  most  costly  deposit  in  the  great 
burial-ground  of  the  universe.  It 
would  be  a  wild  and  a  terrible  spec- 
tacle if  all  the  millions  who  Ml  be- 
neath the  Koman  eagle  were  sud- 
denlv  to  start  from  the  depths  of  the 
eartn ;  if  the  fierce  Briton  were  to 
spring  up  with  his  shield  and  bow 
under  our  forest  oaks,  or  the  Cartha- 
ginian fleet  8p^^  its  sails  to  the 
Italian  sun.  We  might  tremble  at 
the  vision,  and  the  cheek  might  grow 
pale.  But  how  much  more  appfuling 
would  be  the  instantaneous  resur- 
rection of  the  last  year,  with  the 
history  of  every  man  In  his  hand  I 
Adam  Clarke  has  recorded  the  be-  ' 
wildering  epitome  of  life  that  rushed 
upon  him  in  the  very  moment  and 
catastrophe  of  drownmg ;  but  this 
resurrection  would  give  some  things 
vet  vivider  and  awfuller.  It  has 
been  said  of  those  by  whom  the  blood 
of  humanity  was  shed,  that  the  sound 
of  their  own  footstep  startles  them, 
as  if  it  were  the  crv  of  an  accuser, 
while  the  rustling  of  the  tree  and  the 
murmur  of  the  stream  sound  like  a 
clamorous  demand  for  punishment; 
that  they  ftel  as  if  they  nad  arra^ 
against  themselves  the  whole  visible 
creation-— sun,  moon,  stars,  and  fo- 
mtsjpnblialuiig  their  orime.    Surely 


1846.) 


Owr  Chimis/or  the  New  Year, 


i 


this  i0  a  firightibl  visitatioQ ;  but 
stabs  of  our  own  ooofcknoe  speak  ia 
fiercer  accents,  and  the  apparitkm  of 
our  past  days  would  be  the  most 
thrilling  tale  that  could  be  uttered 

'*  By  the  chimney's  edge, 
That  in  oor  ancient,  uncouth,  country 

Btyle, 
With  huge  and  thick  projection,  or^r- 

brows 
Large  space  beneath." 

It  is  a  very  happy  thing  for  us 
when  the  chimes  of  the  new  year 
hare  called  us  up  into  the  steeple 
before  many  of  them  have  been  rung 
in.  It  is  always  a  delightful  reflec- 
tion to  feel  that  we  may  shape  our 
future  conduct  by  our  past.  When, 
at  all  eyents,  we  are  eiuibled  to  start 
with  some  capital,  an  occasional  run 
by  temptation  or  folly  will  not  break 
us.  We  have  still  something  to  fall 
back  on— still  possess  some  specie  in 
the  cellar.  '*  All  my  amusements 
are  reduced  to  the  idle  business  of 
nnr  little  garden,  and  to  the  reading 
of  idle  books,  where  the  mind  is  sel* 
dom  called  on."  .  This  was  the  con* 
dition  of  Chesterfield,  old,  anery,  and 
deaf,  in  his  hermitage  at  Blackneath. 
He  had  gold,  inde^  in  the  cellar, 
but  it  was  of  a  base  currency,  and 
without  the  legal  superscription. 
Bacon  had  not  one  good  coin  m  his 
pocket  when  he  made  the  despicable 
and  desperate  appeal  to  James  I., 
Si  tu  dueris^  peritmu.  How  much 
happier  the  education  giren  by  Henry 
Sidney  to  his  son  I  *'  Bless  you,  my 
sweet  boy  I  Perge,,  verge,  my  Bobin, 
in  the  filial  fear  or  God,  and  in  the 
meanest  imagination  of*  yourself." 
And  surely  it  would  be  a  noble  and 
an  inspiring  sight  to  behold  the 
Grecian  story  of  piety  and  afiection 
thus  transfemd  to  a  different  coun- 
try, and  fulfilled  in  a  different  ob- 
ject; to  see  the  time  that  is  gone 
continually  brought  baek  to  cherish, 
to  strengthen,  and  to  support  the 
time  tiiat  is  oome  (  to  feel  tne  wasted 
virtue  of  our  manhood  invigorated  by 
the  life-giving  current  of  our  youth, 
the  decrepitude  and  exhaustion  of 
the  parent  refreshed  by  the  glowing 
bosom  of  the  child.  Thus,  in  a 
higher  sense  than  even  the  poetic 
eye  foresaw  in  its  raptute  and  pro- 


r,  may  the  child  become  the 

kther  of  theman. 

But  let  us  not  be  mistaken.  We 
have  ndther  recommendation  nor 
panegyric  for  all  the  languages  and 
none  of  the  absurdities  at  ten  years 
^d.  We  remember  the  description 
ci  a  larch  ;*  brittle,  thin,  perking, 
premature,  upstart,  monotonous,  wiw 
no  massiveness  of  limb,  no  variety  of 
outline,  no  prominences  and  recesses 
for  the  lights  and  shadows  to  play  in  $ 
and  we  recollect,  also,  the  moral  of 
the  deseripti(m; — when  you  have 
seen  one  larch,  you  have  seen  all. 
Not  BO  with  any  child  of  whom  the 
man  is  the  son.  When  you  have 
seen  one  specimen  of  the  scholastical 
patent,  you  have  seen  all.  We  want 
a  fruitfuUer  soil  of  learning  to  send 
up  richer  juices  to  the  trunk  and  the 
branches.  Then  the  rich  gleams  of 
imagination  may  shine  in  the  ver- 
dant depths;  the  solemn  shade  of 
philosophy  may  subdue  and  bar- 
monise  the  glare ;  and  the  youthftil 
scholar  may  resemble  the  charming 
friend  of  Steele,  who  was  never  be- 
held but  with  deliffht  by  her  visitors, 
and  never  admired  but  with  pain  to 
herself.  Of  all  common  education 
we  say,  in  the  exquisite  simile  of 
Webster, — 

'*  1'is  e'en  like  one,  that  on  a  winter*8 

night 
Takes  a  long  slumber  o'er  a  dying  fire, 
An  loath  to  part  from 't ;  yet  parts  thence 

more  cold 
Than  when  he  first  sat  down." 

In  looking  to  ourselves,  we  are,  in 
the  truest  sense  of  the  word,  pro- 
tecting our  country.  The  decline 
and  fall  of  an  empire  begin  in  a 
family.  National  ^ilt  is  only  the 
multiplication  of  individual  vices. 
Commerce  interdicted,  laws  violated, 
population  thinned,  kingdoms  vanish- 
ing, the  fabric  of  society  crumbling 
— who  has  not  read  that  tempestuous 
page  in  European  history,  and  who 
does  not  know  its  authors?  Who 
shall  remove  every  apprehension  of 
that  paffe  being  again  set  up  in  type, 
which  the  hastiest  eye  may  be  able 
to  read?  But  though  it  never  be 
reprinted,  there  are  signs  in  the  sky 
that  may  well  induce  us  to  look  to 
our  moral  as  well  as  to  our  physical 


*  Gatssss  at  Tnitb* 


Our  Chimes  for  the  New  Year. 


[January, 


•trength.  There  are  other  defences 
of  a  country  beside  those  of  her 
coasts. 

It  has  been  asserted  of  every  im- 
perial state,  that  it  must  be  con- 
stantly in  movement,  advancing  or 
retiring,  never  stationary.  Aggres- 
sion is  the  condition  of  its  existence. 
Conquest  thus  becomes  the  animating 
principle  of  its  frame,  the  source  of 
Its  motion  and  its  grandeur.  What- 
ever interferes  with  the  action  of 
this  principle,  affecta  also  the  energy 
and  nerve  of  the  state  itself.  An 
impeded  circulation  is  shewn  in  the 
torpor  of  the  members.  And  as, 
when  the  heart  ceases  to  beat,  the 
body  ceases  to  move ;  so,  when  the 
state  ceases  to  conquer,  it  ceases  to 
be. 

We  may  read  this  truth  upon  the 
monuments  of  the  nast,  but  he  must 
be  blind,  indeed,  wno  does  not  per- 
ceive it  in  the  history  of  the  present. 
We  recognise  at  this  hour  the  action 
of  the  same  tremendous  tide  of  em- 
pire, which,  during  so  many  centu- 
ries, has  been  setting  into  the  shores 
of  barbarism  or  civilisation;  at  one 
time  sweeping  from  Greece  into  Per- 
sia, and  at  another,  from  Rome  into 
Britain ;  which  now  thunders  in  the 
ears  of  Morocco,  startles  the  Circas- 
sian chief  in  his  mountain  solitude, 
and  dies  away  with  a  sullen  murmur 
in  the  recesses  of  the  Punjaub.  The 
stormy  echo  in  India  is,  indeed,  only 
the  roar  of  our  own  assault.  She, 
so  far  as  foreign  enemies  are  con- 
cerned, still  wears 

"  Her  plumed 
And  jeireird  turban  with  a  smile  of 
peace." 

With  regard  to  ourselves,  the  tide 
of  advancing  and  impatient  empire 
beats  upon  distant  countries.  The 
defiles  of  the  Caucasus  are  beyond 
our  fears,  while  the  wave  of  French 
ambition  breaks  over  the  burning 
eands  of  Algeria.  But  our  da^r  of 
terror  and  of  trial  may  be  advancing. 
Of  everv  tide  there  is  a  receding 
swell.  Kepelled,  or  triumphant  in 
one  direction,  it  turns  in  another. 
Retiring  fVom  Africa,  it  may  roll 
tipon  Europe.  That  principle  of  ag- 
gression, which  is  the  pnnciple  of 
imperial  existence,  will  manifest  its 
presence  by  the  restless  energy  it 
communicates ;  and  we  may  yet  be- 
hold the  foam  of  the  breakers,  of 


which  we  have  hitherto  heard  only 
the  remote  thunder. 

And  if  that  tide  shall  ever  dash 
upon  England,  may  we  not  expect  it 
to  set  in  with  storm  and  fury  from 
the  opposite  coast  of  France  ?  From 
the  wise,  the  generous,  the  brave  of 
that  nation— from  the  men  who  love 
their  country,  and  cherish  her  re- 
nown,— we  have  no  unprovoked  hos- 
tilities to  anticipate  or  to  fear.  They 
will  feel  that  France  can  give  ample 
room  to  the  swelling  spirit  of  her  im- 
perial heart  in  the  glorious  labours 
of  peace  and  colonisation.  But  what 
nation  is  composed  of  patriots  ?  In 
France  the  revolutionary  temper  still 
lives ;  repressed,  it  was  not  suodued ; 
its  languor  may  be  quickened  at  any 
hour  by  popular  stimulants  into  fe- 
rocitv  and  hatred.  In  the  altered 
words  of  Montesquieu,  the  tyranny 
was  struck,  but  not  the  tyrant.  The 
despotism  of  the  masses  continues,  if 
not  asserted ;  the  electrical  flame 
wants  only  a  conductor ;  the  first 
flash  will  kindle  an  atmosphere 
charged  with  fire ;  and  a  future  Mi- 
rabeau  might  hurry  a  Joinville  to 
Brest,  or  a  Bugeaud  to  Boulogne. 

It  is  not  that  we  fear  the  threat^ 
or  the  invader.  The  insulted  ma- 
jesty of  the  nation  would  speedily 
rise  in  its  collected  might,  to  rebuke 
and  demolish  the  assailants.  But 
warfare  has  an  awful  method  of  con- 
centrating the  sufferings  and  the 
losses  of  years.  Moreover,  every 
crisis  teaches  desperation ;  this  most 
of  all.  An  English  fleet  behind; 
an  enthusiastic  army  before ;  a  na- 
tional insurrection  around, — crops 
blasted,  cities  burning — the  meanest 
soldier  in  the  enemv*s  camp  would 
feel  that  the  scabbard  had  been 
thrown  away.  And  if  any  sen- 
tence were  borrowed  from  the  fiery 
lips  of  Catiline  to  quicken  the  droop- 
ing valour  of  the  invading  legions, 
it  would  surely  be  this,  ^*Animm^ 
aitUy  vir^  vestra  hortaniur  ;  pbje- 

TEBBA  NBCESSITUDO  QUA  BTIAM  TI- 
MIOOS  FOBTBS  FACrr." 

These  are  terrors  which  we  have 
no  intention  of  quieting  by  any  ar- 
rangement of  Sir  Willoughby  Gror- 
don,  excellent  as  that  would  assur- 
edly be.  The  War-Office  can  raise 
regiments,  but  not  men.  The  highest 
kind  of  drill  cannot  be  taught  by  the 
Serjeant  Heroes  of  Marathon  are 
never  enlisted.     But  they  can  be 


1846.] 


Our,  Chimes  for  the  New  Year. 


created;  and  the  great  instrument 
in  the  work  is  the  moral  discipline 
of  a  religious  education.  'Everj  pa- 
triot is  a  soldier;  and  the  Greek 
poet  shewed  himself  a  statesman, 
when  he  affirmed  a  living  fortifica- 
tion to  be  of  all  ramparts  the  most 
impregnable.  We  think  that  a  warn- 
ing cry  comes  from  this  steeple  of 
1845  years;  and  that  a  mournful 
recollection  of  national  opportunities 
of  improvement  neglected  and  lost, 
may  be  heard  intermingled  with  the 
joyous  chimes  that  welcome  the 
stranger.  It  is  never  too  late  to  im- 
prove. Let  the  exhortation  of  Chal- 
mers be  remembered.  Let  the  streets, 
and  lanes,  and  those  deep  intricacies 
that  teem  with  human  life,  be  ex- 
plored and  cleansed ;  let  that  *'  mass 
which  is  so  dense  of  mind,  and  there- 
fore so  dense  of  immortality,  be 
penetrated  in  the  length  and  breadth 
of  it.**  fiolin^broke  remarked,  in 
reference  to  his  plan  for  a  general 
history  of  Europe,  that  every  man 
ought  to  feel  himself  bound  to  give  an 
account  even  of  his  leisure ;  and  in  the 
midst  of  solitude,  to  be  of  some  use 
to  society.  We  hope  that  the  lesson 
will  not  be  forgotten  by  any  of  our 
readers.  The  slightest  effort  in  a 
good  cause  will  not  be  without  some 
profit.  The  spare  minutes  of  a  year 
are  sure  labourers,  if  they  be  kept 
to  their  work.  They  can  throw 
down  and  build  up;  they  can  di^, 
or  they  can  empty.  Despise  not  their 
stature  or  their  strengtn.  There  is 
a  tradition  in  Barbary,  that  the  sea 
was  once  entirely  absorbed  and  swal- 
lowed by  ants. 

A  determination  to  do  good  wher- 
ever, whenever,  and  however  wc  can, 
will  be  an  excellent  step  in  the  right 
direction.  It  will  be  one  of  the  most 
harmonious  chimes  for  the  new  year ; 
nay,  it  will  help  to  make  the  steeple 
of  time  musical  in  our  praise ;  thus 
celebrating  the  sacred  marriage  of 
meditation  and  activity,  of  theory 
and  practice.  Wordsworth  has  sung 
with  truth,  if  not  with  his  usual 
eloquence : — 

"  Farewell,  fsrewell  the  heart  that  lires 
alone, 
Housed  in  a  dream,  at  distance  from 
the  kind  ! 
Sach  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known. 
Is  to  be  pitied,  for 't  is  surely  blind." 

The  absolute  abstraction  of  thought 


from  ourselves,  which  the  noble  and 
misguided  Algernon  Sidney  admired 
and  cherished,  is  one  of  the  rare 
achievements  of  valorous  discipline 
and  triumphant  self-denial.  The 
multitude  shut  out  their  brethren  by 
a  high  wall  of  partition,  and  enjoy 
themselves  leisurely  upon  the  sunn^ 
side;  others,  on  the  contrary,  sit 
shiverinff  on  the  shady  side,  and  re- 
fuse, with  all  the  indignation  of  mar* 
tjnrdom,  a  glimpse  of  the  sun.  And 
here  we  have  the  voluptuary,  and 
there  the  ascetic.  Cannot  the  wall 
be  broken  down,  so  as  to  admit  the 
air  and  the  heat  at  the  same  time  ? 
so  as  to  make  men  what  Coleridge 
says  St.  Paul  was  —  Christians  and 

Gentlemen  P  The  father  of  Philip 
idney  thought  so,  when  he  ad- 
monisned  him  :  *'  Give  yourself  to 
be  merry,  for  you  degenerate  from 
your  father,  if  you  find  not  your- 
self most  able  in  wit  and  body 
to  do  any  thing  when  you  be  most 
merry.**  And  aeain,  **  Study,  and  en- 
deavour yourself  to  be  virtuously  oc- 
cupied.** There  is  only  one  method 
of  achieving  this  object,  according  to 
the  last  publication  of  Mr.  Newman, 
'*  It  is  in  vain  to  look  out  for  mis- 
sionaries for  China  or  Africa,  or 
evangelists  for  our  great  towns,  or 
Christian  attendants  on  the  sick,  or 
teachers  of  the  ignorant,  on  such  a 
scale  of  numbers  as  the  need  requires, 
without  the  doctrine  of  Purgatory; 
for  thus  the  sins  of  youth  are  turned 
to  account  by  the  profitable  penance 
of  manhood ;  and  terrors,  which  the 
philosopher  scorns  in  the  individual, 
become  the  benefactors  and  earn  the 
ffratitude  of  nations.**  This  is  a  com- 
fortable encouragement  to  the  Na- 
tional Society  and  the  Bishop  of  Lon- 
don's lay -readers.  They  will  ac- 
complish nothing  without  a  fhiud; 
and  all  their  offices  and  institutions 
will  be  of  no  avail  without  a  Fire- 
assurance  1  Alas!  no  chimes,  we 
hone,  from  Time's  venerable  tower, 
will  welcome  this  pestilent  doctrine 
into  the  fair  domains  of  the  year  that 
is  coming.  At  least  if  chimes  there 
be,  they  shall  not  be  ours.  The  dis- 
mal howl  of  a  false  tradition  shall 
never  terrify  us  from  its  twilight 
cave  of  antiquity.  We  listen  to  ita 
voice  as  to  the  melancholy  roar  of 
the  Virgilian  eate-keeper.  We  know 
where  to  gaUier  the  eolden  bough 
that  shall  ensure  a  sue  and  happy 


6 


Our  CkimeifoT  ik€  New  Year. 


[Janaaiy, 


pttflMce.  Thii  onoe  fixed  upon  the 
thrmold  of  darkness,  the  gloom  and 
terror  of  the  pilgrimage  are  oyer  and 
past.  A  serener  landscape  dawns 
Defbre  us : — 

"  Locos  latos  ot  touBiis  TireU 
^ortnaatomm  nemoran*  sedosooa   be* 
atM." 

These,  then^  are  some  of  our  chimes 
ibr  the  new  year.  Other  hells  may 
ling  a  livelier  peal,  but,  we  think, 
not  a  truer  x>ne.  In  all  chiming 
there  is  sadness,  but  sadness  that  only 
sweetens  the  joy.  The  wind  and  Uie 
rain  endear  the  fireside,  and  May 
herself  looks  loyelier  for  the  winter 
cloak  she  throws  off.  **  Still  I  lire 
here,**  wrote  Johnson,  ^  by  my  own 
self,  and  have  had  of  late  yery  had 
nights ;  but  then,  I  have  had  a  pig 
to  dinner,  which  Mr.  Perkins  gave 
me.  Thus  life  is  chequered.**  Let 
it  be  so  with  ours. 

We  have  led  our  readers  into 
the  steeple  of  time,  that  they  may 
behold  toe  country  behind  and  be- 
fore them.  The  road  has  taken  a 
new  turn,  but  it  will  lead  through 
scenery  yery  similar  to  the  former. 
It  may  be  a  wise  rule  to  keep  as 
much  as  possible  in  the  middle  of  it, 
for  it  will  not  be  forgotten  that  two 
roads  run  nearly  parallel,  and  seem 
occasionally  to  mtersect  each  other. 
Experience,  however,  has  set  up  suf- 
ficient hand-posts  to  guide  the  tra- 
veller.   But  a  cautious  ^e  is  neces« 


sury.  ''Tlieswerrnigofastcnpmay 
be  so  slight  as  to  w  scarcely  ob- 
served, yet  a  wide  ai^le  may  at 
length  result  from  sueoessive  ineon- 
siderable  flexions.**  For  some  of  us 
there  may  be  more  than  one  sepul- 
chre in  the  Arcadia  that  is  opening 
upon  the  eye.  Perhaps,  even  the 
beaten  path  may  be  obliterated  by 
some  descending  water-flood  of  diffi[- 
culty  or  trial.  And  if  the  land  be- 
come a  stormy  sea,  it  matters  nothing. 

"Ob,  bliodness  to  tbe  fittore!   kindly 

giveo* 
Tbat  eacb  may  fill  the  eirclo  mark*d  by 

Hmtml" 

Whatever  may  be  the  eold  and  hun* 
ger  of  the  disoonsolate  heart,  it  shall 
be  satisfied  and  warmed.  We  read 
of  those  who  had  toiled  all  nighty 
that  "  as  soon  as  they  were  eome  to 
land,  they  saw  a  fire  of  coals  there, 
and  fish  laid  thereon,  and  bread.** 
It  was  a  lonely  shore ;  yet  an  unex- 
pected fire  cneered,  and  a  strange 
Visitor  illuminated  it.  If  there  be 
any  truth  in  the  chimes  of  ages,  it 
shall  be  so  with  us.  The  night  of 
the  present  may  be  toilsome,  and 
dark,  and  unprofitable ;  but  a  clear 
fire  bums,  ana  a  rich  repast  is  spread 
upon  the  tranquil  diore  of  the  future. 
Happy  for  us  if  we  leave  behind  us 
this  brief  epitaph, — 

"  Proved  by  (bo  euds  of  bsioff,  to  bsve 
boon/' 


1846.]        The  Philosophy  of  Crime,  wiik  Illustrations,  ^c. 


THE  PHII.OSOPHT  OF  CRIME,  WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM 

FAMILIAR  HISTORY. 

No.  I. 

WILUAM  HOBNB. 


*> 


Wb  »re  inclined  to  believe  that  at- 
tention has  never  yet  been  turned, 
as  it  might  be,  to  one  of  the  most 
imj^rtant  questions  which  can  ex- 
ercise the  mind  of  a  thinking  man. 
Crime  prevails  on  all  sides  of  us: 
and  the  circumstances  attending  its 
commission  and  its  consequences,  as 
they  affect  both  the  ^pilty  and  the 
innocent,  are  set  forth  m  every  news- 
paper that  comes  into  our  hands ;  but 
to  trace  back  each  offence  to  its  remote 
causes,  to  follow  the  trail  from  step  to 
step,  till  we  reach  the  first  laint  out- 
lines of  the  path,  by  pursuing  which 
the  individual  has  won  for  himself  a 
frightful  notoriety,  no  one  worthy  to 
be  accounted  a  philosopher  has  ever, 
as  far  as  we  are  aware^  attempted. 
The  Christian  moralist,  it  is  true, 
finds  a  direct  and  easy  solution  to  all 
difficulties.  He  quotes  the  words  of 
Holy  Writ;  and,  assuring  us  that 
"  the  heart  of  man  is  deceitful  above 
all  things,  and  desperately  wicked," 
he  flatters  himself  that  in  the  beset- 
ting corruption  of  human  nature  the 
source  of  all  the  outrages  upon  right 
and  decency  that  shock  our  mml 
sense  is  to  be  found.  We  have  no  desire 
to  enter  into  controversv  with  him. 
Believing,  as  firmly  as  hedoes,  that  the 
Bible  is  the  word  of  God,  we  believe 
also  that  there  is  no  living  man  who 
can  assert  with  truth  that  he  is  free 
from  manv  movements  to  evil.  But 
erime  and  moral  evil  are  very  dif- 
ferent things;  and  though  the  one 
may  be  shewn  to  be  in  many  instances 
the  excess  of  the  other,  it  is  a  lame 
order  of  reasoning  which  would, 
therefbre,  lead  to  the  conclusion  that 
both  are,  through  the  operation  of 
the  same  causes,  to  be  accounted  for. 
Again,  there  are  persms  in  the 
worm,  acute  and  clever  men  in  their 
way,  who  tell  us  that  vice  and 
virtue  are  mere  accidents,  because, 
in  point  of  fiKt,  they  are  the  results 
of  physicail  orgaAisaition.  Dr.  Combe 
will  manipulate  a  head,  and  pro- 
nounce, when  he  is  done  with  it^  that 
tiie  wearer  cannot,  unless  restrained 
by  an  ii^nenee  that  is  hnesistible, 


escape  from  the  commission  of  soxne 
hideous  crime.  And  here  agam, 
though  ourselves  no  behevers  in 
phrenology,  we  should  be  slow  tp 
pronounce  that  Dr.  Combe  is  absQ- 
lutely  in  error.  The  heads  of  somie 
of  tne  most  remarkable  criminals 
which  the  last  half  century  has  pro* 
duced  have  undergone,  if  we  are  not 
mistaken,  phrenological  examination ; 
and  the  results  were,  in  every  in- 
stance, such  as  to  confirm,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  Dr.  Combe*s  theory. 
But  Dr.  Combe's  theory  no  more 
touches  the  root  of  the  difficulty, 
than  it  is  laid  bare  by  the  more  com- 
prehensive assumption  of  the  Christ- 
ian reasoner.  It  may  be  that  men*s 
passions,  when  indulged  to  excess, 
work  upon  the  surface  of  their  skulls 
as  the  nabitual  exercise  of  the  amr 
or  the  leg  enlarges  the  muscles  of 
the  limb.  But  the  question  still  re- 
mains, '*  What  in  the  beginning  led 
to  such  excessive  indulgence?"  and 
how  came  the  man,  seeking  his  own 
ffratification  throughout,  to  brace 
nimself  up  to  the  perpetration  of  some 
deed,  the  discovery  of  which  must,  as 
he  feels  all  along,  lead  to  his  irretriev- 
able ruin  ?  We  confess  that,  be  the 
doctrine  of  the  phrenologist  in  other 
respectB  as  rational  as  it  mav,  in  this 
it  fails  to  sup^y  the  inmrmation 
that  we  seek.  It  deals  with  effects, 
whereas  we  desire  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  causes ;  lor  it  is  only 
by  laying  these  bare  to  the  percep- 
tion and  the  right  understanding  of 
mankind,  that  we  can  hope  to  put 
society  upon  the  way  of  training  its 
members  so  that  crime,  if  it  do  not 
absolutely  cease,  shall  at  least  become 
less  frequent  than  it  has  heretofore 
beai  in  the  world.  Of  course  our 
reasoniiM?  is  not  to  be  understood  as 
applicabfo  to  men  in  a  mere  state  of 
nature.  The  sava^  has  no  right 
perception  of  the  difference  between 
good  and  evil.  An  arbitrary  code  of 
his  own  he  every  where  possesses,  of 
which  the  particular  enactments  not 
unfirequently  contradict  the  pre- 
judhcs  €^)us  ippre.  dvilisied  brolner. 


6 


The  Philosophy  of  Crime, 


[January, 


But  of  him  we  do  not  desire  to  take  an^ 
account.  If  we  deal  with  him  at  all,  it 
ou^ht  lo  be  entertaining  a  constant 
detiKtoieclaimhimj  to  teach  him  our 
arts,  toeommunicate  to  him  our  fcel- 
inp,  and  to  lead  him  forward  to  per- 
ceive and  rightly  to  appreciate  what 
is  in  itself  ffood.  Till  we  shall  have 
done  this,  he  is  no  fit  subject  for  our 
study ;  and  as  neither  the  means  nor 
the  opportunity  of  accomplishing  so 
great  an  end  happen  at  this  moment 
to  be  accessible  to  us,  we  will,  with 
our  reader's  leave,  pass  him  by,  and 
look  exclusively  to  the  condition  of 
persons  who,  beiuff  bom  in  a  Christ- 
ian land,  have,  at  least  in  theory,  the 
wisest  of  all  moral  rules  to  guide 
them — we  mean  the  volume  of  the 
New  Testament. 

And  here  it  may  be  necessary  to 
explain  at  the  outset  what  we  mean 
by  the  term  crime,  as  contradis- 
tinguished from  moral  evil ;  for  it  is 
a  great  mistake  to  suppose  that  the 
one  is  necessary  to,  and  in  all  cases 
the  consummation  and  perfection  of 
the  other.  Crime,  accoraing  to  our 
present  theory,  is  an  offence,  not  so 
much  against  the  eternal  law  of  right, 
as  asainst  society;  the  maintenance 
of  which,  to  any  useful  purpose,  de- 
pends upon  the  exemption  which  is 
secured  to  each  of  its  members  sepa- 
rately against  a  certain  class  of  out- 
rages. To  take  away  the  life  of  our 
feflow  man,  for  example,  except  in 
defence  of  our  own,  is  crime.  To 
appropriate  to  our  own  use  goods  or 
money  that  belong  to  another,  is 
crime  also.  Perjury  in  a  court  of 
law  is  likewise  crime ;  for  it  impedes, 
and  may  render  impracticable,  the 
due  administration  of  justice.  For- 
gery, swindling,  and  the  whole  cate- 
fory  of  fhinds  come  under  the  same 
ead;  they  are  attacks  upon  pro- 
perty. In  like  manner  we  must 
include  adultery  in  our  list  of  crimes, 
at  least  in  cases  where  a  married  wo- 
man is  concerned;  because  its  con- 
sequences may  be,  and  often  are,  that 
a  spurious  offspring  is  imposed  upon 
a  mmily,  to  the  manifest  violation  of 
the  rights  of  those  who  are  by  such 
means  deprived  of  the  whole  or  a 
portion  of  the  fortune  which  would 
nave  otherwise  come  to  them.  On 
the  other  hand^  we  do  not  account 
either  the  pronuscuous  intercourse  of 
the  sexes,  or  habits  of  untruth,  or 
4r«nkemie8B,  or  dusolate  tdk,  as 


crimes.  The  moral  guilt  of  all  of 
them  is  great;  indeed  it  sometimes 
happens  that,  when  tried  by  a  higher 
standard  than  that  of  society's  re- 
quirements, the  guilt  of  the  mere 
sinner  will  prove  to  be  greater  than 
that  of  a  criminal  of  the  first  class ; 
but,  for  obvious  reasons,  there  would 
be  neither  wisdom  nor  justice  in 
awarding  to  such  offences  the  sort  of 

Punishment  that  waits  upon  crime, 
'ake  a  case  which  has  often  occurred, 
and  may  be  expected  often  to  occur 
again.  A  man,  upright  in  his  trans- 
actions with  his  fellow  men,  who  has 
heretofore  enjoyed  an  irreproachable 
reputation,  discovers  that  his  wife  or 
daughter  has  been  seduced.  He 
broods  over  the  wronff  perhaps  many- 
days,  and  at  last  fslls  in  with  the 
scoundrel  who  has  blighted  his  do- 
mestic peace,  and  kills  him.  He  is 
arrested,  thrown  into  prison,  tried, 
and,  it  may  be,  hanged  for  murder ; 
whereas  the  miscreant  to  whom  is 
owing  the  desolate  and  degraded  con- 
dition of  a  whole  family  would  have 
escaped  scot  free,  had  not  the  criminal 
taken  the  law  into  his  own  hands. 
Which  of  the  two  was  morally  the 
more  guilty  ? 

Crime  and  moral  evil  may  be 
cognate  the  one  to  the  other,  but 
there  is  no  necessary  connexion  be- 
tween them.  The  former  may  origi- 
nate in  the  pressure  of  absolute  want, 
or  in  the  mere  lack  of  self-control 
under  sudden  and  violent  excite- 
ment ;  in  either  of  which  cases  its 
reality  is  compatible  with  a  very 
slight  amount  of  moral  depravity. 
The  latter  is  invariably  the  result  of 
an  ill-regulated  education;  which, 
though  it  may  have  stored  the  me- 
mory with  knowledge,  and  stimulated 
both  the  imagination  and  the  reason- 
ing faculty,  has  failed  to  teach  that, 
in  order  to  form  the  character,  self- 
control  in  matters  of  small  as  well 
as  of  great  importance,  and  the  habit 
of  repressing  and  thwarting  our 
own  wishes,  even  when  the  object 
desired  may  in  itself  be  innocent,  are 
absolutely  necessary.  The  criminal 
is  often  as  much  entitled  to  our  pity 
as  to  our  censure.  The  sinner  (for 
we  must  borrow  a  word  from  the 
theologian,  though  we  desire  to  be 
understood  as  treating  our  subject 
more  as  a  matter  of  moral  science 
than  of  religion^  deserves  at  all  times 
our  unmitiAtea  abboifenoe.  His  one 


1846.] 


with  Illuiirations  from  Familiar  History, 


9 


moving  principle  is  lelfishness.  At 
the  same  time  we  believe  it  will  be 
found  upon  inquiry,  that  the  darkest 
crimes  which  stain  the  annals  of 
guilt  have  all  come  out  of  habitual 
surrender  of  the  will  to  the  entice- 
ments of  moral  evil;  and  that  one 
offence  in  particular  has  in  every  age 
been  more  prolific  in  these  than  all 
other  offences  put  together. 

We  are  no  ascetics ;  neither  do  we 
profess  to  be  of  the  number  of  those 
who  charge  it  as  an  imperfection 
against  Nature's  laws,  that  she  has 
implanted  in  the  breasts  of  the  op- 
posite sexes  a  strong  desire  to  come 
together.  The  sentunent  or  passion 
to  which  we  allude,  and  which  leads 
to  marriage  and  the  propagation  of 
the  species,  is  not  only  mnocent  in 
itself,  but  praiseworthv.  Out  of  it 
arise  some  of  the  noblest  traits  that 
adorn  the  human  character; — dis- 
interestedness, self-denial,  the  de- 
votion of  one  will  to  another ;  and  it 
is  the  undoubted  source  of  all  those 
pure  and  holy  affections  on  the  com- 
parative 8tren|;th  or  weakness  of 
which  civilisation  may,  in  a  great 
measure,  be  said  to  depend.  But  it 
must,  to  produce  these  nappy  results, 
be  guided  and  controlled  by  an  in- 
fluence more  potent  than  itself;  for 
if  it  once  establish  an  ascendancy  over 
the  mind  —  particularly  in  youth, 
which  is  most  open  to  its  insidious 
advances — the  whole  moral  being  of 
the  man  becomes  vitiated.  No  mat- 
ter with  what  quickness  of  parts 
the  sensualist  is  gifted.  He  may 
or  may  not  exercise  his  intellectual 
faculties  as  he  grows  up,  but  it  will 
never  be  in  the  prosecution  of  a  noble 
or  righteous  purpose ;  and  should  he 
chance  to  be  of  a  dull  capacity,  then 
is  it  difficult  to  put  a  limit  to  the 
degree  of  degradation  to  which  he 
may  ultimately  fall;  for  there  is 
positively  no  crime  of  which  the  un- 
imaginative  slave  of  lust  may  not  be 
led  into  the  commission,  not  hur- 
riedly but  deliberately,  and,  as  it 
would  seem,  in  perfect  freedom  from 
the  checks  of  remorse. 

A  remarkable  instance  of  this  sort 
was  brought  to  light  in  this  countiy 
something  less  than  a  hundred  years 
ago,  of  which,  because  it  seems  fully 
to  Ulnstrate  the  theory  that  we  are 
now  broaching,  we  shall  proceed  to 
give  an  account. 

Butteriy  Manor— ao  old^fashicixed 


house,  beset  with  gable -ends  and 
surmounted  by  high  stacks  of  chim- 
neys— stands,  or  rather  stood,  a  cen- 
tury ago,  in  the  parish  of  Partridge, 
Derbyshire.  It  was  one  of  a  class 
of  mansions  which  have  well-nigh 
disappeared  from  this  country;  not 
very  large,  yet  having  a  certain  air 
of  respectaisilitv  about  them,  of  which 
the  dates  might  be  taken  any  time 
between  the  eighth  Henry  and  the 
accession  of  the  first  Charles,  and  of 
which  we  are  accustomed,  somewhat 
inaccurately,  to  speak  as  Elizabethan. 
The  mansions  in  question  all  bear, 
where  they  yet  survive,  a  remarkable 
family  likeness  one  to  another.  You 
find  in  each  a  rather  long  front,  with 
a  porch  about  the  nrincipal  entrance ; 
gables  at  either  nank  which  face  in 
three  separate  directions;  two  rows 
of  leaded  windows,  all  opening  as 
casements ;  and  on  the  show  or 
ptarlour  side  of  the  house,  con- 
siderablv  ornamented;  while  the 
materials  out  of  which  the  whole 
structure  arise  never  vary.  Red 
brick  and  oak  timber  are  exclusively 
employed  in  the  construction  of  sucn 
houses,  and  they  are  roofed  over 
with  tiles,  and  almost  always  stand 
either  at  the  end  of  a  grass  court 
which  divides  them  from  a  villaee, 
or  within  a  small  paddock,  which 
lies  cbiefiy  in  front,  and  is  cut  off 
from  the  x^ublic  road  by  a  thorn 
hedge. 

Butterly  Manor,  like  all  other 
mansions  of  its  class,  was  long  the 
residence  of  a  family,  the  head  of 
which  holding  a  place  in  society 
distinct  from  that  of  the  yeoman, 
scarcely  aspired  to  take  his  seat  on 
the  bench  beside  the  magistrates  or 
sc^uirearchy  of  the  county.  Together 
with  the  moderate  estate  that  ap- 
pertained to  it,  it  had  been  in  pos- 
session of  the  Homes  for  longer  time 
than  can  with  truth  be  given  to  the 
pedigree  of  many  a  famify  of  higher 
pretensions ;  and,  till  the  occurrence 
of  events  of  which  it  will  be  our 
business  in  the  course  of  the  following 
narrative  to  speak,'there  was  not  one 
of  all  its  owners  but  had  established 
for  himself  a  right  to  the  respect  of 
his  neighbours  by  the  character  for 
honesty  and  good  conduct,  and  of 
liberal  hospitality,  that  appertained 
to  him.  But  with  them  we  are  not 
now  concerned. 

It  wa3  tQwards  the  evening  oC  a 


10 


The  Philoiapky  0/  Crime, 


[January, 


doll  September  day,  that  in  a  large 
wainscoted  apartment  —  an  upper 
chamber  in  the  house  of  which  we 
are  now  speaking — an  old  man  lay 
dying.  Stirivelled  and  shrunk  he 
was,  for  the  weiffht  of  a  hundred 
years  was  upon  nim,  and  his  dull 
grey  eye  stood  wide  open,  moving 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  lef^ 
but  abiding  fixed — ^fixed  as  the  hand 
of  death  could  render  it  on  the  an- 
tique canopy  which  surmounted  the 
antique  bed  on  which  he  was  lying. 
The  hangings  of  the  couch  —  heavy 
chintz  of  a  faded  yellow,  interspersed 
with  faded  flowers  of  red  and  blue — 
were  in  part  drawn  back ;  and  on  a 
rush  -  bottomed  arm  -  chair,  beside 
which  stood  a  chamber-table  sur- 
mounted with  phials,  a  cup,  a  glass, 
and  other  sad  f\imiture  of  a  sick 
chamber,  a  middle-aged  woman  sat 
near  him.  She  seemed  to  have  had 
her  powers  of  watchfulness  a  good 
deal  taxed  of  late ;  that  is  to  say,  her 
eye-lids  went  together,  as  it  would 
appear,  involuntarily,  and  she  nodded 
from  time  to  time  as  those  are  apt  to 
do  who  fight  against  the  advances  of 
sleep  and  are  worsted.  Her  sleep, 
however,  was  neither  deep  nor  re- 
freshing, for  the  movement  of  her 
own  head  downwards  broke  it ; 
and  the  faintest  murmur,  the  slight- 
est stir  of  the  patient,  caused  her 
to  rouse  up  ana  observe  him.  At 
last  he  spoke ;  and  though  it  was  in 
a  tone  so  feeble  as  hardly  to  nve  to 
his  words  an  articulate  sound,  she 
was  up  and  leaning  over  him,  and 
eager,  as  it  seemea,  to  catch  and 
comprehend  his  meaning  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

**  Martha,**  whispered  the  dying 
man,  ^*  my  hour  is  at  hand.  I  am 
going!  Kaise  me  a  little  upon  the 
pUlow,  and  moisten  my  lips.  I  must 
speak  to  the  boys  once  more.  There, 
tnat  will  do.  Now  a  drink^a  drink 
of  the  cordial,  and  then  go  and  send 
them  both  hither.** 

The  woman  lifted  the  feeble  old 
man  as  a  nurse  raises  an  infant,  ar- 
ranged some  pillows  under  his  head 
and  shoulders  so  as  to  place  him  in  a 
half-recumbent  position,  put  a  little 
ett^er  to  his  lips  which  he  swallowed 
greedily,  and  quitted  the  apartment. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  tramp  of  heavy 
feet  sounded  on  the  dark  staircase; 
and  Uie  chamber-door  being  opened, 
by  no  means  softly,  two  men,  well 


advanced  in  years,  approached  the 
bed-side. 

**  Ton  are  come  at  last,**  said  the 
old  man,  speakine  in  a  move  audible 
tone  than  ne  had  been  able  to  com- 
mand while  his  nurse  was  near  him. 
"  I  have  looked  for  you  all  day, 
knowing  that  I  should  not  see  an- 
other ;  out  you  did  not  so  much  as 
look  in  to  satisfy  yourselves  whether 
I  was  alive  or  dead.** 

"  WeU,**  replied  the  elder  of  the 
two,  **  now  that  we  are  here,  what 
do  you  want  ?** 

"  Very  little  with  you.  Will,**  was 
the  answer.  "  You  were  always  very 
dear  to  me— very — very — too  dear, 
I  am  afraid — too  dear  by  far ;  and  I 
love  you  still,  my  son;  oh,  He 
knoweth  how  tenderly !  You  have 
not  alwavs  been  a  sood  boy  to 
others ;  that  is,  I  am  afraid  not ;  in- 
deed I  am  sure  you  have  not ;  but  to 
me  you  have  never  given  an  hour*s 

Eain,  except  once,  you  know  when ! 
ut  that  is  all  over  now-*-and  — 
and ** 

"  Now  do  hold  your  bother !"  re- 
plied the  amiable  youth  of  sixty-two, 
to  whom  this  maudlin  rhapsody  was 
addressed ;  "  we*ve  heara  all  that 
before;  a  hundred  times,  at  least. 
Let*s  know  what  you  desire  besides ; 
and  be  quick  with  it,  will  yon,  for  I 
don*t  think  you*ve  much  time  to 
waste,  and  Tm  sure  I  have  none  I** 

"  Veiy  true,  Will  —  very  true! 
yon  were  always  a  sensible  bcnr. 
Charles,  come  hither,**  continued  the 
old  man,  with  difficulty  raisinff  his 
skinny  hand  fVom  the  coverlm  on 
which  it  lay ;  **  Tve  a  word  to  sty  to 
you  !*' 

*'  Well,  father,**  answered  the  in- 
dividual thus  addressed,  *^  what  is  it 
about  ?•' 

**  About  ikaif  you  know!**  ex- 
claimed the  &Uier.  ^^It*s  always 
in  my  mind — always.  It  has  never 
been  out  of  it  since  first  yon  told  it.** 

''  The  beast!**  muttered  the  elder 
brother,  though  scarcely  in  a  tone  to 
be  overheard. 

**  You*ll  keep  your  promise,  won*t 
you  f  Yon*U  never  let  it  go  further  ? 
You*ll  swear  this  now  —  now  that  I 
am  dying,  and  Til  hear  it  the  last 
thing  before  I  go  P** 

""I  don*t  like  swearing,  fiiither,** 
answered  Charies. 

'^  But  you*ll  promiae,  Chnlesf— 
y«a*D  promiiei  won't  yonf" 


1846.] 


with  Illustrations  frmn  Familiar  History, 


11 


ging» 
But, 


^  Mayhap  I  may ;  that  is,  if  youWe 
not  Dlayed  any  tnck  in  your  will." 

"  No,  no,  Tve  played,  no  trick  — 
not  at  aJl — ^not  at  all  I  You  are  well 
provided  for  —  handsomely  provided 
for.  You'll  want  for  nothing — no- 
thing as  long  as  you  live ! 

**The  devil  he  is!**  demanded 
William ;  "  and  so  all  your  fine 
doincs  with  me  go  for  nothing! 
Well  done,  old  Hunks,  that's  just 
like  you  !'• 

''  Hush,  Will,  hush !  don*t  speak 
so  loud.  Put  your  ear  down  to  me, 
and  ril  whisper  something  to  you." 

William  Home  pushed  his  bro- 
ther aside,  and  leaned  his  ear  to  his 
father*s  lips.  The  latter  said  some- 
thing at  which  the  former  smiled. 
Whereupon  William  drew  back 
again,  and  Charles»  at  his  father's 
desire,  took  his  place. 

"Well,  are  you  ready  to  swear ?** 
demanded  the  old  man. 

"  No,"  replied  Charles. 

"To  promise,  then — solemnly  to 
promise  before  God  and  your  dying 
father?" 

"  I  don't  know.    You're  humbug- 

j,  I  perceive — chousing,  diddling, 
lut,  never  mind,  I'll  behave  better 
to  you  than  you  intend  to  behave  to 
me ;  so  here  goes.    I  do  promise." 

"That you  will  never  breathe  to 
living  soiu  a  syllable  about  ^ai  f* 

"  Never." 

"Nor  write  a  line,  nor  drop  a 
hint,  nor  give  a  sign  whereby  the 
ikcts  might  be  brougnt  to  light  ?" 

"  Pm  no  great  fist  at  writmg,"  was 
the  answer;  "so  you  needirt  tor- 
ment yourself  on  that  head.  No, 
nor  on  any  other ;  for,  unless  it  be 
forced  out  of  me  by  his  aggravating 
ways,  or  I  speaK  in  my  sleep, 
or  something  else  that's  unnatural 
happen.  Til  never  be  the  means  of 
bnnging  the  matter  to  light.  So  die 
in  peace,  old  man." 

"  I  will,"  replied  the  ancient  owner 
of  Butterly  Manor ;  and,  as  if  death 
and  life  had  been  equally  at  his  con- 
trol, he  expired  without  a  jproan. 
The  words  were  yet  upon  his  lips 
when  the  eve  became  fixea  and  glassy, 
thejaw  fell,  and  he  was  a  corpse. 

The  amiable  sons  of  the  deceased 
cast  each  a  careless  fflance  at  their 
dead  father,  and,  vrithout  so  much 
as  removing  the  pillows  or  laying 
him  fiat  on  his  bed,  turned  away. 
Bis  breeches  hung  oyer  a  sort  of 


clothes-horse  hard  by,  and  both 
made  a  spring  at  them.  William's 
was  the  lucky  clutch,  and  swinsing 
them  round,  so  as  to  prevent  his  bro- 
ther from  catching  hold,  he  brought 
one  of  the  large  buttons  of  the  waist- 
band in  contact  with  Charles's  eye, 
and  for  the  moment  blinded  hmi. 
Never  was  opportunity  more  instan- 
taneously or  eagerly  embraced. 
While  the  hurt  man  stooped  and 
rubbed  his  eye,  and  twisted  round  his 
back  in  his  agony,  his  brother  had 
thrust  his  hand  into  the  pocket  of 
the  vestment  and  abstracted  its  con- 
tents. There  were  eleven  golden 
gfuineas,  with  a  little  loose  silver, 
which  he  forthwith  transferred  to  his 
own  pouch,  and  then  casting  the 
breeches  on  the  floor,  he  demanded, 
with  a  sneer,  what  Charles  wanted 
with  them. 

"  You've  robbed  both  your  father 
and  me,"  exclaimed  the  latter,  bit- 
terly. "You'd  take  his  very  skin  if 
you  thought  you  could  make  a  shil- 
ling by  it;  but  don't  come  it  too 
strone,  or  too  often.  I've  promised 
to  hold  my  tongue ;  but  remember, 
that  it's  only  if  I  a'nt  aggravated." 

"  You  be  blessed !"  cried  William, 
laughing  contemptuously;  "I  don't 
care  that  for  you.  And  he  snapped 
his  fingers.  "  You  daren't  spcEik  for 
your  own  sake,  and  you  know  it." 

"  Give  me  the  gumeas  any  how," 
replied  Charles.  "  They're  mine,  I 
know  they  are,  for  I  have  seen  his 
will,  and  he  left  the  whole  of  his 
cash  to  me.  So  don't  come  to  rob 
me,  as  you've  robbed  him  often 
enouffh." 

All  this  and  more  passed  in  the 
very  presence  of  the  dead.  Both 
men  were  exasperated,  both  coarse, 
and  results  more  hideous  than  a 
verbal  dispute  might  have  followed, 
had  not  their  wrangling  been  inter- 
rupted by  the  sudden  entrance  of  the 
same  fbmiale  who  had  made  way  for 
them  when  their  father  called  them 
into  his  presence.  We  have  not  yet 
described  her,  and  it  is  right  that  we 
should, 

She  might  be  forty-five  years  of 
a^e,  or  more  or  less,  ior  the  time  of 
lue  is  not  always  correctly  delineated 
by  the  wrinkles  that  are  marked  on 
the  human  countenance.  She  was 
thin,  weU-nigh  to  emaciation,  with 
erizzled  hair,  and  an  expression  of 
face  that  seemed  to  iodicttte  »  com- 


12 


The  Philoiophy  of  Crime, 


[January, 


plete  prostration  of  spirit.  Grief, 
perhaps  some  darker  passion,  was 
manifestly  gnawing  at  her  heart,  and 
the  very  tone  of  her  voice  told  of 
bitterness.  On  the  present  occasion, 
however,  she  came  as  a  messenger  of 
peace.  She  had  heard  the  loud 
speaking  of  the  disputants,  and  know- 
ing them  well,  perhaps  suspecting  the 
cause,  she  hastened  to  interpose  be- 
tween them.  Her  presence  nad  the 
effect  of  stopping  the  wrangle^ 
whereupon,  turning  her  gaze  to- 
wards the  bed,  she  saw  that  it  con- 
tained only  a  corpse.  A  loud  and 
percing  cry  escaped  her.  She  threw 
herself  upon  her  knees,  and  taking 
up  the  cold  hand  in  hers  covered  it 
with  kisses  and  with  tears. 

"  Oh,  my  father !  my  father  !*'  ex- 
claimed the  broken-hearted  woman, 
"why  have  you  gone  before  me? 
why  have  you  leu  me  alone  in  a 
world  like  this  to  carry  the  load  of 
my  shame  and  my  sorrow  ?" 

We  have  no  power  of  lanj^uage  in 
which  to  describe  the  look  of  wither- 
ing scorn  which  the  elder  of  the  two 
coarse  men  cast  upon  the  woman.  It 
spoke  not  only  of  contempt,  but  of 
abhorrence — of  loathing  such  as  men 
involuntarilv  feel  when  they  are 
brought  suddenly  into  contact  with 
a  dead  body  that  is  in  a  state  of  de- 
composition. One  word,  however, 
and  only  one,  which  we  need  not 
pollute  our  pages  by  transcribing, 
escai>ed  him ;  having  uttered  which, 
he  walked  with  a  firm  step  out  of  the 
chamber.  His  brother  Charles  was 
not  so  bad.  He  spoke  kindly  to  the 
prostrate  woman,  and  would  have 
raised  her  up  if  she  had  permitted 
him ;  but  she  shrank  from  him  as  if 
there  had  been  contamination  in  his 
touch.  Whereupon,  he  also  retired. 
What  passed  afterwards  it  is  not 
necessary  to  detail  at  length.  The 
old  man  s  body  was  laid  dccenUy  out 
and  deposited  in  a  plain  cofiin  as 
soon  as  the  latter  could  be  got 
ready;  and  on  the  third  day  after 
his  death  four  labouring  men  car- 
ried him  on  their  shoulders  to  the 
villaffe  churchyard,  in  a  vault  be- 
neath which,  not  far  from  the  prin- 
cipal entrance  to  the  church,  his 
sons  deposited  him.  Not  a  soul  ex- 
cept themselves  attended  the  funeral ; 
azid  yet  old  Mr.  Home  had  been  much 
respected  in  his  day,  and  at  one  time 
desenredly  so,  both  by  rich  and  poor. 


The  reading  of  a  will  is  seldom  an 
edifying  scene  to  be  present  at. 
Strong  and  true  must  have  been  the 
love  of  the  survivors  for  the  de- 
ceased if  at  that  moment  their  mean- 
est passions  fail  to  break  forth ;  and 
if  it  so  happen  that  Self  was  the  god 
of  their  idolatry  throughout,  then 
are  the  exhibitions  which  they  make 
of  their  own  baseness  revolting. 
Very  few  persons  collected  in  the 
parlour  at  Butterly  to  hear  the  last 
will  of  its  late  owner  explained.  The 
attorney  who  wrote  it,  though  he  had 
either  not  been  invited  or  failed  to 
attend  the  funeral,  was  there;  so 
were  the  bailiff  and  the  parish  clerk, 
they  having  signed  as  witnesses,  and 
being  requested  by  the  attorney  to 
verify  their  own  signatures.  But, 
except  these,  none  appeared,  save  the 
two  brothers  William  and  Charles, 
for  even  Martha,  their  sister,  stayed 
away — whether  because  she  had  l>een 
desired  to  do  so,  or  that  grief  inca- 
pacitated her  from  retaining  any  ap- 
pearance of  composure,  is  not  known. 

The  little  group  assembled  in  the 
parlour.  The  brothers  were  dressed 
m  deep  mourning,  and  sat  on  oppo- 
site sides  of  the  fire-place.  The 
bailiff  and  parish  clerk,  the  former 
in  a  clean  smock-frock,  the  latter 
in  his  ordinary  week-da^  attire, 
took  possession  of  two  chairs  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  room,  while  the 
attorney,  Mr.  John  Cooke,  of  Derby, 
placed  himself  beside  a  table  which 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 
He  scarcely  looked  in  the  direction 
of  the  brothers,  otherwise  he  could 
have  hardly  avoided  to  observe  that 
the  countenances  of  both  were  full 
of  meaning,  which  was  not  curi- 
osity, much  less  anxiety,  but  a  sort 
of  ill-suppressed  glee,  as  if  each  felt 
satisfied  that  he  was  about  to  achieve 
a  signal  triumph  over  the  other. 

"  I  ou  are  aware,  gentlemen,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Cooke,  as  he  drew  a 
folded  paper  from  his  pocket,  "  that 
your  late  father,  after  making  his 
will,  directed  me,  in  your  hearing, 
to  take  charge  of  it;  and  that  you 
may  be  convinced  that  while  in  my 
keeping  no  liberty  has  been  taken 
with  it,  I  have  considered  it  right  to 
bring  these  good  men  here  to-day  in 
order  that,  after  the  deed  has  been 
read,  they  may  vouch  as  well  for  the 
accuracy  of  their  own  signatures  as 
for  thQ  unaltered  state  of  the  docu- 


1846.] 


with  lUustraiioM  from  Familiar  Histpry. 


13 


ment  in  regard  to  erasures,  or  blot- 
tii^  or  BO  forth." 

Neither  William  nor  Charles  made 
any  reply,  except  hy  a  nod  and  a 
half-uttered  ejaculation.  And  they 
likewise  abstained,  not,  as  it  seemed, 
without  an  effort,  from  casting  more 
than  a  furtiye  glance  one  upon  the 
other.  Mr.  Cooke,  accordingly,  pro- 
ceeded to  read  the  will.  It  was,  in 
every  respect,  a  just  and  a  wise  one. 
William,  the  elder  son,  was  declared 
heir  to  the  whole  of  his  father's 
landed  property,  as  well  as  to  the 
mansion-house,  the  furniture,  plate, 
cellar,  and  all  things  thereunto  be- 
longing. To  Charles  the  testator  be- 
queathed an  inn,  or  public-house,  in 
tne  village,  two  or  three  messuages  in 
the  town  of  Derby,  and  a  thousand 
pounds  wherewith  to  set  himself  up 
in  business,  should  he  desire  to  follow 
any  honourable  calling ;  while  Mar- 
tha, their  sister,  received  a  portion  of 
two  thousand  pounds  sterling,  with 
which  she  was  advised  to  withdraw 
into  some  distant  part  of  the  country, 
and  to  cease,  after  her  father  should 
be  laid  in  his  grave,  from  holding 
any  further  correspondence  with  her 
brothers.  Over  and  above  these,  a 
few  trifling  legacies  were  added,  such 
as  ten  pounds  to  the  bailiff,  as  much 
to  an  old  groom,  and  one  hundred  to 
Mr.  Cooke,  as  a  mark  of  the  testa- 
tor*s  esteem,  as  well  as  an  acknow- 
led^ent  of  his  kindness  in  nnder- 
takmg  to  act  with  the  elder  of  the 
two  brothers  as  executor.  Finally, 
William  Home  was  declared  to  be 
his  father's  residuary  legatee.  *'  And," 
observed  Mr.  Cooke,  laying  the  deed 
upon  the  table  and  looking  up,  "  as 
the  will  is  of  some  standing,  and  your 
excellent  father  was  never  a  man  of 
much  expense,  I  dare  say  you  will 
find  when  the  accounts  come  to  be 
settled,  that  this  last  clause  is  not, 
as  far  as  you  are  concerned,  the  least 
important.** 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  which  the 
two  brothers  at  length  interrupted 
by  requesting,  almost  simultaneously, 
that  Mr.  Cooke  would  read  aloud  the 
date  of  the  will.  He  did  so,  by  re« 
peating  the  words  '^done  and  exe- 
cuted l>y  me,  this  sixteenth  day  of 
July,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  one 
thousand  seven  hundred  and  thirty- 
five.** 

'*  That*s  not  the  last  will  of  my 
father/'  exclaimed  Chiurl^  riring; 


'^Tve  a  later  deed  here,  which  I 
shall  request  you,  Mr.  Cooke,  to  ex- 
amine ;  and  if  you  find  it  all  correct, 
to  read  aloud.** 

So  saying,  he  advanced  to  the 
table  and  handed  to  the  attorney  a 
will  bearing  date  some  day  in  the 
month  of  August,  1745,  which  Mr. 
Cooke,  after  having  carefully  scruti- 
nised it,  pronounc^  to  be  perfectly 
regular  in  every  respect.  It  differed 
from  the  will  of  eleven  years  earlier 
only  in  these  respects,  that  while  the 
land  and  house  were  bequeathed  to 
William,  Charles  was  made  heir  to 
the  whole  of  his  father's  movables, 
not  excepting  even  the  plate,  and 
wine,  and  furniture  of  Butterly; 
while,  after  the  payment  of  lOOOZ. 
to  Martha,  every  shilling  of  the  de- 
ceased's personal  property  became 
his.  Moreover,  tnis  will,  like  the 
deed  of  1735,  was  witnessed  by  the 
deceased's  bailiff  and  the  parish 
clerk,  and  both,  having  the  docu- 
ment submitted  to  them,  declared 
that  the  signatures  were  authentic. 

"  Now  ru  trouble  you,  Mr.  Cooke, 
to  say,  as  a  lawyer,  whether  my  bro- 
ther William  nas  any  right  to  the 
money  which  he  took  out  of  my  fa- 
ther's pocket  the  day  of  his  death  ? 
I  don*t  know  how  much  there  was  of 
it,  for  he  never  shewed  me,  and  I 
knew  it  was  no  use  asking.  But  as 
Pm  the  residuary  legatee,  and  am 
entitled  to  the  whole  of  his  personal 

Property,  Tm  not  going  to  be  choused 
y  him,  nor  by  any  one.** 
Mr.  Cooke,  in  spite  of  the  surprise 
and  mortification  with    which    the 

Eroduction  of  this  second  will  affected 
im,  was  still  master  of  himself,  and 
replied,  that  undoubtedly  all  the 
monies  found  in  the  house  would  be- 
come the  mo^Tty  of  the  younger, 
son  after  the  just  debts  of  the  de- 
ceased should  be  paid;  and  that 
Charles,  as  the  sole  executor,  was 
the  proper  party  to  be  entrusted  with 
the  keeping  of  them. 

Loud  and  scornful  was  the  lauffh 
with  which  William  received  the 
legal  judgment  of  the  attorney.  He 
did  not,  however,  rise  from  his  chair, 
nor  exhibit  any  other  sjrmptom  of 
annoyance;  but,  stretching  out  his 
legs  and  thrusting  both  hands  into 
his  pockets,  he  caused  the  coins 
which  lay  at  the  bottom  of  each  to 
jingle,  and  looking  contemptuously 
at  his  brother,  said,— 


14 


The  Philosophy  of  Crime, 


[January, 


"  Do  you  hear  'em  P" 

**Yei,**  was  the  answer,  fiercely 
vetumed,  **  and  Fll  see  them,  too, 
ere  lonff ." 

**(mi  I  wish  you  may  get  it. 
Look  ye,  Mr.  Cooke,*'  continued 
William,  after  a  brief  pause,  during 
which  the  amiable  relatives  had  eyed 
each  other  with  looks  of  deadly 
hate,  **  I  know  a  trick  worth  two  of 
that.  YouVe  brought  your  will, 
Charles  has  produced  his,  and  now 
it's  my  turn.  But  I  won't  do  as  he 
did.  I  dou't  get  my  father  to  make 
a  surreptitious  will,  and  for  fear  any 
body  should  find  it  out,  carry  it  in 
my  pocket  wherever  I  ^.  My 
father  knew  his  own  intentions  bet- 
ter than  any  body  else,  and  I  dare 
say  his  real  will — his  bond  JIde  last 
testament — will  be  found  in  the 
bureau  up-stairs,  where  he  keeps 
the  rest  of  his  valuable  papers,  his 
title-deeds  and  so  forth.  And,  there- 
fore, Mr.  Cooke,  I  deliver  to  you 
this  key,  requesting  that  you  will 
have  the  goodness  to  make  search 
yourself,  and  to  bring  down  the  deed, 
should  such  be  in  existence,  to  us, 
who  will  abide  your  return  here  pa- 
tiently. Go  you,  however.  Brown," 
addressing  himself  to  the  bailiff,  "  go 
you  with  Mr.  Cooke,  and  help  him, 
and  see  that  he  examines  the  proper 
pigeon-hole,  and  does  so  careAilly.'* 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the 
effect  which  this  proceeding  on  the 
part  of  William  Home  produced 
upon  the  whole  of  the  individuals 
that  witnessed  it.  The  attorney,  as 
if  a  spell  were  upon  him,  rose,  took 
the  key  which  was  offered,  and,  fol- 
lowed by  Browne  the  bailiff,  pro- 
ceeded up-stairs.  The  narish-clerk 
seemed  stupified,  while  Cnarles  could 
only  gaze,  with  open  mouth  and  out- 
stretched eyes,  upon  his  brother. 
Not  a  word  escaped  him.  He  did  not 
so  much  as  change  a  muscle  of  his 
body,  but  stood  beside  the  table  to 
which  he  had  advanced,  facing  Wil- 
liam, who  met  his  gaze  with  a  look 
of  cool  and  cruel  triumph.  By  and  by 
the  parties  who  had  proceeded  on 
their  search  returned,  and  brought 
with  them,  sure  enough,  a  third  will. 
It  was  of  much  later  date  than  either 
of  those  yet  produced,  and,  like  them, 
was  regular  in  all  its  details,  even  to 
the  signatures  of  the  same  identical 
witnesses.  But  here  the  similarity 
ended.  The  true  last  will  constituted 


William  Hocne  his  fiither*s  sole  heir, 
residuary  legatee,  and  executor.  It 
bequeathed  to  him  lands,  mansion, 
messuages,  money — every  thing,  in 
short,  except  the  public-house  at  the 
bottom  of  the  laue,  and  the  sum  of 
one  himdred  pounds,  wherewith  his 
brother  Charles  was  recommended  to 
b^n  business.  Of  Martha  no  men- 
tion whatever  was  made,  further  than 
that  the  old  man  commended  her  to 
the  protection  of  his  heir,  and  ad- 
visea  that  he  would  find  a  comfort- 
able boarding-house  for  her  some- 
where at  a  distance.  As  to  memoriids 
of  kindness  to  old  servants  or  others, 
none  such  were  here;  and  yet  the 
document  was  perfect,  and  .the  de- 
ceased's signature  thereto  firm  and 
legible.  And  so  it  was  manifest  to 
all  who  listened  that  flaw  in  the  deed 
there  could  be  none. 

"  You've  done  it  well,  that's  cer- 
tain," exclaimed  Charles.  **  You've 
kept  up  the  game  to  the  last.  Well, 
look  to  yourself,  for,  by  the  sun 
above  our  heads,  I'll  have  my  rights, 
too,  otherwise  every  thing  will  come 
out,  and  then 

"  Do  your  worst,"  replied  William, 
sternly.  *^  And  in  the  meanwhile,  as 
YOU  have  no  fhrther  business  in  this 
house,  make  yourself  scarce ;  and  go 
either  to  the  Three  Bells  or  to  the 
devil,  and  one  hundred  pounds  shall 
be  paid  to  you  whenever  you  choose 
to  send  for  them." 

It  were  long  to  tell  in  detail  how 
the  members  of  this  singular  family 
deported  themselves  subsequentlyto 
these  remarkable  transactions.  The 
heir  to  Butterly  Manor  took  possession 
of  his  inheritance ;  and  without  a 
moment's  delay,  or  the  manifestation 
of  the  slightest  compunction,  thrust 
forth  his  sister  Martna  to  the  world. 
It  came  out,  indeed,  upon  a  subse- 
quent investigation  into  the  matter, 
that  she  did  not  wait  to  receive  a 
formal  dismission ;  but  making  up  a 
bundle  of  a  few  of  her  clothes,  and 
leaving  the  remainder  to  be  sent 
after  her  by  Brown  the  bailiff,  she 
quitted  the  house  on  the  evening  of 
her  father's  funeral ;  and  travelled 
on  foot  to  Derby.  There  she  found 
for  herself  an  obscure  lodging,  where 
by  husbanding  her  small  resources 
she  managed,  durine  some  months, 
to  keep  soul  and  body  together.  But 
her  small  stock  of  money  was  at 
lengtii  exhausted;  and  her  apparel 


1846.] 


with  Illustrations  from  Familiar  History. 


U 


went  morsel  b^  morsel,  and  at  last 
her  health,  which  had  been  miser- 
able fVom  the  first,  failed  her  quite, 
and  her  sufferings  were  extreme.  In 
this  emergency  she  sent  for  Mr. 
Cooke,  who  ministered  to  her  wants 
as  far  as  he  was  able ;  and  in  the 
end,  baring,  without  consulting  her, 
made  repeated  applications,  but  all 
to  no  purpose,  spoke  to  her  of  the 
workhouse.  It  was  a  terrible  an- 
nouncement— it  was  a  word  of  &ar- 
flil  omen.  She  was,  indeed,  so  broken 
down  on  the  occasion  of  his  referring 
to  it,  that,  eyen  without  such  a  pro- 
spect before  her,  the  medical  man 
who  ^tuitousljr  prescribed  for  her 
gave  it  as  his  opinion,  that  she  could 
not  last  many  days.  As  it  was,  she 
went  to  her  miserable  bed  immedi- 
ately Mr.  Cooke  left  her ;  and  when 
ihe  woman,  a  poor  neighbour,  that 
used  to  light  her  fire,  and  help  to 
get  her  up,  came  next  morning  to 
perform  her  accustomed  offices  of 
charity,  Martha  Home  was  dead. 
Poor  wretch,  it  was  a  happy  release 
fbr  her ;  and  if  she  did  receive  but  a 
pauper's  foneral,  and  was  laid  in  a 
churchyard  apart  from  that  where 
the  ashes  of  her  kindred  reposed, 
what  was  she  the  worse  for  it,  or 
what  cal'ed  either  of  those  on  whom 
nature  had  ^ven  her  adaim  for  more  P 

Meanwhile,  Charles  finding  that 
nothing  better  was  to  be  done,  fol- 
lowed the  adyioe  of  his  amiable  re- 
latiye,  and  established  hhnself  in  the 
Three  Bells.  Whether  he  did  well 
or  ill  there,  the  record  has  not  been 
preseryed ;  but  it  is  certain  that  he 
became  as  abject  to  William,  as  we 
fbund  him  on  previous  occasions  to 
be  pugnacious  ;  and  that  he  derived 
the  same  benefits  from  the  assump- 
tion of  this  new  manner  that  he  did 
from  the  old.  Though  he  stood  hat 
in  hand  to  open  the  gate  for  his 
brother  as  he  rode  through,  William 
never  condescended  to  notice  him; 
and  as  to  assistance,  pecuniary  or 
otherwise,  none  such  was  ever  ten- 
dered. They  were  a  very  singular 
pair  these  bad  men ;  and  both  were 
regarded  by  the  neighbourhood  with 
dimvour. 

While  Charles  thus  conducted 
himself  in  the  public-house,  Wil- 
liam, always  mean,  and  selfish,  and 
nndeighboarlv,  fell  more  and  more 
into  habitfli  of  penuriousness  and  fe- 
rocity.   H«  Bumied,  indeed,  imd, 


strange  to  say,  found  a  woman  of 
some  property  to  link  her  fate  with 
his;  but  neither  his  wedding,  nor 
the  accession  which  the  bride  brought 
to  his  means,  operated  an^  change 
for  the  better  on  his  disposition.  He 
never  had  a  good  wora  to  say  of 
any  one,  nor  any  one  a  good  word 
to  say  of  him.  The  poor  he  opprened 
and  persecuted  whenever  a  conve- 
nient opportunity  presented  itself. 
Never  shooting,  nor  even  coursing 
himself,  he  suea  for  penalties  against 
all  those  round  about  him,  who,  not 
being  duly  (qualified,  kept  dogs,  or 
were  seen  with  guns  across  their 
shoulders.  The  orphans*  curse  and 
the  widows*  ban  attended  him  whi- 
thersoever he  went;  and  he  paid 
both  back  by  driving  them  away 
from  bis  door  if  by  mj  mistake,  or 
through  the  pressure  of  want,  they 
betook  themselves  thither  for  reliei. 
In  like  manner  his  domestic  affairs, 
as  well  as  the  mani^ment  of  the 
farm,  were  conducted  on  the  most 
niggardly  principle.  He  dismissed 
allnis  domestic  servants  except  one 
old  housekeeper,  and  his  stable -men 
and  out-door  helpers  were  brought 
down  to  the  same  scale  of  unity,  lie 
never  gave  employment  to  husband- 
men or  reapers,  unless  at  seed-time 
and  harvest.  He  kept  one  team  of 
wagon-horses,  with  a  wagoner  and 
his  mate  to  work  his  acres ;  though 
they  numbered  full  a  hundred.  Of 
course,  all  things  within  and  without 
the  mansion  fell  into  decay.  The 
fences  got  out  of  repair,  and  were 
not  mended.  Great  ^ps  might  be 
seen  in  the  hedge,  which  cut  off  the 
]^dock  from  the  parish-road.  The 
gnarled  oaks  which  adorned  the 
broken  and  picturesque  space  of 
grass-land  that  fronted  the  house, 
cast  branches  to  the  ground  every 
gale  of  wind  that  blew ;  and  nobody 
took  the  trouble  to  gather  them  up. 
Rank  weeds  defiled  the  avenue  flrom 
one  extremity  to  another,  and  grew, 
and  withered,  and  put  forth  a  pesti- 
lential atmosphere,  up  to  the  very 
stone  slab  that  lay  before  the  porch. 
You  never  by  any  accident  saw  a 
substantial  volume  of  smoke  ascend 
from  one  of  the  chinmeys ;  and  if 
you  wandered  round  to  the  back 
premises,  decay  and  neglect  were 
visible  in  every  thing;  firom  the 
stable  doors,  that  for  la(^  of  fasten-* 
ings  shook  and  banged  in  erery 


16 


The  Philosophy  qf  Crime^ 


breeie»  to  the  posts  and  rails  that 
surrounded  the  barn-yard,  and  rot- 
ted where  they  stood,  throuj^h  the 
absence  of  a  little  fresh  paint.  Never, 
in  short,  did  human  habitation,  or 
the  aspect  of  the  things  wherewith 
it  was  surrounded,  bear  clearer  testi- 
mony to  the  penurious  habits  of  an 
owner,  and  his   total  disregard  to 
comfort,  and  even  to  his  own  inter- 
ests; for  the  very  corn-stacks  took 
damafl;e  as   often  as  the  rain   fell 
heavily;  because  the  thatch  where- 
with they  had  been  covered  proved 
insufficient,    and    therefore    melted 
away. 

A  man  addicted  to  such  tastes  and 
pursuits  as  these  soon  makes  ene- 
mies; and  William  llorne  proved 
no  exception  to  the  general  rule. 
Indeed,  nobody  seemed  to  recollect 
the  time  when  it  was  otherwise ;  for 
their  earliest  reminiscences  described 
him  as  a  profligate  and  selfish  crea- 
ture, to  whom  more  maidens  in  the 
district,  and  especially  among  his  mo- 
therms  domestics,  owed  their  shame, 
than  they  could  now  enumerate. 
His  father,  it  was  said,  had  been 
ever  indulgent  to  him.  An  elegant 
scholar  himself— accounted,  indeed, 
one  of  the  best  classics  in  the  county 
— old  Mr.  Home  had  professed  an 
anxietv  to  cultivate  similar  tastes  in 
his  eldest  son ;  but  being,  as  not  un- 
frequently  happens  with  elegant  clas- 
sical scholars,  weak  of  purpose,  and 
guided  more  by  the  heart  than  bjr  the 
ead,  he  set  about  the  business  in  a 
manner  which  could  not  fail  of  en- 
suring a  defeat.  While  he  advised 
and  entreated  William  to  studv  Ta« 
citus,  and  spoke  to  him  of  the  beau- 
ties of  Horace  or  of  Pindar,  he  set 
him  up  ere  he  had  attained  his  ninth 
year  with  a  ponjr ;  and  could  never 
say  No,  when  his  darling  cried  for 
permission  to  ride.  Now  riding  is  a 
far  more  pleasant  exercise  to  a  child 
of  eight  years  old,  than  learning  the 
rules  of  Latin  syntax ;  and  so  Wil- 
liam and  his  pony  became  such  true 
and  constant  companions,  that  no 
room  was  left  in  the  boy*s  affections 
for  the  classic  muse. 

It  was  marvellous  to  witness  the 
ascendancv  which  that  coarse  and 
wilful  child  acquired  over  his  father. 
Every  demand  that  he  made  was  ac- 
oeded  to ;  and  every  scrape  into 
which  he  got,  or  fault  which  he 
C9mmitted,  was  explained  away  or  ex* 


tenuated.    By  and  by  vice  made  ita 
appearance ;  and  the  father,  while  he 
lamented,  had  hardly  courage  enough 
to  reprove  it.    Thus  the  bov  grew 
to  manhood,  in  the  habitual  mdul^- 
ence  of  the  most  debasing  of  the  ani- 
mal propensities;  and  gn^ually  los- 
ing under   its  influence  the  small 
redeeming  quality  which  is  not  un- 
frequentlv  to  be  met  in  persons  pro- 
fligite  only  in  a  d^ree,  we  mean,  in- 
difference to  the  cost  of  a  coveted 
good,  and  lavish  expenditure  on  the 
ministers  of  their  pleasures,  it  was 
said  of  this  man  that  he  was  never 
known  to  do  a  generous  action  in  all 
his  life.  But  though  the  tide  of  pub- 
lic oninion  ran  strong  against  him, 
and  nis  name  was   never   uttered 
except  with  some  accompaniment  of 
reproach   or  condemnation,  it  was 
not  till  some  little  time  subsequently 
to  the  old  man's  decease  that  deeper 
and  darker  whispers  concerning  him 
began  to  grow  current. 

It  happened  once  upon  a  time, 
about  three  months  after  the  burial 
of  Martha,  that  Charles  Home  was 
taken  ill.  His  malady  was  a  dan- 
gerous one,  and  he  became  exceed- 
mgly  alarmed;  and  desired  one  day, 
amid  a  paroxysm  of  fear  and  terror, 
that  Mr.  Ck>oke  the  attorney  mi^ht 
be  sent  for.  Mr.  Cooke,  anticipating 
that  some  testamentary  arrangements 
were  to  be  made,  obeyed  the  sum- 
mons; and  at  the  sick  man's  desire 
sent  the  attendant  out  of  the  cham- 
ber, and  closed  the  door.  They  were 
a  good  while  there  closeted  together, 
though  what  passed  between  them 
did  not  transpire,  only  Mr.  Cooke, 
when  goinff  away  asain,  vras  over- 
heard, as  he  hem  the  door  of  the 
apartment,  i^ar  to  say,  ^*  I  tell  you 
it  is  too  serious  a  thmg  to  be  con- 
cealed. You  are  bound  to  state  all 
that  you  have  stated  to  me  to  a  ma« 
gbtrate.**  What  that  all  was,  how- 
ever, nobody  found  an  opportunity 
of  ascertaining,  for  Charles  Home 
recovered,  and  did  not  go  before  the 
magistrate;  and  as  to  the  mj'stery, 
whatever  it  might  be,  it  continued  as 
dark  and  impenetrable  as  ever. 

No,  not  quite  so  impenetrable. 
Strange  and  norrible  tales  bespm  to 
be  circulated,  which  men  could  not 
trace  to  any  better  authority  than 
the  statements  of  their  neighbours, 
but  which  every  body  seemed  to  be- 
lieve.   The  few  that  had  heretofore 


1846.] 


with  Illustrations  from  Familiar  History* 


17 


greeted  Mr.  William  Home  at  pa- 
rish meetings  or  market,  now  seemed 
as  if  it  were  their  wish  to  shun  him. 
No  more  heggars  came  to  his  door, 
and  his  groom  at  a  short  notice  left 
him.  Mr.  William  Home  was  not 
so  blind  but  that  he  noticed  this 
change  in  the  general  manner  to- 
wards him,  and  he  deeply  resented 
it.  If  he  had  been  harsh  before,  he 
was  tenfold  more  harsh  now;  and 
entered,  as  it  were,  upon  a  crusade 
against  all  poachers.  So  passed  se- 
veral years,  till  Christmas  1758,  when 
one  James  Roe,  a  tenant-farmer  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Butterly,  commit- 
ted a  slight  trespass  by  following  a 
hare,  of  which  his  greyhounds  were 
in  chase,  across  the  march-line,  and 
killing  her  on  Hornets  land.  He  was 
in  the  act  of  packing  up  the  game 
when  Home,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing behind  a  hedge,  advanced  to  the 
spot.  Hoe  was  not  alone.  A  good 
many  of  his  friends  were  spending 
the  day  with  him ;  and  the  weather 
being  open,  they  had  got  up  a  sort 
of  match  with  the  greyhounds ;  but 
Home  cared  little  for  that.  They 
had  trespassed  on  his  land,  at  least 
Hoe  had,  for  all  the  rest  were  halted 
just  beyond  his  land-mark ;  and  he 
attacked  the  delinquent  with  such  a 
volley  of  abuse  as  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  pouring  upon  all  who  might 
be  so  unfortunate  as  to  incur  his  dis- 
pleasure. A  violent  altercation  en- 
sued, during  which  Koe  let  fall  the 
expression,  that  **  he  had  better  keep 
a  quiet  tongue,  for  he  was  weu 
known  to  be  an  incestuous  old  black- 
guard." 

The  face  of  the  old  man  became 
livid,  but  he  did  not  quail  an  inch. 
On  the  contrary,  he  doubled  his  fist, 
shook  it  in  Roe's  face,  and  told  him 
that  he  should  repent  it. 

William  Home  was  as  sood  as  his 
word.  He  caused  proceecungs  to  be 
instituted  in  the  ecclesiastic^  court 
of  Exeter  against  James  Roe  for 
defamation ;  and  the  latter  being  un- 
able either  to  deny  what  he  had 
spoken,  or  to  bring  evidence  as  to 
tne  truth  of  the  charge,  was .  cast  in 
damages  and  costs,  ana  obliged  to  do 
penance  in  public. 

Meanwhile,  Charles  Home,  whe- 
ther yielding  to  the  remonstrance  of 
Mr.  Cooke,  or  becoming  himself 
alarmed  at  certain  hints  which  were 
dropped  in  his  presence,  by  many 
VOL.  xxzm.  HO.  czcm. 


who  frequented  his  house,  had  gone 
to  a  magistrate.  That  gentleman, 
as  it  came  out  in  course  of  time, 
cautioned  the  defendant  to  say  no- 
thing farther,  representing  that  the 
occurrence  had  long  passed,  that  it 
was  of  a  very  serious  nature,  and 
that  no  good  could  arise  out  of  a 
public  disclosure  to  any  one.  Charles 
was  accordingly  silenced  for  a  time. 
But  no  sooner  did  he  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  particulars  of  the 
quarrel  between  his  brother  and  Mr. 
Roe,  than  he  went  before  a  second  ma- 
gistrate, to  whom  he  made  the  same 
statement  which  he  had  done  to  the 
first,  and  who,  as  it  afterwards  appear- 
ed, proved  to  be,  like  his  brother-func- 
tionary, very  reluctant  to  move  in 
the  matter.  This  ^ntleman  was  not, 
however,  so  cautious  as  the  other; 
for  in  the  course  of  conversation 
somewhere,  he  made  disclosures 
which  soon  took  wind,  and  were  car- 
ried, as  might  have  been  expected,  to 
the  very  man  to  whom  the  avowal  was 
likely  to  be  acceptable.  James  Roe 
still  writhed  under  the  infliction  of  a 
fresh  wound ;  and  believing  that  the 
opportunity  was  presented  of  setting 
his  revenge,  he  hastened  to  taxe  ad- 
vantage of  it. 

Roe  went  first  to  the  house  of  Mr. 
Cooke,  who  told  him  all  that  Charles 
Home  had  communicated  to  him  five 
years  previously.  They  then  pro- 
ceeded together  to  the  residence  of 
Mr.  AYhite,  the  last  of  the  magis- 
trates before  whom  Charles  had  de- 
sired to  make  a  deposition ;  and  hav- 
ing extracted  from  him  a  full  avowal 
of  all  that  had  occurred  between  him 
and  the  younger  of  the  two  Homes, 
they  took  their  measures  accordingly. 
It  was  evident  to  Mr.  Cooke,  that,  be 
the  cause  what  it  might,  the  magis- 
trates of  Derbyshire  were  reluctant 
to  interfere  in  the  matter.  He  there- 
fore advised  Mr.  Roe,  if  he  were 
determined  to  pursue  the  case,  to  go 
and  make  his  deposition  before  some 
magistrate  for  the  countv  of  Not- 
tingham, and  to  get  from  him  a  w^ar- 
rant  for  the  apprehension  of  Charles 
Home,  which  none  of  the  justices 
could  refiise  to  back,  and  which  must 
lead  to  the  apprehension,  and  conse- 
quent examination  in  full,  of  the 
man  on  whose  testimony  the  ques- 
tion assumed  to  be  at  issue  depended. 
This  was  done  accordingly;  and 
Charles  Home  being  arrested,  was 

G 


1846.} 


with  IlluM^Hcm  frwm  FtmiKar  History. 


19 


old  robe'tU^hamhre*  He  did  nol 
wait  to  be  intenogsted;  he  made  no 
demand  as  to  the  cause  of  the  in- 
trusion ;  but  cried,  in  a  bitter,  tone,— 

"  It*8  a  sad  thing  to  hang  me ;  for 
my  brother  Charles  is  as  bad  as  I, 
and  he  can*t  hang  me  without  hang* 
ing  himself!'* 

To  secure  the  prisoner  and  carry 
him  before  the  magistrate,  and  to 
convey  him  thence  to  the  gaol  of 
Nottingham,  in  order  that  he  mi^ht 
take  his  trial  at  the  apnroachmg 
assizes,  was  the  work  of  a  lew  hours. 
He  did  his  best  to  be  admitted  to 
bail,  and,  obtaining  a  judge's  war* 
rant,  was  removed  to  London,  where 
the  nature  of  his  ofienee,  or  sunposed 
offence,  was  strictly  investigated;  but 
no  bail  was  granted,  neither  was  he 
permitted  to  traverse.  When  the 
next  gaol  delivery  came  round,  he 
was  placed  at  the  bar  on  a  most 
hidecms  charge,  namely,  the  murder 
of  his  own  cmld,  the  child  being  the 
fruit  of  an  incestuous  intercourse 
between  him  and  his  sister. 

The  particulars  of  the  trial  may 
be  ascertained  by  all  who  will  take 
the  trouble  to  examine  the  records  of 
the  criminal  court  in  the  town  of 
Nottingham ;  but  we  cannot  pretend 
to  give  them.  Our  purpose  is  suffi* 
eiently  served  when  we  state,  that 
the  birth  of  the  child  took  place  at  a 
period  so  remote  as  1724 ;  that  Wil- 
liam Home  was  then  forty-one  years 
of  age,  his  wretched  sister  barely 
nineteen;  and  that  the  living  evi- 
dence of  their  guilt  was  dispMcd  of 
in  a  manner  to  which  the  mother 
was  no  party,  and  of  which  she  knew 
nodiing  till  some  time  afterwards. 
On  the  third  day  from  the  birth — ' 
which  took  place  in  Butterly,  where 
his  daughter  and  both  his  sons  resided 
with  old  Mr.  Home,  their  mother 
having  been  for  several  years  dead— 
Williun  sought  out  Charles,  and  told 
him  that,  at  ten  o'clock  that  night,  it 
waa  absolutely  necessary  that  they 
should  take  a  ride  togetiier.  Ac- 
cording to  Charles's  statement,  he  did 
not  entertain  the  most  remote  idea  of 
the  purpose  that  was  intended,  till 
his  brother  came  to  him  in  the  stable, 
bearing  an  itafant  in  his  arms,  well 
and  warmly  clad,  which  he  thmst  into 
a  long  Hnen  bag ;  that  William  then 
saddled  two  horses  and  led  them  out, 
and  that,  carrying  the  sack  by  turns, 
they  rode  five  good  miles  to  Annesley 
in  Nottinghmshirc.     YThen  they 


drew  near  theplaee,  William  alighted ; 
and  asking  Charles  whether  the  brat 
were  still  alive,  and  receiving  an  an* 
swer  in  the  affirmative,  he  took  it 
out  of  his  brother's  arms,  enclosed  in 
the  bag  as  it  was,  and  walked  away 
with  it.  Charles  waited  some  time, 
according  to  the  instmctions  of  the 
other,  and,  at  last,  William  nnoined 
him ;  but  there  was  neither  chud  nor 
bag  in  his  hand.  Being  questioned 
as  to  what  he  had  done  with  them, 
he  said  that  he  had  made  a  present 
of  both  to  Mr.  Chaworth  of  Annes- 
1^,  and  that  the  servants  of  that 
gentleman  would  find  more  than 
they  bargained  for  snug  under  a  hay- 
stack, when  they  came  in  the  morn- 
ing to  fodder  tne  cattle.  No  more 
piused  between  the  brothers  at  that 
time.  They  rode  home,  put  up  the 
horses  without  attracting  attention, 
went  to  bed,  and  heard,  next  day, 
that  a  dead  child  had  been  discovered, 
enclosed  in  a  linen  bag,  exactly  where 
William  had  stated  that  Mr.  Cha- 
worth's  people  would  find  one.  It 
would  appear  that  the  coroners  of 
those  days  had  little  of  the  spirit  of 
Mr.  WaiLley  among  them,  for  there 
is  no  record  that  any  inquest  waa 
held  upon  the  babe,  or  that  inquiries 
oonoeming  it  were  pushed  with  dili- 
gence. H^theoontrary  been  the  case. 
It  seems  next  to  impossible  that  the 
trath  should  not  have  come  to  light 
at  the  moment.  Nevertheless,  as  if 
the  tmth  of  the  saying  which  affirms 
that  murder  vM  out  nmst,  even  in  so 
curious  an  instance,  be  confirmed,  the 
people  who  made  the  discovery  in 
1734  were  all  alive  to  tell  about  it  in 
1759;  and  they  corroborated  the 
statement  of  the  principal  witness,  in 
v^azd  to  the  tune  of  finding  the 
body,  and  its  dress  and  condition,  in 
eveiT  i^rticttlar.  On  this  evidence, 
Wflnam  ■  Home  was  fbund  guilty, 
and  condnnned  to  be  hanged. 

It  was  the  custom  in  those  days  to 
carry  the  sentence  of  death  into  ex- 
ecution against  murderers  on  the  day 
after  that  on  which  it  had  been  pro- 
nounced; and,  through  a  humane 
desire  of  allowing  the  criminal  as 
much  time  as  possible  to  make  his 
peace  with  Heaven,  the  judges  usually 
contrived  to  bring  on  sucn  cases  on 
a  Saturday,  so  tiiat  Sunday,  which, 
in  the  eye  of  the  law,  is  a  dies  nan, 
might  be  granted  to  the  condemned 
as  a  season  of  preparation.  In  pur- 
suance of  this  ^Btom,  Home,  having 


20 


The  Philosophy  of  Crime, 


[January, 


been  tried  on  Saturday  tbe  10th,  was 
doomed  to  die  on  Monday  the  12th. 
But,  bemg  an  old  man— seventv-four 
years  of  age — and  descended  n*om  a 
respectable  family,  and  his  case  being 
a  peculiarly  horrible  one,  certain 
humane  persons  of  weight  in  the 
neighbourhood  exerted  themselves  to 
procure  for  bim  a  reprieye,  and  they 
succeeded.  "  It  was  too  short  a 
time,"  so  ran  their  petition,  *^  for  such 
an  old  sinner  to  search  his  heart;" 
and  the  judge,  agreeing  with  them  in 
the  opinion,  a  respite  of  the  sentence 
for  a  month  was  granted.  The  old 
sinner  used  his  reprieve,  not  in  any 
endeavour  to  make  his  peace  witn 
God  or  man,  but  to  weary  the  go- 
vernment with  applications  for  par- 
don. He  exhibited,  in  making  these 
efforts,  the  same  selfish  and  dastardly 
spirit  which  had  animated  him 
throughout  his  career  of  crime.  He 
complained  of  the  hardship  of  suffer- 
ing for  an  offence  committed  so  long 
ago,  and  accused  his  brother  of  being 
not  only  a  participator  in  the  offence, 
but  the  party  by  whom  its  com- 
mission had  been  suggested.  Strange 
to  say,  his  petitions,  unworthily  ex- 
pressed as  they  were,  prevailed  so 
far,  that  a  second  reprieve  during 
pleasure  reached  him ;  but  the  sen- 
tence was  not  commuted.  On  the 
contrary,  Justice  appeared,  at  last,  to 
awake  from  a  trance,  and  tbe  order 
for  his  execution  reached  Notting- 
ham. He  was  overwhelmed  with 
despair.  He  complained  that  griev- 
ous wrong  had  been  done  him ;  yet, 
during  the  night  previous  to  his  ex- 
ecution, he  acknowledged  that  the 
blood  of  other  poor  victims  besides  that 
of  the  infant  lay  upon  his  head :  one,  a 
young  woman,  whom  he  had  mur- 
dered becaiiae  she  was  with  child  by 
him;  the  other,  a  labouring  man, 
whose  arm  he  had  broken  with  a 
blow  of  a  hedge -stake,  and  who, 
being  in  delicate  health,  never  re- 
coyered  the  injury. 

Such  was  the  man  and  his  career. 
The  fate  of  the  frail  partner  in  the 
most  heinous  of  his  moral  offences 
was  very  different.  Slowly  she  re- 
covered after  her  confinement,  for 
though  they  concealed  from  her  that 
her  cnild  was  dead,  she  yearned  with 
a  mother*s  instinctive  fondness  to 
have  the  babe  near  her,  and  pined 
and  fretted  when  assured  that  this 
was  impossible.  Strange  to  say,  like- 
uripe,  tne  &ct  of  her  couftnement 


never  reached  her  father's  ears  till 
some  time  afterwards,  nor  got  bruited 
about  the  neighbourhood,  except  as 
some  horrid  suspicion  is  taken  up  and 
circulated.  The  woman  who  had 
nursed  her  when  an  infant  was  still 
in  the  family,  and  the  wretched  cul- 
prit, having  opened  her  griefs  to  her, 
found  a  generous  and  a  true  heart  to 
lean  upon.  That  old  and  attached 
menial  contrived  matters  with  such 
exceeding  skill,  that  for  several 
months  Martha  kept  her  chamber, 
under  the  plea  of  some  ordinary  ill- 
ness, and  received,  in  her  hour  of 
trial,  the  assistance  of  a  midwife,  who, 
being  brought  from  a  distance,  and 
intrmluced  mto  the  house  blindfolded 
and  at  night,  was  never  afterwards 
able  to  say  on  whom  she  had  at- 
tended. The  same  faithful  creature 
agreed  to  intrust  the  infant  to  the 
brothers,  on  the  assurance  that  they 
would  carry  it  to  a  place  of  safety ; 
and  when,  on  the  following  day,  the 
rumour  of  what  had  actually  occurred 
reached  her,  she  retained  self-posses- 
sion enough  not  to  betray  the  feelings 
which  it  called  up.  From  that  time 
forth,  however,  sue  could  never  bear 
to  look  upon  the  doubly-unnatural 
father ;  and  so,  after  abiding  by  her 
charge  till  she  was  able  to  go  abroad 
a^ain,  she  quitted  Mr.  Homers  ser- 
vice, and  was  never  heard  of  in  that 
part  of  the  country  again. 

Unhappy  Martha!  For  her  all 
peace,  all  self-respect  were  forfeited 
ror  ever.  She  did  not  go  mad,  but 
she  moved  about  the  house  like  a 
broken-hearted  thing,  nor  ever  ex- 
hibited the  slightest  sign  of  reviving 
interest  in  any  thing,  till  her  father 
sent  for  her  one  day  into  his  stud  v, 
and  informed  her  that  he  knew  all. 
Nothing  could  exceed  the  old  man's 
gentleness.  He  laid  his  guilty  daugh- 
ter's head  upon  his  uioulder  and 
wept  like  a  child;  and  when  she 
mustered  courage  to  ask  him  how  he 
effected  the  discovery,  he  told  her 
that  Charles  luid,  in  consequence  of 
some  quarrel  with  his  brother,  made 
him  aware  of  all  the  circumstances. 
''  But  what  can  I  do,  Martha  P  W^e 
cannot  recall  the  past,  and  to  expose 
it  would  only  bring  disgrace  and 
ruin  upon  us  all ;  so  I  have  exacted 
a  promise  from  both  of  them  that 
they  will  dismiss  the  subject  from 
their  memories,  and  you,  my  poor 
child,  must  endeavour  to  do  the 
same.**    Oh,  who  can  tell  what  that 


1846.] 


with  illustrations  from  Fdmiliar  History. 


21 


ffuilty  and  heart-broken  woman  may 
nave  felt,  when  these  words  of  mercy 
and  of  a  parentis  love  fell  upon  her 
ears  I  She  did  not  promise  to  forcet, 
that  she  could  never  undertake  to  do ; 
but  she  pledged  her  word  to  make 
no  inquuy  after  the  child;  and 
frightful  as  the  struggle  often  was  to 
keep  it,  she  made  it  triumphantly, 
and  the  promise  was  kept. 

From  that  time  forth  all  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Home  family,  the  father 
alone  excepted,  hated  one  another 
with  a  deadly  hatred.  The  feeling 
of  Martha  towards  her  brothers  was, 
to  be  sure,  loathing  and  terror  rather 
than  hatred ;  but  William  hated  her, 
and  took  every  opportunity  of  shew- 
ing it,  whilst  Charles,  treating  her 
with  neglect,  but  seldom  with  un- 
kindness,  turned  all  his  rancour 
against  William.  And  so,  for  a  space 
or  three-and-twenty  years,  their  days 
were  passed^  in  a  sort  of  companion- 
ship which  we  can  liken  to  nothing 
more  nearly  than  that  of  doomed 
spirits  in  the  place  of  their  torment ; 
for  they  either  could  not  or  did  not 
fall  upon  the  obvious  expedient  of  a 
separation,  but  dwelt  together  under 
the  same  roof,  perpetual  blisters  and 
thorns  one  to  another.  At  last,  the 
patriarch,  after  far  passing  the  age  of 
man,  died;  and  Martha,  who  had 
nursed  him  through  a  long  illness, 
and  was  ever  ready  to  lick  the  dust 
from  his  shoes,  was  thrown,  through 
the  imbecile  deceit  of  a  three-fold 
will,  penniless  upon  the  world. 

The  history  of  the  progress  of  this 
man  in  guilt  seems  to  bear  out  in  a 
very  remarkable  degree  the  theory 
which,  in  the  opening  of  the  present 
paper,  we  ventured  to  propound, 
namely,  that  though  crime  be  some- 
thing quite  distinct  from  moral  evil, 
and  in  itself  not  unfrequently  less 
deserving  of  reprobation,  it  is  the 
sure  result,  in  every  instance,  of  the 
absence  of  those  powers  of  self-con- 
trol, which  are  not  to  be  acquired 
except  from  long  practice,  ana  the 
negation  by  the  individual  to  him- 
self of  many  an  object,  in  itself  harm- 
less, of  which  he  may  experience  the 
desire  to  become  possessed.  Crimes 
— and  great  crimes,  too— are  some- 
times committed  without  premedita- 
tion; and  when  they  so  befal,  we 
pity  the  criminals — who,  indeed,  are 
just  objects  of  our  compassion — to 
the  fuU  as  much  as  we  blame  them. 
Yet,  even  in  such  oases,  the  careful 


inquirer  will  never  fail  of  tracing 
back  the  particular  act  to  some  habit 
of  self-indulgence,   which,   though 
overlooked  by  the  world,  has  long 
existed,  and  given  a  bias  to  the  whole 
character  of  the  criminal.    Amon^ 
these,  moreover,  there  is  none  which 
so  surely  extinguishes,  in  the  end,  all 
perception  of  moral  risht  as  the  sur- 
render of  the  will  to  tne  impulses  of 
one,  not  unnatural,  propensity.    And 
if  this  debasing  passion  be  suffered  in 
early  life  to  gain  the  ascendancy, 
there  is  an  end  to  both  the  power 
and  the  will  in  its  victim  to  cultivate 
either  the  intellectual  or  the  moral 
faculties  which  Nature  may  have  be- 
stowed upon  him.    William  Home, 
for  example,  appears  to  have  been  a 
child  of  slow  parts,  coarse  tastes,  and  of 
a  disposition,  contradictory  and  wilful. 
A  weak,  though  learned  father,  in- 
stead of  observing  this,  and  adapting 
the  manner  of  the  boy^s  culture  to 
the  soil  on  which  he  had  to  work, 
devoted  a  great  deal  of  time  and  at- 
tention to  the  calling  into  existence 
of  tastes  which  had  neither  seed  nor 
germ  in  his  son*s  constitution.    The 
task  was,  of  course,  difficult,  and  the 
labour  to  both  parties  great,  which 
the  injudicious  father  endeavoured 
to  lighten  by  over-indulgence  out  of 
the  school-room ;   and   the   conse- 
quence was,  that  his  pleasures  be- 
came the  business  of  the  youth's  life, 
his  studies  a  penance,  from  which  he 
seized  every  opportunity  of  escaping. 
Suppose,  however,  that  a  different 
course  had  been  pursued,  and  that 
the  father,  seeing  whither  the  na- 
tural temperament  of  the  son  tended, 
had  encouraged  him  to  devote  his 
mind  to  out-of-door  pursuits;  the 
young  man  would  have   probably 
been  what   is  called  wild,  in  any 
event,  but  the  good  farmer  and  keen 
sportsman  never  could  have  com- 
mitted  such   crimes   as    those    for 
which,  on  his  seventy-fourth  birth- 
day, William  Home  suffered.    For 
lil)ertinism,    though    it   vitiate    the 
tastes  and  unfit  its  victim  for  the  ap- 
preciation of  the  good  and  the  beau- 
tiful, rarely,  till  it  outruns  all  bounds^ 
associates  itself  with  cmelty  and  a 
disregard  of  human  life.    Wbcn  it 
becomes  the  great  master-passion  in 
the  man,  however,  there  is  no  telling 
into  what  atrocities  it  will  lead  him, 
and  this  the  case  of  William  Home 
has,  we  conceive,  yery  sufficiently 
attested. 


22 


Principal  Ctampaigiu  in  the  Rise  of  NapoleM.    [Januiiry, 


I»RIKCXPAL  CAMPAIGNS  IN  THE  RISE  OF  NAPOLEON. 

No.  I. 

THB  ITAUAN  CAMPAIGNS. 


We  believe  that  public  attention  in 
England  is  gradually  turning  to 
military  affairs.  Time  is  wearing 
away  tne  fatal  prejudices  which  led 
to  so  many  disasters,  and  made  even 
unconquered  soldiers  purchase  ulti- 
mate triumphs  at  so  vast  an  expense 
of  blood  and  treasure.  We  are  be- 
ginning to  perceive  the  folly  of  term- 
ing ourselves  a  naval  and  commercial 
people  independent  of  military  forces ; 
and  are,  by  degrees,  rather  ashamed 
of  the  fantastic  apprehension,  which 
even  in  modern  times  made  us  jea- 
lous of  a  British  army,  and  made  us 
look  upon  sons,  brothers,  country- 
men, as  constitutionally  dangerous 
the  moment  they  were  arrayed  in 
their  sovereign's  uniform :  a  reputa- 
tion for  exalted  patriotism  and  en- 
lightened philanthropy  is  no  longer 
acquired  by  simply  libelling  the 
army.  The  progress  of  science  has  nar- 
rowed the  Channel,  reduced  mighty 
oceans  to  comparatively  small  di- 
mensions, brought  our  shores  within 
the  reach  of  hostile  arms,  and  exposed 
our  colonies,  scattered  over  the  wide 
surface  of  the  globe,  to  attacks,  against 
which  naval  forces  can  prove  no  per- 
manent security.  And  though  the 
power  of  steam,  which  is  effecting 
these  great  changes,  augments  the 
naval  advantages  we  already  possess, 
by  adding  to  our  superiority  as  sol- 
diers and  seamen,  the  superior  skill 
and  energy  our  people  have  evinced 
as  enffineers;  yet  it  seems  now  ad- 
mitted, that  no  coast  can  be  pro- 
tected against  armaments  conveyed 
by  steam-vessels,  unless  by  land 
forces  ready  to  meet  the  assailants  on 
shore.  Tms  important  truth  is  gra- 
dually making  itfl  way  in  public  con- 
viction, and  calling  attention  to  mili- 
tary affairs. 

The  perfect  working  of  the  govern- 
ment machinery,  which  in  civilised 
states  permits  the  rulers  of  nations 
to  bring  the  whole  force  of  empires 
into  the  field,  together  with  the  im- 
proved system  of  military  discipline 
and  organisation,  which  renders 
armies  more  compact  and  moremov- 
\ble  than  in  former  times,  hay^  ren- 


dered the  operations  of  offensive 
warfare  infinitely  more  fbrmidable 
than  the  mere  unsupported  inroads 
of  former  periods  could  be  consi- 
dered. Against  the  dangers  resulting 
from  such  a  state  of  Uiings  we  are 
naturally  bound  to  be  prej^red ;  we 
owe  this  to  our  own  security,  and  to 
the  high  station  we  hold  at  tne  head 
of  civilisation.  We  entertain  no 
hostile  feelings  against  other  nations, 
we  seek  for  no  additional  possession. 
The  sun  never  sets  upon  our  empire ; 
.  a  hundred  and  fifty  millions  of  peo- 
ple live  beneath  our  sway;  and 
what  acquisition  made  by  war  could 
possibly  equal  the  additional  power, 
glory,  and  force,  certain  to  be  gained 
by  every  step  of  progress  and  im- 
provement made  m  peacefld  times 
uy  an  empire  of  such  boundless 
extent  and  resources?  Our  conduct 
in  peace  and  in  war — and  it  cannot 
be  too  oflen  repeated  in  opposition  to 
so  many  libels  foreign  and  domestic 
— ^faas  ever  been  fair,  firank,  generous, 
and  upright,  an  example  to  the  na- 
tions of  the  earth.  The  enlightened 
and  the  dispassionate  in  both  hemi- 
spheres will,  we  have  no  doubt,  give 
us  full  credit  for  such  conduct,  out 
nations  are  not  always  ruled  by  ab- 
solute wisdom;  and  great  as  the 
sacrifices  we  have  made,  to  live  upon 
friendly  terms  with  France  and 
America,  it  would  be  utter  folly  to 
disguise  from  ourselves  the  enmity 
entertained  against  us  by  the  low 
democracy  of  both  countries;  and 
which  can  hardly  fail  to  break  into 
open  hostility  the  moment  those  par- 
ties acquire  ascendancy  either  at 
Washington  or  in  Paris. 

As  the  zealous  advocates  of  peace, 
we  recommend  readiness  for  war; 
for  the  most  violent  agjpressors  will 
pause  before  they  assad  the  bold 
and  the  well  prepared.  On  the 
other  hand,  nothing  so  much  en- 
courages an  enemy  as  the  efforts  of 
domestic  parties  striving  to  crush  the 
martiid  spirit  of  a  people,  and  weaken 
the  military  efforts  of  the  state  under 
the  plea  of  economy;  at  the  same 
time  ti^t  they  vilify  the  conduct  of 


18464 


The  /to/uM  Cati^taiffiU. 


23 


0ovemment  towards  oUier  nations; 
thus  givinff  hostile  powers,  though 
treated  witn  the  greatest  fairness  and 
generosity,  a  plea  to  excite  animosity 
against  us  even  on  the  strength  of 
our  own  words.  History  has  suffi- 
ciently shewn  how  greatly  the  efforts 
of  domestic  factions  aided  the  cause 
of  rancorous  foes  in  our  late  French 
and  American  wars. 

We  have  at  present  no  intention 
of  lecturing  on  patriotism  or  on  tac- 
tics, thougn  we  may  occasionally 
introduce  some  of  our  futiure  papers 
with  a  few  remarks  on  the  latter 
subject.  Our  only  object  here  is  to 
avail  ourselves  of  what  we  believe  to 
be  the  augmenting  taste  of  the  pub- 
lic for  military  reading,  in  order  to 
sketch  some  of  the  sanguinary 
campaigns  which  placed  Napoleon 
on  a  throne  of  never  equalled  power. 
As  military  history,  wnen  the  causes 
of  success  and  defeat  are  properly 
developed,  tends  not  only  to  interest 
the  r^er,  but  to  enlarge  and  dear 
the  views,  enrich  the  ideas  he  may 
already  have  formed  on  the  subject 
it  cannot  be  too  much  recommended 
to  nations  liable  at  all  hours  to  be 
called  into  the  field ;  for  it  is  only 
a  wide-spread  national  knowledge  of 
the  theory  of  war,  which  can  ensure 
the  most  efficient  training  and  suc- 
cessful employment  of  Uie  forces. 
We  use  the  word  theorjf  here,  in 
its  just  and  real  meaning — the  bright 
source  of  every  great  improvement 
made  in  human  knowledge :  the  dull 
martinet  tactician  believes  it  to  be 
some  monster  of  darkness,  that  ought 
to  be  consigned  to  the  flames  with  all 
possible  speed.  Brave  soldiers  and 
gallant  officers  we  can  always  com- 
mand, for  they  are  the  produce  of 
our  soil;  but  these  alone  cannot 
command  success.  We  had  brave 
troops  at  the  commencement  of  the 
Seven  Years'  War,  and  were  yet  un- 
successful in  all  our  early  undertak- 
ings; the  gallantry  of  our  men  could 
not  avert  the  failures  of  the  American 
contest,  and  the  ultimate  success  of 


the  great  war  against  republican  and 
imperial  France  was  only  purchased 
by  fifteen  years  of  mismanagement 
and  disaster.  Reasons  enough  it  may 
be  supposed  for  now  devotmg  some 
attention  to  militanr  affairs. 

Feebly  as  the  mllowing  sketches 
may  be  drawn,  we  can  safely  say, 
that  we  believe  them — ^the  Itidian 
campaign  more  especially — to  be 
founded  on  the  best  and  most  au- 
thentic documents  on  which  military 
history  was  ever  composed ;  and  we 
shall,  in  due  time,  lay  our  authori- 
ties at  length  before  the  reader.  It 
will  no  doubt  be  said,  as  it  has  been 
said  already,  that  the  views  taken  in 
these  papers  are  highly  unjust  to 
Napoleon,  that  they  are  mere 
^* crotchets"  in  fact.  The  reader 
need  not  be  told,  that  every  novel 
doctrine  advanced  against  widely 
spread  and  deeply  rooted  opinion  is 
invariably  so  termed;  every  new 
idea  in  science,  philosophy,  history, 
has  been  assailed ;  and  the  practice 
will  probably  continue  as  long  aa 
human  knowledge- shall  continue  to 
advance.  We  may,  no  doubt,  be 
mistaken,  as  well  as  our  critics,  in 
the  views  taken  in  these  sketches ;  but 
we  have,  owing  to  our  authorities,  the 
advantage  of  stating  the  facts  more 
accurately,  we  believe,  than  they  have 
yet  been  stated ;  and  having  done  so, 
we  leave  it  to  the  reader  to  follow  us 
in  our  inferences,  or  to  draw  his  own, 
if  it  must  be  so,  more  lo^cal  conclu- 
sions. But  military  critics,  it  is  said, 
differ  so  widely  on  these  points  as  to 
render  it  doubtful  who  is  to  be  be- 
lieved. This  should  not,  we  suspect, 
offer  any  real  difficulty;  for  the 
reader  wno  comes  with  an  unbiassed 
mind  to  the  investigation  of  any  sub- 
ject will  necessarily  follow  the  writer 
who  brines  the  points  whence  truth 
is  to  be  derived,  in  the  clearest  and 
most  intelligible  manner  home  to 
his  understanding.  No  person  of 
ordinary  ability  is  likely  to  be  im- 
posed upon  by  mere  terms  of  extra- 
vagant  praise  or  censure. 


Chaptjsb  I. 

Napoleon  appointed  to  the  Command  of  the  Army  of  Itii]r..i«Siiaatioii  of  the  Country 
at  the  period. — French  and  Austrian  Armies  and  tneir  Commanders-^Combats 
of  Montenotte,  I>ego,  Milleaiimo,  and  Mondovi.  <—  Atmiatice  of  Checasco  end 
Tetmioation  of  the  war  wilh  Sardinia. 


Napoleon  Buonaparte  commenoed 
his  eztraozdinary  career  under  eir- 
cmnstaiifies  the  most  &.7aiiEahle  to 


an  adventurous  rise.  The  tempest 
of  the  BcTolution  had  leveled  the 
tmrrieia  that  in  ordinary  times  ex* 


24 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon*    [January, 


elude  all  but  nobles  and  the  posses- 
Eors  of  high  rank  from  the  direction 
of  public  affairs ;  lawyers,  adventu- 
rers, and  rene^ado  priests,  ruled  the 
republic  hy  aid  of  the  terror  which 
the  guillotine  inspired.  Armies  were 
often  commanded  by  individuals  who 
before  the  commencement  of  the 
troubles  had  followed  the  most  peace- 
ful occupations ;  and  many  of  those 
who  had  been  non-commissioned 
officers  in  the  royal  regiments,  were 
already  colonels  and  generals  of 
division  in  the  second  year  of  the 
*'  Republic  One  and  Indivisible." 

Napoleon  had  received  a  good 
military  education  at  the  best  semi- 
naries in  France.  The  revolution 
found  him  a  lieutenant  of  artillery, 
and  the  emigration  of  the  superior 
officer  raised  him  to  the  rank  of 
colonel ;  and  this  was  already  stand* 
ing  very  high  at  such  a  time,  and 
when  his  country  was  at  war  with 
the  principal  powers  of  Europe. 

But  thougn  circumstances  thus 
placed  him  in  a  favourable  position, 
he  was  not  at  first  very  successful. 
By  the  indisnosition  of  nis  superior, 
the  commana  of  the  artillery  at  the 
siege  of  Toulon  had  devolved  upon 
him ;  but  his  conduct  seems  to  have 
attracted  no  particular  notice;  for 
his  name  is  not  mentioned  in  the 
despatches  announcing  the  capture  of 
the  fortress;  he  received  no  tmm«- 
diate  promotion;  and  his  next  ser- 
vice was  of  very  secondary  import- 
ance. In  the  summer  of  1794,  we 
find  him,  however,  commanding  the 
artillery  of  the  army  of  Italy ;  but 
he  did  not  long  continue  to  hold  the 
appointment,  for  in  the  following 
year  we  already  see  him  at  Paris, 
soliciting  employment  from  the  mi- 
nister-at-war,  and  actually  placed 
for  a  time  on  the  retired  list. 

His  fortunes  appear,  at  this  period, 
to  have  been  very  low  indeed :  he 
seems  to  have  been  in  pecuniary  diffi- 
culties, and  actually  sought  the  hand 
of  Mademoiselle  de  Montansier,  a 
lady  of  great  wealth,  but  far  advanced 
in  3rears.  Failing  in  this  pursuit,  he 
projected  a  voyage  to  Constantinople 
for  the  purpose  of  seeking  service  in 
Turkey,  when  the  revolution  of  the 
13th  Vend^miaire  opened  brighter 
prospects  to  him. 

When  on  that  occasion,  Barras, 
the  victor  of  .the  9th  Thermidore, 
was  plac^  fX  th«  b«ad  of  the  troops 


destined  to  oppose  the  insurants,  he 
gave  the  command  of  the  artillery  to 
Napoleon,  whom  he  had  known  at 
the  siege  of  Toulon.  The  result  is 
well  known;  the  National  Guard 
fled  at  the  fii^t  fire ;  but  it  is  a  mis- 
take, as  generally  asserted,  that  any- 
particular  merit  was  ascribed  to  Na- 
poleon: all  the  honour,  such  as  it 
was,  devolved  upon  Barras,  who 
really  commanded  the  troops.  This 
officer,  having  on  the  formation  of 
the  new  government  been  named 
one  of  the  Directors,  resigned  the 
command  of  the  i^rmy  of  the  interior, 
which  was  given  to  Napoleon,  whose 
star  now  rose  rapidly  above  the 
horizon. 

Among  the  ladies  most  distin- 
guished at  this  time  in  the  Parisian 
circles  of  fashion  for  figure  and 
elegance  of  manners,  was  Josephine 
Beauhamois,  widow  of  the  Marquis 
de  Beauhamois,  guillotined  during 
the  revolution.  She  had  great  in- 
fluence with  the  Director  Barras, 
some  say  more  than  legitimate  in- 
fluence ;  and  when  Napoleon  sought 
her  hand,  she  obtained  for  her  future 
husband  the  promise  of  the  com- 
mand of  the  army  of  Italy.  Cape- 
figue,  who  has  seen  manuscript  Me- 
moirs of  Barras,  relates,  on  their 
authority,  that  the  future  empress 
attended  constantly  as  a  petitioner  in 
his  antechamber,  till  she  secured  the 
fulfilment  of  the  promise.  The 
parties  were  married  on  the  9th  of 
March,  and  on  the  27th  of  the  same 
month,  we  already  find  Napoleon  at 
the  head  of  the  troops  destined  to 
place  him  on  the  highest  pinnacle  of 
power  and  fortune. 

The  youthful  commander  found 
head-quarters  at  Nice,  where  for 
three  years  they  seemed  to  have 
taken  root ;  his  five  predecessors  in 
command  having  always  fallen  back 
to  that  station  after  every  successful 
campaign.  Like  the  other  French 
armies  of  the  period,  the  army  of 
Italy  had  fought  with  success  against 
the  enemy;  they  had  closed  the 
previous  campaign  by  the  victories  of 
Lroano  and  St.  Bernardo,  but  the^ 
had  not  hitherto  derived  from  their 
triumphs  any  advantage  that  could 
place  them  on  a  level  with  the  con- 
querors of  Holland,  Belgium,  and 
tne  Rhenish  provinces :  they  had 
only  subdued  Savoy,  the  county  of 
Nice,  and  the  BiTiera.    They  wer« 


1846.] 


The  Italian  Campaigns. 


25 


now  about  to  enter  upon  a  more 
brilliant  career;  the  description  of 
which  obliges  us  to  say  a  few  words 
of  the  situation  of  the  country  in 
which  the  war  was  to  be  carried  on. 
Though  the  French  troops  occupied 
the  territory  of  Genoa,  tne  city  still 
maintained  a  precarious  neutrality, 
supported  only  by  aid  of  its  strong 
fortifications. 

The  governments  of  Parma,  Mo- 
dena,  Lucca,  Tuscany,  and  Venice, 
were  all  well  affectea  towards  Aus- 
tria ;  but  they  took  no  part  in  the 
contest;  fancied  themselves  neutral, 
though  certain,  as  the  result  proved, 
that  the  French,  if  victorious,  would 
not  respect  their  independence. 

The  sovereign  pontiff  was  at  peace 
with  the  republic ;  but  there  existed 
an  unsettled  cause  of  quarrel  between 
them.  The  French  agent  Baseville 
had  been  murdered  by  the  Roman 
populace  in  1793,  and  no  sufficient 
reparation  had  yet  been  made.  At 
one  time  the  French]  government 
intended  to  send  an  army  by  sea 
from  Toulon  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Tiber;  but  the  presence  of  the 
English  fleet  rendered  this  expedi- 
tion rather  too  precarious.  The 
attack  on  Rome  was  therefore  de- 
layed till  it  could  be  made  by  land. 

The  king  of  Naples  was  openly  at 
war  with  france,  and  had  a  corps  of 
1500  cavalxT  in  the  Austrian  army : 
enough  to  draw  down  upon  himself 
the  vengeance  of  the  enemy,  but  not 
enough  to  arrest  their  progress.  All 
the  Italian  governments  dreaded  the 
republicans,  but  none,  except  the 
king  of  Sardinia,  had  the  couraffe  to 
face  them  in  the  field;  the  otners 
trusted  to  foreign  arms  and  efforts 
which  they  dared  not  even  aid,  and 
when  that  trust  iailed,  they  bent 
before  the  storm,  hopinc  to  escape 
by  mean  subserviency  the  well-de- 
served fate  which  they  had  not  ven- 
tured to  oppose  sword  in  hand.  In 
iron  times,  the  only  times,  perhaps, 
that  history  has  made  us  acquainted 
with,  it  is  on  the  sword  alone  that 
nations  can  rest  with  safety, — a  truth 
that  every  page  of  the  world*s  annals 
proves  to  demonstration ;  for  justice 
and  forbearance  never  yet  arrested 
the  progress  of  the  spoiler. 

But  though  the  Italian  sovem- 
ments  were  all,  and  the  noUes  and 
the  clergy  generally,  hostile  to  the 

FitQcb,  tW  middle  ^Imes  and  the 


citizens  of  towns  were  in  their  favour ; 
or  rather  in  favour  of  the  doctrines 
which  they  preached.  Books  of 
liberal  import  had  been  circulated 
with  singular  freedom  in  Italy ;  and 
the  works  of  Filangieri  and  Beccaria 
were  in  the  hands  of  all  well-edu- 
cated persons  during  the  years  that 
preceded  the  revolution.  New 
ideas,  aspirations  for  liberty  and 
natural  independence,  had  spread 
among  the  educated  classes,  and  in 
some  cases  the  nobles  and  the  clergy 
also  were  advocates  for  change,  and 
now  the  liberators  were  at  hand. 
These  sentiments,  the  existence  of 
which  was  well  known,  helped  no 
doubt  to  paralyse  instead  of  redoub- 
ling the  efforts  of  the  governments, 
and  were  so  far  of  ^at  advantage 
to  the  French ;  but  in  the  field  the 
invaders  derived  little  direct  aid  from 
their  new  allies,  who  soon  tired  of 
the  pressure  of  the  vrar-taxes  and  of 
the  mean  and  grasping  avarice  for 
which  the  republican  authorities 
were  so  generally  distinguished. 

The  marked  division  existing  be- 
tween the  different  classes  of  Italian 
society,  dso  favoured  the  republican 
arms  by  weakening  the  means  of 
combined  resistance.  The  nobles, 
without  any  attachment  to  the  middle 
classes,  feel  their  depressed  and 
powerless  situation,  and  entertain  no 
affection  for  governments  that  hold 
them  in  such  subjection.  All  the 
middle  classes,  the  citizens  of  towns, 
and  the  lawyers,  as  a  body,  are  libe- 
rals, we  may  almost  say  republicans; 
and  many  dream,  even  now,  of  the 
re-establishment  of  a  Roman  repub- 
lic. The  peasantry  and  the  lower 
orders,  in  general,  have  but  little 
respect  for  their  superiors,  unl^ 

Sernaps,  for  the  clergy.  They  dis- 
ke  all  those  who  possess  or  exer- 
cise authority  over  tnem ;  all  gover- 
nors, magistrates,  and  provincial 
authorities,  and  very  generally  look 
upon  the  nobles  and  landlords  as 
strangers  and  intruders  in  the  coun- 
try. Against  their  governments 
they  entertain  no  hostility,  as  they 
live  "  remote  from  power,"  and  feel 
its  pressure  only  through  the  means 
of  intermediate  agents,  on  whom  all 
their  indignation  is  vented:    their 

1>rinces  they  generally  regard  with 
oyal  attachment,  and  this  feeling 
was  much  stronger  at  the  period  of 
"which  w^  ftre  speaking,  than  at  pre« 


26  Principal  Campaigns  in  the  jRise  of  Napoleon,    [January, 


6ent.  The  govermneiits,  howev^er, 
wanted  ability  to  avail  themselves  of 
this  advantage ;  ignorance,  falsehood, 
and  venality,  pervaded  every  public 
department  of  the  different  states ; 
and  it  was  as  impossible  to  depend  on 
the  truth  of  an  official  report,  as  to 
calculate  on  the  just  execution  of  an 
official  GtAer.  The  Italian  govern- 
ments were  so  many  powerless  des- 
potisms already  fallmg  to  pieces  by 
the  weight  of  their  own  worthless- 
ness.  Not  a  single  man  of  any 
ability  rose  to  auUiority  from  the 
Alps  to  the  gulf  of  Tarentum ;  and 
Italy  beheld  foreign  armies  contend- 
ing for  the  supremacy  of  the  land, 
while  her  own  sons  remained  inglo- 
rious spectators  of  the  long  and  san- 
guinary stru^le. 

The  French  army,  of  which  Na- 
poleon came  to  assume  the  command, 
was  stationed  in  the  Riviera,  a  nar- 
row stripe  of  coast-land  about  ninety 
miles  in  length,  and  from  ten  to 
twentj  in  breadth,  that  forms  a 
semicircle  round  the  head  of  the  bay 
of  Grenoa.  This  district  is  separated 
ibom  the  Kst  of  Italy  by  a  lofty 
screen  of  mountains,  the  north- 
western part  of  which  is  formed  by 
the  Maritime  Alps,  the  south-eastern 
by  the  Apennines;  these  mighty 
mountain-ranges  join  near  the 
sources  of  the  Tanaro,  where  their 
elevation  is  at  its  lowest.  Tlie 
French  had  for  two  years  been  in 
possession  of  the  higher  ridges  of 
this  range,  many  points  of  which 
they  had  fortified,  and  were  thus,  to 
a  certain  extent,  masters  of  the  outlets 
into  the  lower  country.  Their  right 
wing  was  at  Voltri,*  near  Genoa; 
then-  left,  not  including  a  few  de- 
tached corps  that  mamtained  the 
communication  with  General  Keller- 
mann  and  the  army  of  the  Alps,  was 
in  the  valleys  at  the  head  of  the 
Tanaro;  the  cavalry  was  cantoned 
in  rear  of  the  infantry  along  the  sea- 
coast. 

The  effective  strength  of  this  army 
at  the  opening  of  the  campaign  was 
43,000  men,  4000  of  whom  were 
cavalry;  and  th^  had  sixty  pieces 
of  artillery.  Their  nominal,  or 
** return**  strength,  has  been  ridi- 
culouslv  exaggerated,  in  order  to 
make  the  effective  appear  small  by 
the  contrast;  but  however  exagge- 


rated it  was  in  this  case,  there  always 
was  a  great  disparity  in  the  French 
republican  armies  between  the  no- 
minal and  effective  strength  of  corps. 
Brave,  gallant,  and  distmguished  as 
these  troops  were,  their  excdlence  was 
in  their  fire-steeled  edge,  so  to  express 
ourselves,  in  the  very  front  of  battle : 
whatever  was  in  the  rear,  all  that 
was  connected  with  the  civil  admi- 
nistration, up  to  the  very  heads  of 
the  miUtary  departments  of  the 
government,  was  vile  and  worthless 
m  the  extreme;  and  thousands  of 
men  were  borne  on  the  official  states 
who  never  saw  their  corps. 

Besides  the  army  of  Italy,  the 
French  had  an  army  of  20,000  men 
called  the  army  of  the  Alps,  which 
under  General  Kellermann  threat- 
ened Piedmont  from  the  north. 
There  was  another  corps  of  10,000 
men,  stationed  as  a  reserve  at 
Toulon.  Napoleon  had  no  direct 
authority  over  these  troops ;  but  the 
presence  of  Kellermann*s  army  on 
the  northern  frontier  lent  him  most 
essential  aid,  as  it  obliged  the  Sar- 
dinian government  to  detach  20,000 
men  under  the  Prince  of  Carignano, 
to  watch  the  motions  of  this  Uireat- 
ening  force. 

The  nominal  strength  of  the 
Austro-Sardinian  army,  including 
1500  Neapolitans,  was  57,000  men; 
but  they  nad  7000  sick  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  campaign,  which 
with  other  casualties,  left  tnem  only 
46,000  effective  men ;  of  these  5000 
were  cavalry,  and  they  had  148 
pieces  of  arUllery.  The  position  of 
this  army,  having  diverging  lines 
of  retreat,  was  precarious  m  use  ex- 
treme. General  Colli,  with  the  Sar- 
dinian troops  and  5000  Austrian 
auxiliaries,  stood .  as  a  sort  of  ad* 
vanced  guard  in  the  mountains  near 
Ceva.  General  Argenteau,  with  the 
right  wing  of  the  main  Austrian 
army,  which  was  only  half  assembled 
when  hostilities  commenced,  had 
also  been  thrown  into  the  moun* 
tains.  Ab  the  spring  advanced,  he 
joined  the  left  of  Ckuli,  and  extend- 
ing his  jKMts  from  Oviedo  to  Cairo, 
and  cov^ed  with  his  7000  men  about 
thirty  miles  of  wild  and  intersected 
mountain  country;  travened  by  the 
deep  ravines  through  which  the 
countless  tributaries  of  the  Po  force 


*  By  mistake  enfptvnA  Votri  on  the  wood-ikstcb* 


1846.] 


the  Italian  Campaigns, 


27 


thdr  downward  eounie.  How  this 
small  fence  most  have  been  splin- 
tered ont  into  battalions  and  com- 
paoies,  nuBY  therefore  be  ouiljcon- 
ceiTed.  The  left  wing  of  the  arm^ 
was  assembling  at  Poazolo,  Formi- 
garo,  and  occupied  Campo  Freddo 
and  Bochetta  with  some  detached 
battalions.  One  half  of  the  army 
was  thus  in  siffht  of  the  enemy, 
while  the  other  naif  was  still  on  the 
march  from  the  winter-ouartersthey 
had  occupied  in  Lombardy  and  along 
the  banks  of  the  Po.  The  obiect  <h 
this  long  line  of  posts  was  rat  ner  to 
prevent  the  Frencli  from  making  ex- 
cursions into  the  low  country  than 
to  maintain  any  of  its  points  as  actual 
positions ;  and  the  arrangement  be- 
came so  very  faulty  only  from  the 
drcumstance  of  there  being  no  place 
of  general  assembl  v  indicated  for  the 
troops  to  fall  bacK  vrpon  in  case  of 
reverse,  and  at  a  sumdent  distance 
to  the  rear  to  admit  of  the  move- 
ment being  safely  executed. 

We  must  still,  before  entering  on 
the  events  of  the  field,  say  a  wora  of 
the  generals  and  their  respective 
armies. 

There  is  no  subject  on  whidi  the 
idolators  of  Napoleon  display  more 
vapid  eloquence  than  in  contrasting 
the  wretchedness  of  the  French,  with 
what  they  call  the  splendid  condi- 
tion of  the  rilied  army  at  the  com- 
mencement of  this  campiugn.  The 
Bepublican  general,  they  tell  us, 
found  himself  on  assuming  the  com- 
mand, at  ^  head  of  a  half-starved 
force,  cooped  up  in  a  barren  comer 
of  Piedmont,  destitute  of  every  thing, 
and  vastly  inferior  to  the  enemy,  who 
are  described  as  not  only  superior 
in  numbers,  but  perfectly  equipped, 
abundantly  supplied  with  all  the 
necessaries  of  war,  and  commanded 
by  the  most  experienced  officers  in 
Europe. 

There  is  enough  of  truth  in  these 
statements  to  deceive  the  unguarded 
reader;  though  the  whole  truth, 
when  stated,  must  lead  to  diametri- 
cally opposite  conclusions  to  those 
which  the  advocates  of  Napoleon 
would  have  us  infer. 

The  return  strength  of  the  allied 
army,  composed  of  Austriana,  Sardi- 
nians, and  Neapolitans,  amounted  to 
57,000  men :  tney  were  thus  supe- 
rior to  the  Frendb,  who  had  only 

43,600;  tmterentliaaiioniBuilffupe* 


riority  consisted  diiefly  in  cavalry 
and  artillery,  the  least  useful  arms 
in  a  mountainous  countiy.  They 
were  also  better  supplied  than  the 
French;  but  these  brasted  supplies 
were  not  of  the  nature  that  produce 
any  favourable  effect  on  the  health, 
strength,  and  spirits  of  the  troops. 
It  was  not  at  tnat  time  the  custom 
for  Continental  governments  to  re- 
lease their  soldiers  from  the  constant 
state  of  half  famine  to  which  they 
were  regularly  condemned,  so  that 
these  vaunted  supplies  consisted  of 
nothine  more  than  the  useless  stores 
¥rith  wnich  the  armies  of  the  period 
so  constantly  encimibered  themselves, 
but  which  contributed  nothinff  to  the 
well-being  of  the  men.  On  the  con- 
trary, we  know  from  many  a  well- 
authenticated  statement,  that  the 
troops  suffered  severely  from  want 
and  privation,  stationed,  as  they  were, 
along  the  high  and  barren  ridges  of 
the  Apennines.  Sickness  had  made 
great  ravages  in  the  ranks,  and  the 
morale  of  the  army  was,  in  conse- 
ouence  of  their  situation  and  previous 
defeats,  at  a  very  low  ebb.  A  few 
months,  indeed,  before  the  opening 
of  the  campaign.  Marshal  Colli,  the 
commander  of  the  Piedmontese  army, 
actually  declared  his  troops  to  be  to- 
tally unfit  to  meet  the  enemy. 

I'he  French  were  hungry  and  in 
rags ;  but  they  were  the  enthusiastio 
soldiers  of  the  revolution,  drawn  from 
among  the  best  men  of  France.  Many 
were  still  honest  believers  in  the 
dream  of  freedom ;  a  far  greater  num- 
ber were  animated  by  accounts  of  the 
spoil  and  fame  acquired  by  the  re- 
publican conquerors  of  Holland  and 
Belgium,  and  all  were  eager  to  share 
in  tnc  flesh-pots  of  Italy.  Is  it  not 
evident  to  common  understandinff, 
that  far  more  was  to  be  efiected  wiUi 
such  a  fiery  multitude,  than  with  the 
mere  drilled  soldiers  of  Austria, 
paux)ers  in  uniform,  drawn  from  the 
refuse  of  the  German  population, 
trained  under  an  iron,  soul-and-limb- 
crushinff  system  of  discipline,  who 
saw  nowin^  in  the  past,  present,  or 
future,  to  stimulate  them  to  exertion  f 

In  regard  to  generals,  the  advan- 
tage was  idso  on  the  side  of  the 
French,  ii»dependently  even  of  the 
superior  talents  claimed  for  Napo- 
leon. The  latter  was  in  the  twenty- 
seventh,  Beanlieu  in  the  sevenly- 
aeeond  year  of  his  age.    A  new  and 


28 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.    [January, 


splendid  career,  in  which  crowns  and 
oictatorships  were  to  be  gained  by 
daring  and  enterprise,  was  opening  to 
the  former ;  the  career  of  the  latter 
had  almost  attained  to  its  natural 
close.  Napoleon  had  received  a  good 
military  eaucation,  which  the  world- 
shaking  events  of  the  Revolution  had 
developed ;  while  his  mind  had  also, 
we  may  suppose,  been  inflated  by  the 
extravagant,  unprincipled,  and  im- 
pellinff  spirit  which  distinguished  the 
republican  doctrines  of  the  period. 
Beaulieu  was  the  disciple  of  the  pipe- 
day  and  button-stick  school,  which, 
for  upwards  of  fifty  years,  had  so 
successfully  exerted  itself  to  cramp 
the  minds,  and  crush  the  energies 
of  all  ranks  of  military  men.  Napo- 
leon was,  at  least,  the  equal  of  the 
rulers  of  France,  who  were  besides 
partly  indebted  to  him  for  their  very 
power,  which  his  sword  had  assisted  to 
uphold  on  the  13th  Vendemiaire  (5th 
October),  1795,  against  the  revolted 
sections.  Beaulieu,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  the  servant  of  an  ancient  and 
venerated  imperial  dynasty,  and  the 
unhappy  toot  of  a  deaf  and  blind 
Aulic  Council,  claiming  implicit  obe- 
dience while  attempting  to  command 
armies  at  hundreds  of  miles  from  the 
scene  of  action. 

Napoleon,  again,  was,  by  birth, 
knowledge,  and  education,  tne  supe- 
rior of  the  officers  he  came  to  com- 
mand ;  for  Massena,  Augereau,  Jou- 
bert,  Serrurier,  though  brave  and 
daring  leaders,  were  only  roush, 
ignorant,  and  illiterate  men,  and  tne 
new  general  had  gained  the  hearts  of 
his  soldiers  by  his  very  first  address, 
worded  in  the  real  French  style  of 
the  period.  It  promised  spoil  and 
glory,  and  could  not  possibly  fail  of 
success.  It  ran  as  follows :  — ''  Sol- 
diers !  you  are  naked  and  ill-fed;  the 
government  owes  you  much,  and  has 
nothing  to  give  you.  The  patience 
and  courage  which  you  display  in  the 
midst  of  tnese  rocks  are  admirable ; 
but  they  obtain  for  you  no  glory.  I 
will  lead  vou  into  the  most  fertile 
plains  of  the  world.  Rich  provinces 
and  large  cities  shall  be  in  your 
power:  their  possession  will  confer 
honour,  glory,  and  wealth  upon  you. 
Soldiers  of  Italy  I  can  you  want  cou- 
rage or  constancy?**  Under  these 
circumstances,  nine  chances  out  of 
ten  were  in  favour  of  the  French ;  and 

the  measures  of  thei^  advevsari^ 


which  we  have  now  to  describe,  aug« 
mented  almost  to  a  certainty  these 
favourable  prospects  of  success.  ^ 

Beaulieu  arrived  at  Alessandria  on 
the  27  th  of  March,  the  same  day  that 
Napoleon  reached  Nice.  Both  gene- 
rals had  orders  to  attack,  but  the 
nature  of  these  orders  were  probably 
very  different  in  other  respects.  Na- 
poleon was  directed  to  force  the  King 
of  Sardinia  into  a  peace,  and  to  drive 
the  Austrians  out  of  Lombardy — 
direct  and  intelligent  objects  that 
were  not  to  be  effected  by  half  mea- 
sures. Those  who  still  look  upon 
Camot  as  a  great  strategist  will  re- 
gret that  he  entered  into  the  details 
of  the  operations  by  which  this  bold 
and  simple  plan  was  to  be  executed ; 
for  few  documents  can  possibly  fur- 
nish greater  proof  of  tne  total  ab- 
sence of  all  clear  perceptions  of  the 
power  of  armies,  and  the  influence  of 
time,  circumstance,  and  situation. 
Fortune,  however,  assumed  the  chief 
command  to  herself,  and  left  gene- 
rals and  ministers  to  divide  the  ho- 
nour of  the  result.  The  new  system 
of  tactics  which  Napoleon  is  said  to 
have  put  in  practice  during  these 
campai^;n8,  never  had  any  existence 
except  m  theimamnation  of  his  eulo- 
gists and  biograpners,  for  it  is  a  sin- 
gular fact,  that  he  never,  during  the 
whole  of  his  career,  made  the  slightest 
improvement  or  alteration  in  the 
system  of  tactics  which  he  found 
established ;  for  the  tactical  JUglemetU 
of  1791  remained  unaltered  in  the 
French  service  down  to  the  year 
1825.  The  method  of  fighting  which 
he  followed  to  the  last,  together  vdth 
his  mode  of  supporting  armies,  were 
exactly  those  wnich  tne  Revolution 
had  introduced  from  the  first.  The 
gallantry  and  intelligence  of  the 
French  troops  redeemed  and  cast  a 
halo  of  splendour  over  the  blood- 
wasting  manner  in  which  the  incapa- 
city of  their  principal  leaders  hurled 
them  on  to  slaughter :  while  the 
altered  situation  of  the  world,  the 
humanity  and  good  feeling  for  which, 
as  a  people,  the  French  are  naturally 
distin^ished,  prevented  the  system 
of  living  by  requisition  and  at  free 
quarters,  from  being  exactly  what  it 
had  been  under  the  Huns  and  the 
Vandals.  It  came,  on  some  occasions, 
far  too  near  to  its  barbaric  origin  to 
leave  any  doubts  as  to  the  real  source 

from  yrh«Q9«  it  bad  be^  deriyecl* 


1846.] 


The  Italian  Campaigns, 


29 


Beauliea*s  orders  do  not  appear, 
so  that  we  must  judge  him  hy  his 
measures.  The  French  had  advanced 
a  hrigade  under  General  Cervoni  as 
far  as  Yoltri,  in  order  to  ^ve  effect 
to  some  money  n^^tiation  which 
they  were  carrying  on  with  the  go- 
vernment of  Gfenoa.  This  alarmed 
the  Austrians,  who  knew  that  there 
was  a  strong  republican  party  within 
the  vralls,  and  that  the  government 
was  feeble  and  irresolute.  Beaulieu 
determined,  therefore,  to  cover  the 
city,  to  put  himself  in  communication 
with  the  English  fleet,  which  was  on 
the  coast,  and  then,  no  doubt,  to  fol- 
low up  whatever  success  fortune 
might  throw  in  his  way.  On  the  9th 
of  April  he  advanced  by  the  Bo- 
chetta,  against  Voltri,  with  ten  bat- 
talions and  four  squadrons,  making 
in  all  about  7000  men.  Greneral 
Argenteau,  with  3000  more^  directed 
his  march  on  Montenotte,  to  cover 
the  right  of  the  main  column,  to  keep 
up  the  communication  with  the 
extreme  right  of  the  army,  and 
to  co-operate  in  the  attack  on  the 
right  of  the  French.  While  these 
10,000  men  were  thus  occupied,  Ge- 
neral Colli  was  to  make  a  demonstra- 


tion to  his  front,  so  as  to  engage  the 
attention  of  whatever  troops  might 
be  before  him.  This  general  had 
proposed,  that,  instead  of  this  half- 
measure,  the  whole  of  the  allied 
army  should  fall  on  the  left  wing  of 
the  f^rench ;  a  measure  which,  if  suc- 
cessful, would  probably  have  led  to 
their  ruin,  as  it  must  have  cut  them 
off  from  their  only  line  of  communi- 
cation with  France,  and  thrown  them 
completely  back  upon  the  coast, 
which  was  closely  watched  by  the 
English  squadron.  Beaulieu  declined 
this  judicious  plan,  saying,  that  he 
did  not  wish  to  bring  on  decisive 
operations  at  the  moment ;  forgetting 
how  difficult  it  is  in  war,  when  the 
most  trifling  events  may  lead  to  the 
greatest  consequences,  to  draw  a  line 
between  what  is  important  and  un- 
important. Colli,  therefore,  sent  Gre- 
neral Frovera  with  2000  men,  to 
make  a  demonstration  towards  Cos- 
sario. 

Napoleon  had  not  been  idle  while 
Beauueu  was  making  these  arrange- 
ments. He  had  assembled  three  divi- 
sions of  his  army  near  Savona,  and 
intended  to  break  into  Fiedmont,  by 
the  heads  of  the  Bormida,  at  the 


J$[  TURIN 


VOCHERA 


same  time  that  General  Sermrier 
should  threaten  Ceva,  and  keep  Colli 
in  check.    Both  comnumders  were 


ready  with  their  preparations  at  the 
same  time ;  but  the  half-measures  of 
the  one,  and  the  fUU  measures  of  the 


30 


Principal  CamfoApiM  in  the  Rite  of  Napoleon.    [January, 


o<^er,  dedded  the  rerolt  before  a 
Bingle  blow  had  been  struck.  From 
three  different  and  unconnected 
points,  12,000  Anstrians  were  thus 
marching  down,  not  on  the  extreme 
right,  but  on  what  proved  to  be  the 
concentrated  mass  of  the  French 
army;  while  30,000  more  were  as- 
sembling at  Acqui  and  other  points  in 
the  rear :  and  never,  since  wars  have 
been  carried  on  by  men,  had  hostile 
Fortune  delivered  brave  troops  over 
to  their  adversaries  in  this  unhappy 
manner.  Beaulieu  arrived  before 
Voltri  on  the  evening  of  the  11th 
April,  intending  to  attack  the  Ke« 

¥ubHcans  on  the  fbllowing  morning, 
'he  li^ht  troops,  however,  not  satis- 
fied with  driving  in  the  French  out- 
posts, followed  them  up  farther  than 
was  intended,  attacked  the  town  it- 
self in  the  darkness,  and  induced 
General  Ccrvoni  to  fall  back  on  the 
main  body  of  La  Harpe*s  division, 
leaving  a  few  hundred  wounded  and 
prisoners  in  the  hands  of  the  Aus- 
trians.  The  premature  success  of  this 
onset  tended  of  itself  to  foil  one  of 
the  main  objects  of  the  enterprise ; 
for  the  French  escaped  without  seri- 
ous injury,  instead  of  being  over- 
whelmed as  proposed  by  B^ulieu*s 
front  and  Argenteau*s  flank  attack. 

While  the  Austrian  commander 
was  halting  at  Voltri,  and  holding  a 
conference  with  Commodore  Nelson, 
General  Argenteau  was  driving  the 
French  picquets  from  Upper  and 
Lower  Montenotte.  This  march  had 
been  slow,  for  it  was  evening  before 
he  reached  Monte  Legino,  which  the 
French  had  fortified,  and  where  Co- 
lonel Bampon  was  stationed  with  two 
battalions.  This  gallant  officer,  when 
at^ked,  made  nis  soldiers  swear, 
under  the  very  fire  of  the  enemy,  to 
perish  rather  than  to  yield  their  post : 
nor  was  it  likely  that  such  men  could 
be  driven  from  behind  eood  field- 
works  by  adversaries  who  were  so 
little  superior,  and  who,  owing  to  the 
mountamous  nature  of  the  ground, 
were  without  artillery.  The  Aus- 
trians  made  the  attempt  however, 
but  failing  in  their  efiforts,  and  night 
setting  in,  they  retired  to  Upper 
Montenotte,  intending  to  renew  the 
action  in  the  morning. 

Napoleon  was  near  Savona  with 
three  diviaiona  of  his  army,  when  this 
action  was  fought  close  to  his  front : 
w  Beaulieu  bad  not  followed  up  the 


foeble  blow  struck  at  Voltri^  and  was 
Btm  at  a  distanoe  on  the  eveninff  of 
the  11th  of  April,  it  was  natnnu  to 
advance  upon  the  nearest  enemy, 
who  was  evidently  not  in  force,  hav- 
ing already  been  arrested  by  a  field- 
redoubt  defended  by  a  eouple  of  bat- 
talions. He  immediately  marched 
upon  Monte  L^^o,  and  while  (ge- 
neral La  Harpe's  division  took  post 
behind  the  redoubt  to  assbt  Colonel 
liampon  in  its  defonoe ;  the  divisioiur 
of  Augereau  and  Massena,  turned 
the  right  of  the  Austrians  under 
cover  of  a  heavy  fog,  which  conti- 
nued to  hang  over  the  hills  for  some 
hours  after  day-break.  Objects  were 
no  sooner  visible  on  the  morning  of 
the  12th  of  April,  than  Argenteau  re- 
turned to  the  attack  of  the  redoubt ; 
but  the  superiority  of  the  entmy 
soon  decided  the  combat  against 
hun ;  having  lost  400  men  in  killed, 
wounded,  and  prisoners,  he  fell 
back  in  all  haste,  and  though  out- 
flanked by  two  divisions,  he  was  yet 
enabled  to  efiect  his  retreat ;  a  proof 
that  no  particular  energy  was  dis- 
played by  his  adversaries.  French 
accounts  estimate  the  loss  of  the  van- 
quished at  4000  men  in  this  combat, 
and  history  has  too  readily  followed 
these  extravagancies. 

The  retreat  of  the  Austrian  com- 
manders was  as  singular  as  their  ad- 
vance had  been.  Argenteau,  when 
driven  from  Montenotte,  instead  of 
falling  back  on  Sassello,  where  he 
had  left  four  battalions  on  his  ad- 
vance, or  upon  Dego,  which  was  one 
of  his  main  posts,  and  where  he  had 
four  battalions  stationed,  passed 
between  the  two  points,  and  hur- 
ried back  all  the  way  to  Perotto, 
eight  or  nine  miles  farther  to 
the  rear  I  Beaulieu,  hearing  what 
had  happened,  sent  Colonel  Wukas- 
sowitch  with  three  battalions  to 
assist  the  defeated  troops,  and  then 
set  out  for  Acqui,  to  meet  the  corps 
that  were  still  on  their  advance  out 
of  Lombardy ;  while  the  whole  line 
of  advanced  posts  that  were  almost 
under  the  enemy's  guns  were  thus 
left  to  send  reports  far  to  the  rear, 
and  to  receive  orders  from  an  equal 
distance, — a  step  by  which  all  unity 
of  action  was  completely  broken. 

The  French,  pursuing  their  vic- 
tory, now  threw  themselves  into  a  dis- 
trict of  country,  of  which  Cairo  maybe 
considered  the  centre,  and  round 


1846.] 


The  Italian 


31 


which  the  advanced  posts  of  the  allies 
formed  a  sort  of  half-circle,  extend- 
ing from  Sassello  by  Dego  to  Mil- 
lessimo.  Thus  situated,  they  were 
enabled  to  strike,  with  concentrated 
force,  against  the  allied  posts ;  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  nature  of  the 
ground  and  the  good  works  thrown 
up  at  Dego,  Sassello,  and  Ceva,  gave 
the  defenders  great  advantages  had 
the  action  of  the  different  corps  been 
properly  combined :  the  reverse,  how- 
ever, was  the  case.  On  the  morning 
of  the  13th  the  Kepublicans  drove  in 
Colli*s  advanced  posts  at  Millessimo, 
a  movement  by  which  General  Pro- 
yera  most  unaccountably  allowed 
himself  to  be  cut  off  with  part  of  his 
troops.  Unable  to  effect  a  junction 
with  the  rest  of  the  army,  he  threw 
himself  into  the  old  castle  of  Cossario, 
which,  though  only  a  romantic  ruin 
of  a  feudal  fortress,  still  affords  an 
excellent  post  for  temporary  defence. 
Here  he  foiled  all  Bonaparte's  efforts 
to  dislodge  him,  thougn  Augereau's 
division  repeatedly  renewed  the  at- 
tack in  most  gallant  style;  but  on 
the  other  hand,  the  French  repulsed 
Colirs  feeble  attempts  to  relieve  the 
besieged. 

Massena,  with  his  own  and  General 
La  Harpe's  division,  had  been  or- 
dered to  attack  Dego,  while  Napoleon 
was  engaged  against  Colli ;  but  one 
of  the  brigades  destined  to  assist  the 
operation  having  been  withdrawn, 
Massena  thought  himself  too  weak  to 
assail  so  strong  a  post,  and  content- 
ing himself  with  a  general  recoH' 
naissance,  fell  back  for  the  night, 
a  circumstance  that  helped  more 
than  could  well  have  been  fore- 
seen to  secure  the  success  of  the 
French  arms.  The  numerous  errors 
and  singular  feebleness  that  marked 
so  many  trifling  operations  which 
were  ultimately  attended  with  such 
vast  results,  are  in  the  highest  degree 
singular.  While  Massena  was  paus' 
ing  with  the  entire  divisions  before 
Dego,  there  were  only  four  battalions, 
together  with  a  few  hundred  fugitives 
from  Montenotte,  Avithin  the  posi- 
tion; but  if  there  were  no  troops 
present,  there  were  plenty  withm 
reach,  had  ordinaiy  precaution  been 
used  in  collecting  them.  At  Sassello, 
within  twelve  miles  of  Dego,  was 
Wukassowitch,  with  seven  batta- 
lions— ^three  which  he  had  brought 
from  Voltri,  and  four  which  Argwi- 


tean  had  left  there  on  his  advance  lo 
Montenotte;  at  Moglia,  wilJiin  the 
same  distance,  were  two  which  the 
same  general  had  left  in  his  retreat, 
and  at  Ferotto  were  two  more,  which 
he  had  taken  thus  far  to  the  rear, 
but  were  still  within  an  easy  march 
of  the  threatened  post;  three  batti^ 
lions  were  at  Spigno,  also  on  the 
march  to  Dego.  Eighteen  batta- 
lions, havinff  the  whole  day  of  the 
13th  of  April  at  their  disposal,  were 
thus  withm  reach  of  the  place :  the 
mismanagement  by  which  their  de- 
feat was  occasioned  has  hardly  ever 
perhaps  been  equalled  in  war.  Ge- 
neral Argenteau  received  the  most 
urgent  commands  to  defend  Dego, 
at  least  for  a  day,  a  measure  in  which 
Colli  was  directed  to  assist  with  all 
his  means.  Of  the  proceedings  of  the 
latter  we  know  nothing,  and  must, 
therefore,  content  ourselves  with 
shewing  the  manner  in  which  the 
former  went  to  work  with  the  forces 
already  enumerated.  First  we  have 
an  order  dated  one  o^ clock  on  the  mom* 
in^  of  the  14th,  directing  Wukasso- 
witch to  proceed  ¥rith  five  battalions 
to  Dego,  "to-morrow  morning,'* 
which  Uie  latter  naturally  concluded, 
to  mean  the  morning  of  the  15  th,  so 
that  he  remained  mim  quarters  in- 
stead of  marching ;  next  we  have 
news  arriving  that  Massena,  whose 
reconnaissance  we  have  mentioned, 
had  retired,  and  Argenteau,  a  subor- 
dinate |;eneral,  acts  on  this  vague  in- 
formation, and  remains  stationary, 
instead  of  obeying  the  orders  of  his 
superior ;  eleven  battalions  were  thus 

Paralysed,  and  only  the  three  iVom 
pigno,  having  the  longest  march  to 
perform,  reach  the  ground  in  time  to 
share  in  the  action  of  whieh  we  have 
now  to  speak. 

Genei4l  Provera,  who  had  beeii 
blocked  up  all  night  in  the  eastle  of 
Cossario  without  water  or  provisions, 
surrendered  to  .General  Augereau  on 
the  morning  of  the  14th :  the  French 
reports  say  that  2000  men  laid  down 
their  arms,  we  now  know  that  the 
total  did  not  amount  to  half  that 
number,  and  truth  may  probably  lie 
between  the  two.  Napoleon  had 
joined  Massena,  and  was  preparing  to 
attack  De^o,  when  these  glad  tidmgB 
reached  him.  The  information  natu- 
rally tended  to  inspire  the  troops 
with  additional  ardour,  and  the  Ans- 

trian  redoaMs  were  »tt{idc«d'  with 


32 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.    [January, 


great  spirit.  As  already  stated,  four 
battalions,  with  a  few  hundred  fugi- 
tives, collected  after  the  route  of 
^ontenotte,  constituted  the  whole 
allied  force ;  but  the  post  was  fortified 
by  field-works  armed  with  eighteen 
pieces  of  cannon,  and  the  defence  was 
gallantly  maintained.  As  the  day 
advanced,  the  three  battalions  from 
Spigno  arrived ;  they  helped  to  pro- 
long the  contest,  but  could  not  re- 
trieve the  fate  of  battle  against  such 
odds,  and  the  whole  were  ultimately 
driven  from  the  field,  and  nearly  de- 
stroyed; few  escaped,  and  the  guns 
were  of  course  abandoned  in  the 
works.  Argenteau  having  heard  the 
firing,  collected  his  four  battalions 
from  Perotto  and  Moglia,  and  com- 
menced his  march  about  two  o*clock ; 
he  came  in  time  to  collect  the  fugi- 
tives and  retrace  his  steps  unmo- 
lested. 

Colonel  Wukassowitch  also  heard 
the  firing,  and  though  his  orders  only 
directed  him  to  set  out  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  15th^  he  thought  it  right  to 
march  at  once  towards  the  scene  of 
action.  But  the  mountain- paths  were 
steep  and  difficult,  in  most  places  the 
men  could  advance  by  single  files 
only ;  night  overtook  him,  and  some 
prisoners  having  reported  that  there 
were  20,000  Frcncli  in  Dego,  he 
halted  to  wait  the  return  of  dawn. 
Besuming  his  march  in  the  grey  of 
the  morning,  he  came  upon  the 
French  outposts,  who,  thinking  they 
had  the  wnole  of  Beaulieu*s  army 
before  them,  ficd  in  dismay.  The 
Austrians  followed,  and  amved  be- 
fore the  works  along  with  the  fugi- 
tives, and  though  received  with  a 
smart  fire  that  told  alike  against 
friends  and  foes,  the  troops  them- 
selves demanded  with  loud  shouts  to 
be  led  against  the  entrenchments. 
Wukassowitch  had  probably  learned 
by  this  time  that  Massena's  divisions 
only  remained  at  Dego ;  he  therefore 
avuled  himself  of  tne  spirit  of  the 
moment,  assailed  the  works  and  de- 
feated with  his  five  gallant  battalions 
the  whole  of  the  enemy*s  division, 
retaking  not  only  all  the  Austrian 

fins  lost  the  day  before,  but  several 
rench  ones  along  with  them.  Mas- 
sena,  finding  himself  unpursued,  ral- 
lied his  troops,  and  enoeavoured  to 
recover  the  post ;  but  his  efforts  were 
vain,  the  victors  maintained  the 
ground  th^y  had  so  bravely  won. 


Napoleon  had  left  Dego  imme- 
diately after  the  action  of  the  14th, 
and  was  already  on  his  return  to 
Millessimo,  with  the  divisions  of  Vic- 
tor and  La  Harpe,  when  the  news  of 
this  unexpected  blow  reached  him. 
Thinking  that  he  had  the  whole  of 
Beaulieirs  army  to  contend  with,  he 
instantly  countermarched  the  divi- 
sions, and  joined  Massena  about  one 
o'clock.  An  hour  afterwards  the 
third  action  of  Dego  commenced. 
The  Austrians  defended  themselves 
with  great  bravery,  but  finding  that 
there  was  not  a  single  battalion,  or 
company,  within  ten  or  twelve  nules 
of  tnem,  that  they  were  engaeed, 
without  support,  against  a  whole 
army,  they  retired  from  the  post, 
losing  half  their  number,  and  again 
leaving  all  the  captured  guns  behind 
them.  Eighteen  nattalions  had  been 
put  in  motion  for  the  defence  of  this 
post,  while  four  only  sustained  the 
real  shock  of  battle  on  the  first  and 
five  on  the  second  day ! 

And  now  was  an  opportunity  of- 
fered to  Napoleon  for  striking  a  bril- 
liant and  decisive  blow  at  the  remains 
of  Bcaulieu's  army,  which  was  still 
the  principal  force  he  had  to  contend 
with.  They  were  assembling  at 
Acqui ;  falling  back,  in  broken  frag- 
ments, from  Montenotte  and  Dego 
on  one  side,  and  hurrying  up,  from 
their  winter  quarters,  on  the  other. 
Ilad  the  French,  in  pursuit  of  Wu- 
kassowitch*s  corp,  come  upon  this 
dispirited  and  half-organised  mass  on 
the  16th,  there  is  little  doubt  that 
the  whole  would  have  been  routed 
or  dispersed.  The  victors  turned, 
however,  upon  the  feebler  foe,  and 
gave  the  stronger  time  to  rally ;  an 
error  from  which  able  adversaries 
might  have  derived  the  most  im- 
portant advantages. 

The  Sardinians  were  not  formi- 
dable. They  could  do  little  more 
than  defend  their  fortresses  for  a  few 
days ;  but  even  that  defence,  if  gal- 
lantly maintained,  might  have  oe- 
come  ruinous  to  the  French,  by 
giving  the  Austrians  time  to  collect, 
advance  to  the  rescue,  and  take 
the  invaders  in  reverse.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  Austrians  had  been 
completely  beaten  in  the  first  in- 
stance, the  Sardinians  would  have 
yielded  as  a  matter  of  course.  Thia 
early  campaign  seems  always  to  have 
floated  in   confused  and   indistinct 


1846.1 


The  Italian  Campaigns* 


33 


forms  before  the  mind  of  Napoleon ;  he 
did  not  perceive  that  success  was  due 
entirely  to  the  weakness  of  the  enemy, 
and  tried  a  repetition  of  the  same 
manceuyres  till  they  led  to  the  fail- 
ures of  1813,  the  defeats  of  181 4,  and 
total  destruction  in  1815.  It  is,  per- 
haps, right  to  observe,  that  too  many 
historians  and  biographers,  wishing 
to  conceal  Napoleon's  oversight,  or 
enhance  his  glory,  make  him  defeat 
Beaulieu  and  the  whole  Austrian 
army  at  Dego  and  Montenotte, 
where  that  general  never  was,  and 
where  only  a  few  battalions  of  his 
army  had  ever  been  assembled. 

It  is  not  always  by  the  magnitude 
of  the  forces  vanquished,  or  the 
number  of  the  slain,  that  the  im- 
portance of  victories  can  be  decided ; 
results  form  the  proper  criterion  in 
such  cases;  and  though  the  minor 
actions  here  described  led  ultimately 
to  greater  consequences  than  tn- 
umphs  achieved  over  large  armies 
often  have  done,  the  circumstance 
cannot  justify  historians  in  magnify- 
ing combats  fought  against  single 
bngades  into  victories  gained  over 
whole  armies.  These  constant  ef- 
forts to  write,  not  history,  but  pane- 
gyrics, has  led  them  to  follow,  with- 
out examination,  the  exaggerated 
statements  of  Napoleon  and  his  bio- 
graphers, and  to  augment  the  loss 
sustained  by  the  allies  in  these  four 
actions,  fVom  6000  men  to  no  less 
than  26,000,  besides  a  proportionate 
number  of  guns  and  standards. 

The  surrender  of  Provera  had  no 
sooner  given  Augereau  free  hands, 
than  he  began  to  press  back  the 
troops  of  General  Colli,  who  retired 
to  Ceva^  where  he  took  post  on  the 
16th,  with  about  12,000  men.  Na- 
poleon halted  on  that  and  the  follow- 
ing day,  to  give  his  soldiers  some 
rest,  and,  leavmg  General  La  Harpc 
to  watch  the  Austrians,  proceeded  on 
the  18th  with  the  divisions  of  Mas- 
sena  and  Victor  to  join  Augereau, 
at  the  same  time  that  General  Ser- 
mrier,  advancing  by  the  banks  of 
the  Tanaro,  also  effected  his  junc- 
tion. On  the  19th,  the  Sardinians 
were  attacked  in  their  redoubts.  The 
defence  was,  at  first,  successfully 
maintained;  but  Colli  perceiving 
that  his  position  was  about  to  be 
turned,  broke  ofp  the  action,  and  fell 
back  to  a  new  and  very  strong  posi- 
tion behind  the  Corsaglia,  a  stream* 

yoxn  xxznx.  vo,  czcnz. 


let  with  steep  and  rocky  banks,  that 
falls  into  the  Bormida.  His  having 
been  allowed  to  effect  this  movement 
proves  that  he  was  not  very  vigo- 
rously pressed. 

Napoleon  no  sooner  found  the 
enemy  halted,  than'  he  ordered  them 
to  be  attacked  on  all  points  on  the 
morning  of  the  20th  of  April.  The 
French,  greatly  superior  in  numbers, 
advanced  to  the  onset  with  their 
usual  gallantry ;  but  so  little  judg- 
ment had  been  displayed  in  the  dis- 
positions for  the  assault,  that  they 
were  foiled  in  every  effort,  and  driven 
back  with  a  loss  so  severe,  that  it 
already  produced  some  depressing 
influence  on  the  spirits  of  the  sol- 
diers. 

This  check  placed  the  general  and 
his  army  in  a  precarious  situation. 
Five  days  had  already  elapsed  since 
the  action  of  Dego ;  a  period  of  time, 
which,  if  well  employed,  would  have 
enabled  Beaulieu  to  collect  and  re- 
form his  troops,  and  arrive  to  the 
aid  of  his  ally.  General  La  Tour, 
indeed,  the  Austrian  commissioner  at 
the  court  of  Turin,  already  promised 
his  immediate  appearance  on  the 
right  of  the  French  army,  which,  by 
such  a  movement,  would  have  been 
placed  between  two  fires,  as  they 
afterwards  were  at  Waterloo.  Napo- 
leon acted  in  1815  as  he  had  acted  in 
1796,  but  the  same  conduct,  which 
at  Mondovi  placed  him  on  the  ^rst 
steps  of  his  future  throne,  sent  him 
afterwards  a  captive  exile  to  St.  He- 
lena. The  generalship  which  was 
successful  against  feeble  foes,  and. 
filled  astonished  Europe  with  the 
fame  of  the  youthful  conqueror,  led, 
ultimately,  when  tried  against  the 
valiant  and  the  strong,  to  the  most 
signal  overthrow  that  modern  times 
had  ever  witnessed. 

Napoleon  was  not,  however,  so 
much  blinded  by  self-exaggeration  at 
this  period  as  he  was  afterwards; 
he  saw,  at  once,  the  critical  situation 
in  which  the  repulse  had  placed  him, 
and  on  the  21st,  assembled  a  council 
of  war  at  Lesegno.  It  is  a  general 
saying  that  such  a  council  never 
fights;  but  as  an  illustration  of  the 
spirit  of  the  French  republican  ar- 
mies, it  must  be  told  that  their  coun- 
cils always  recommended  battle,  which 
seemed  their  sovereign  and  only  re- 
medy for  every  difficulty.  On  the 
present  occasioQ  the  assembled  gene* 


34  Prindpat  Campaigns  in  the  Hise  of  Napole<nu    [January, 


raid  were  so  impressed  vrith  the  dan- 
0er  in  which  the^  were  placed,  that 
Uiey  deemed  their  ruin  certain,  if 
not  saved  by  a  victory.  A  new  at- 
tack on  Colli's  position  was  ordered 
for  the  following  morning. 

The  Sardinian  commander  took 
evidently  a  just  view  of  his  situation ; 
he  perceived  that  ultimate  success 
could  only  be  achieved  by  the  as- 
Instance  of  Beaulieu,  and  therefore 
determined  to  gain  time,  and  not  to 
risk  every  thing  on  the  issue  of  an- 
other action  on  the  banks  of  the 
Corsaglia.  He,  therefore,  left  his 
ground  on  the  morning  of  the  22d 
of  April,  intending  to  retire  upon 
another,  and  a  stronger  position,  in 
front  of  Mondovi,  where  he  could 
cither  wait  the  arrival  of  Beaulieu, 
or  fall  back  upon  the  advancing 
Austrians,  if  necessary.  It  was  weU 
intended,  but  thousrh  he  had  only  a 
six  miles*  march  beiore  him,  he  could 
not  make  his  ill-disciplined  Italians 
perform  it  in  a  soldier-like  manner. 
The  French,  on  ascending  the  dreaded 
position,  from  which  their  previous 
attack  had  been  repulsed  with  so 
much  loss,  were  delighted  to  find  it 
evacuated,  and  immediately  followed 
in  pursuit.  Semirier*s  division  led 
the  van,  and  as  the  soldiers  had  not 
shared  in  the  previous  victories,  they 
were  eager  to  signalise  themselves, 
and  hurried  with  great  spirit  after 
the  retiring  foes.  The  Sardinians 
had  left  their  ground  later  than  or- 
dered, and  marched,  as  southern  ar- 
mies too  often  march,  as  many  of  us 
have  seen  the  best  Spanish  and  Por- 
tuguese troops  march,  in  straggling 
parties  along  the  road,  without  re- 
taining their  proper  formation  or 
readiness  for  action.  The  conse- 
quence was,  that  the  rear  divisions 
were  overtaken,  found  in  a  perfect 
state  of  confusion,  and  totally  dis- 
persed. Some  battalions  that  Colli 
formed,  and  opposed  to  the  pursuers, 
misbehaved  altogether,  so  that  the 
French  arrived  Song  with  the  fugi- 
tives in  the  new  position ;  which,  after 
a  short  strum;le,  had  to  be  evacuated 
with  all  speed:  the  Sardinians  having 
lost  almost  1000  men  and  eight  guns, 
retired  through  Mondovi  towards 
Fossana.  A  check  experienced  by 
the  French  cavalry,  who,  in  a  charge, 
were  repulsed  with  the  loss  of  ^eir 
general,  saved  the  vanquished  firom 
a  more  signal  overthrow. 


Alarmed  at  the  result  of  this  ac- 
tion, and  trusting  little,  perhaps,  to 
the  ud  of  Beaulieu,  the  court  of 
Turin  determined  to  solicit  an  armis- 
tice  in  order  to  negotiate  a  peace 
with  the  Bepublic.    On  the  23d, 
General  Colli  already  wrote  to  Na- 
poleon on  the  subject,  and  as  his 
position  rendered  such  an  arrange- 
ment highly  desirable,  he  met  tne 
proposal  in  the  most  friendly  style. 
He  expressed  himself  anxious  for 
peace — felt  confident  that  it  would  be 
concluded,  but  very  naturally  de- 
clined to  suspend  his  victorious  march 
unless   the    Sardinian   government 
surrendered  the  citadel  of  Ceva,  and 
placed   as  guarantees  in  his  hands 
two  out  of  tne  three  fortresses,  Ales- 
sandria, Tortona,  and  Coni.    These 
terms  were  not  very  harsh,  and  Na- 
poleon was  far  from  assuming,  during 
this  negotiation,  any  of  that  vulgar 
arrogance  for  which  the  republican 
generals  of  the  period  were  so  un- 
favourably disting^hed.    Not,  how- 
ever, to  be  altogether  wanting  in 
such  conduct,  he  demanded  that  the 
Austrian  aiuuliarv  corps  should  be 
delivered  up  to  him.    Of  this  de- 
mand the  Sardinian  government  took 
no  notice,  and  he  was  himself  wise 
enough  not  to  renew  the  subject. 
The  army  still  advanced  as  the  nego- 
tiation proceeded ;  on  the  25th,  there 
was  a  cannonade  at  Fossano,  on  the 
26th  the  French  reached  Alba,  with- 
in two  marches  of  Turin,  and  cut  off 
the    direct  communication  between 
Colli  and  Beaulieu,  a  circumstance 
that  probably  caused  the  immediate 
conclusion  of  the  armistice,  which 
was  si^ed  at  Cherasco  on  the  28th 
of  April. 

Thus  ended  the  three  weeks*  cam- 
paign of  Piedmont,  the  first  and 
shortest  of  all  Napoleon's  campaigns, 
except  the  last,  wnich,  in  three  davsy 
tore  from  his  brows  the  laurels  oi  a 
hundred  fights. 

The  French  had  achieved  many 
gallant  actions  during  the  operations 
we  have  so  briefly  recorded.    They 
had    defeated  enemies  numerically 
superior,  and  gained  great  and  deci- 
sive advantages  for  the  cause  of  the 
new  Repubbc;  but   the   glory   to 
which  these  actions  entitle  them,  falla 
far  short  of  the  extrava^mt  acoount 
which  fiune  has  awardS.    The  ad* 
vantages  gained  in  war  cannot  always 
serve  as  t£e  standard  by  which  glory 


184^.] 


The  Italian  Campaigns. 


35 


should  be  dealt  out  to  the  conque- 
rors; for  it  has  happened  that  im- 
portant success  has  been  achieved 
without  striking  a  blow,  and  by  the 
mere  timely  appearance  of  military 
forces.  It  is  only  where  great 
dangers  and  difficulties  have  been 
vanquished  by  wisdom,  valour,  and 
fortitude,  that  glory  can  be  justly 
claimed;  and  in  the  Piedmont  cam- 
paign, the  French  had  neither  danger 
nor  difficulties  of  magnitude  to  over- 
come. Their  adversaries  were  feeble 
from  mismanagement;  and  though 
this  cannot  lessen  the  actual  merit  of 
the  troo^,  it  rendered  their  task 
comparatively  easy,  and  the  per- 
formance of  an  easy  task  gives  but  a 
moderate  clahn  to  mUitary  renown. 
It  is  usual  for  the  idolaters  of  Napo- 
leon to  assert  that  the  French  army 
made  prisoners  and  put  hors  de  combat 
25,000  enemies,  and  captured  eighty 
pieces  of  artillery,  during  these  snort 
operations.  Besides  Jominrs  calcu- 
lation, we  now  know,  from  authentic 
documents,  that  the  total  loss  of  the 
allies  was  9000  men  and  twenty- 
six  guns — a  heavy  loss,  considering 
how  small  these  armies  were  when 


compared  to  the  countless  hosts 
brought  into  the  field  at  later  periods 
of  the  war. 

Biographers  further  tell  us  that 
Napoleon,  when  assembling  his  co- 
lumns on  some  height  whence  the  vast 
plains  of  Lombaray  could  be  disco- 
vered, pointed  to  the  Alps,  proudly 
exclaimmg,  ^  Hannibal  forced  his 
way  across  these  mountains,  but  we 
have  turned  them.**  Every  author 
who  has  repeated  this  speech,  has, 
of  course,  thought  it  necessary  to 
exhibit  some  splendid  manceuvre, 
by  which  the  Alps  were  so  turn- 
ed; and  it  must  be  confessed  that 
the  collection  is  curious,  particularly 
as  they  all  forget  the  simple  fact, 
that  the  Alps  were  turned  by  the 
position  which  the  French  army  had 
occupied  for  two  years  in  the  Ri- 
viera; a  position  acquired,  not  by 
any  giillant  feat  of  arms,  but  by  the 
seizure  of  an  independent  tract  of 
neutral  territory.  The  whole  story 
is  probably  nothing  more  than  a  pue- 
rile imitation  of  the  passage  of  Polv- 
bius,  in  whidi,  from  the  top  of  the 
Alps,  Hannibal  points  out  Italy  to 
the  astonished  Carthaginians. 


Chaptba  n. 

The  French  effect  the  Passage  of  the  Po.-.^ctioii  of  Fombio— Combat  of  the 

Bridge  of  Ledi. 


The  peace  which  soon  followed  on 
the  armistice  of  Cherasco  left  the 
king  of  Sardinia  littk  more  than  a 
shadow  of  power.  Victor  Amadeus 
signed  it  reluctantly,  and  did  not 
long  survive  his  humiliation.  He 
was  father-in-law  to  both  the  bro- 
thers of  Louis  XYI.,  and  the  ruin 
of  his  house  is  supposed  to  have 
broken  his  heart,  as  ne  died  a  few 
days  afler  the  conclusion  of  the 
treaty,  which  reduced  the  descendant 
of  a  long  line  of  warlike  princes  to 
a  dependent  vassal  of  the  regicide 
republic  of  France. 

It  would  far  exceed  our  limits  to 
enter  into  a  minute  examination  of 
the  conduct  of  the  court  of  Turin 
in  oonsenting  to  the  armistice  of  Che- 
rasco. Takmg  only  a  military  view 
of  the  subject,  we  should  say  that 
they  displayed  the  most  reprehen- 
sible pusillanimity,  as  nothing  had 
occurred  in  the  field  to  renoer  so 
ruinous  a  step  necessary.  The  allied 
armies,  though  defeated,  were  not 
dispened ;  B^ulien  was  already  on 


the  march  to  assist  Colli ;  the  French 
were  advancing  towards  Turin,  a 
iilaoe  of  great  strength,  and  were 
roroed  to  mask  and  blockade  the 
fortresses  of  Coni  and  Ceva,  which 
were  immediately  on  their  left.  Vic<' 
tory  had,  no  donbt,  raised  the  spirits 
and  confidence  of  the  Republicans; 
but  success  had  not  been  achieved 
without  loss;  and'  the  surprise  of 
Dego,  the  defence  of  the  redoubts  of 
Ceva,  and  the  action  on  the  Cor- 
saglia,  were  feats  of  arms  that  threw 
some  weight  into  the  balance  in  fa- 
vour of  the  allies.  All  these  circum- 
stances called  on  men  of  courage  to 
try  the  fate  of  arms  before  submit- 
ting to  a  peace  that  could  hardly  fail 
of  being  aestructive.  But  it  now  ap- 
pears that  the  court  of  Sardinia  was 
pioie  influenced  by  other  motives; 
a  strong  republican  party  ^vas  sup- 
posed to  exist  even  at  Turin,  and  it 
was  feared  that  the  loyalty  of  the 
army  could  no  longer  be  relied  upon. 
The  cession  of  Sardinia  from  the 
alliance  gave  the  French  the  most 


36  Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.    [January, 


decided  preponderance  in  the  field. 
The  whole  of  Colli*8  forces,  as  well  as 
the  Sardinian  troops  that  confronted 
the  French  army  of  the  Alps,  were 
taken  out  of  the  balance  on  one  side, 
while  the  whole  of  this  last-men- 
tioned army  was  thrown  into  the 
scale  on  the  other :  the  loss  of  Lom- 
bardy  seemed  thus  inevitable.  That 
a  young  and  ambitious  general  should 
feel  elated  by  these  important  advan- 
tages need  not  surprise  us;  but  it 
may  be  doubted  how  far  a  man  of 
knowledge,  genius,  and  quick  powers 
of  perception  and  calculation,  could 
be  so  far  blinded  by  the  victories 
gained  as  Napoleon  was  on  this  occa- 
Mon.  As  the  modesty  of  his  report 
to  the  Directory  has  been  praised, 
we  have  given  an  extract  from  the 
document,  not  merely  to  shew  the 
credit  due  to  his  biographers,  but  to 
exhibit  his  powers  of  judgment  by 
the  light  of  his  own  statement.  On 
the  28th  April  he  thus  writes  to  the 
Directory: — 

"  If  yoa  do  not  come  to  an  arrange- 
meat  with  the  king  of  Sardinia,  I  shall 
inarch  upon  Turin.  In  the  meantime  I 
inarch  against  Beauliea ;  I  oblige  him 
to  recross  the  Po ;  I  pass  the  river  im- 
mediately after  him ;  1  take  possession 
of  all  Lombardy,  and  in  less  than  a  month 
I  expect  to  be  on  the  mountains  of  the 
Tyrol,  to  join  the  army  of  the  Rhine, 
and  to  carry  the  war  into  Bavaria. 

*'  Order  15,000  men  of  the  army  of 
the  Alps  to  join  me,  this  will  give  me  a 
force  of  45,000  men,  and  it  is  possible 
that  I  may  send  a  part  of  it  against 
Rome." 

Napoleon  here  shews  himself  per- 
fectly ignorant  of  the  obstacles  he 
was  certain  to  encounter,  and  which, 
notwithstanding  the  most  extraor- 
dinary and  unexampled  career  of 
victory  and  good  fortune,  retarded 
hia  appearance  in  Grermany  for  a  year 
insteaa  of  a  month.  Even  the  Di- 
rectory, though  not  distinguished  for 
any  great  ability,  treated  this  extra- 
yaffant  flight  of  fancy  with  the  slight 
it  deserved ;  nor  did  Napoleon  him- 
self again  revert  to  it.  JJis  zealous 
recommendation  of  the  oflicers  who 
had  fought  under  him  was  in  far 
better  taste  than  this  announcement 
of  future  exploits. 

Beaulieu  having,  after  the  armis- 
tice of  Cherasco,  no  fortresses  that 
gave  him  any  hold  in  the  north- 
western portions  of  Italy,  formed  the 


bold  resolution  of  surprising  Tor- 
tona,  Alessandria,  and  Yalenza,  by 
means  of  his  cavalry.  He  obtained 
possession  of  the  last-named  place, 
but  gave  it  up  again,  as  it  was  useless 
without  the  other  two,  a^nst  which 
the  attempt  had  failed.  It  is  a  ques- 
tion, whether,  with  his  diminished 
and  dispirited  army,  the  Austrian 
general  should  not,  at  once,  have 
£Edlen  back  behind  the  Mincio,  in- 
stead of  disputing  the  ground,  step 
by  step,  against  the  advancing  French . 
Decisive  success  seemed  no  longer 
within  his  reach,  and  every  reverse, 
however  trifling,  was  sure  to  aug- 
ment the  moral  force  of  the  invaders, 
and  to  fan  the  spirit  of  republi- 
canism which  their  appearance  had 
excited  in  Italy.  By  giving  up  a 
country  he  could  not  defend,  he  pre- 
served his  army,  fell  back  on  rein- 
forcements and  tenable  positions,  and 
obliged  the  French  to  leave,  at  least, 
some  troops  to  cuard  the  country 
through  which  Uiey  advanced,  and 
watch  the  southern  states  of  Italy, 
who  might  always  become  formida- 
ble so  long  as  the  Austrians  remained 
unbroken.  Beaulieu  chose  the  bolder 
and  more  soldierlike  resolution ;  and 
though  it  certainly  appears  to  have 
been  a  wrong  one,  we  are  loth  to 
blame  any  display  of  gallant  spirit, 
the  absence  of  which  was  so  often 
fatal  to  the  allied  cause.  It  may  also 
be  a  question,  how  far  an  Austrian 

Senend  could  then  venture  to  aban- 
on  an  Austrian  province,  though 
certain  of  its  being  no  longer  defea- 
sible. 

If  Napoleon's  letter  above  quoted 
evinces  no  profound  judgment  or 
power  of  calculation,  it  shews  at  least 
a  restless  spirit  of  enterprise,  which, 
at  the  head  of  brave  troops,  is  always 
formidable  in  war.  The  self-exag- 
geration which  distinguished  him 
during  his  whole  career,  had  been 
awakened  by  his  first  victories,  and 
naturally  hurried  him  from  one  un- 
dertaking to  another;  every  fresh 
effort  deriving  additional  stren^h 
from  the  success  of  the  one  by  which 
it  had  been  preceded.  Beaulieu  had 
retired  behmd  the  Po;  and  it  was 
now  resolved  to  force  the  passage  of 
the  river,  and  to  effect  the  conquest 
of  Lombardy. 

Owing  to  the  great  number  of 
failures,  it  has  amost  become  an 
axiom  in  war,  that  the  passage  of  a 


1846.] 


The  Italian  Campaigns* 


37 


river  having  a  long  assailable  course^ 
can  seldom  be  opposed  with  success ; 
the  attacking  party  having  generally 
the  choice  of  tne  place  at  which  they 
intend  to  cross,  and  beinff  in  most 
cases  able  to  steal  a  marcn  on  their 
adversaries,  and  effect  their  object  on 
some  unguarded  point,  before  the 
defenders  can  assemble  in  sufficient 
strength  for  effectual  resistance. 
These  vague  modes  of  treating  mi- 
litary questions  can,  however,  prove 
nothinff,  and  the  passage  of  a  river 
must,  fike  every  other  operation  of 
war,  depend  upon  localities,  the 
strength  and  the  conduct  of  the  con- 
tending parties.  A  river  of  the 
magnitude  of  the  Po,  though  flowing 
in  an  open  country  and  accessible  on 
all  points,  offers  a  barrier  that  should 
have  been  successfully  defended  by 
an  army  of  25,000  Austrians  against 
30,000  French.  Scattered  detach- 
ments along  the  banks  of  the  stream 
are  liable  to  be  destroyed  in  detail, 
and  all  who  know  an^rthing  of  war 
know  how  uncertain  it  is  to  bring  de- 
tached bodies  together  at  the  moment 
when  they  are  wanted.  It  is  only 
b^  having  a  central  position,  or  po- 
sitions, as  much  as  possible  within 
resucti  of  the  points  liable  to  attack, 


that  success  can  be  anticipated,  and 
in  a  country  like  Lombardy,  an  army 
receiving  rair  intelligence  from  the 
opposite  bank,  should  at  least  be  able 
to  watch  sixty  miles  of  stream.  Sup- 
posing the  assailants  to  have  gained 
thirtv  miles  from  the  central  position 
of  the  defenders,  and  twentv  say, 
from  the  nearest  wing ;  and  then  to 
give  evidence,  by  their  force  and 
proceedings,  that  they  are  in  earnest ; 
fourteen  hours  should  bring  at 
least  a  third,  and  twenty  hours,  two 
thirds  of  the  defending  army  to  the 
point  assailed.  We  are,  by  this  cal- 
culation, giving  cavalry  patroles  four 
hours  for  conveying  intelligence  the 
distance  of  only  twenty  miles,  thoueh 
in  such  cases  full  speed  should  be 
used ;  we  allow  two  hours  for  assem- 
bling and  ^tting  the  troops  under 
arms,  and  eight  hours  for  the  march 
of  the  nearest  corps,  the  others  follow- 
ing in  succession.  And  in  fourteen 
hours  no  great  number  of  troops  will 
have  effected  the  passage  of  a  river 
like  the  Po,  which,  among  European 
streams,  must  be  looked  upon  as  one 
of  first-rate  magnitude. 

Let  us  now  see  how  Beaulieu  and 
Napoleon  managed  their  operations. 

The  French  army  extended  from 


K)  MILES 


h 


Yalenza  to  Voghera,  and  thus 
threatened  the  Ime  of  the  Po  be- 
tween these  two  places;  the  Aus- 
trians were  at  Yal^o,  a  post  well 
chosen  for  confronting  an  enemy  so 
situated.  By  the  treaty  of  Cherasco 
Napoleon  had  reserved  to  himself 
the  right  of  crossing  the  Po  at  Ya- 
lenza, a  fortress  within  the  Sardinian 
line  of  demarcation,  and  he  pretends 
that  he  did  so  merely  for  the  pur- 
pose of  deoeiying  Beaulieu,  who  fell 


into  the  snare  accordingly.  His- 
torians and  biographers  have  ezult- 
ingly  repeated  tnis  puerility,  though 
it  might  be  supposed  that  no  com- 
mander, free  from  mental  infirmity, 
would  be  guided  by  an  adversary's 
word  on  such  a  subject;  though 
every  additional  point  of  passage, 
placed  at  the  disposal  of  an  enemy, 
would  have  to  be  attentively  watched 
by  the  defenders. 
On  the  4th  of  May,  the  French 


Principal  Campaipmt  m  ike  XiH  iff  NapoUtm.    [Jamnry, 


maekvf  tomrdi  Cm- 

toggio,  ItaiM  poiittuig  Blnadr  to- 
wvda  their  ligiA.  On  the  6tta  fia- 
p^eon  Kt  out  with  3000  ^enadien, 
1(00  csTali7,  and  twenty-nx  [ueeefl 
(rfartilkrv,  and  by  a  forced  march 
reached  Piacenza  on  the  fi>lh>wing 
daj.  He  immediately  began  to 
throw  hit  tioopa  bctom  hj  meana  of 
boati  collected  along  the  banka  of 
the  rirer ;  two  •qnadroiM  of  Ani- 
trian  hnisan  fonnd  on  the  0)qKwite 
ride  were  soon  obliged  to  retire. 
The  reit  of  the  French  aimy  fol- 
lowed thia  advanced  guard  with  great 
rapidi^ ;  bnt  a*  thaj  bad  no  pon- 
toona,  aod  aa  iite  Bwani  of  paaaage 
were  iimited,  it  required  the  whole 
«f  the  7lh,  8th,  and  Mh  of  Ma; 
before  the  ttoopt  had  croned  the 

The  Aiutrian  general  had  not 
been  deceived  by  the  idle  tale  of  the 
intended  peaeoge  at  Valenia,  and 
oo  aooncr  learned  that  the  French 
bad  extended  their  right  towardv 
Caatcggio  thaji  he  despatched  General 
Liptai  with  eif^t  batulion*  and  eight 
■qnadroni  to  Belgioioia,  with  direC' 
tionB  to  proceed  itill  further  to  the 
left^  aa  circumatancea  mi^ht  require, 
while  he  himself  moved  in  the  same 
direction.  He  did  lo  indeed,  bnt 
not  with  an  army,  for  on  the  6th 
he  detached  fonr  battalions  and  two 
■qnadroTU  to  Buffalona,  near  Milan, 
wnere  they  could  be  of  no  poMible 
service ;  and  on  the  7th,  he  left  eix 
battalion!  and  six  squadrons  more  at 
Favia,  while  he  himself  reached  Bel- 
giojosa  with  nine  battalions  and 
twelve  sqnadroiu.  On  the  eve  of 
battle  hu  troops  were  thus  dispersed 
over  forty  miles  of  cottntiy. 

The  two  squadrons  of  nuasara  the 
French  had  fallen  in  with  in  cross' 
ing  the  river  were  the  advanced 
guard  of  GcneGal  Liptu'a  division, 
which  wa«  following.  The  adverse 
partiei  encountered  at  Gnarda  Miglia 
about  fonr  miles  from  the  landing 
place :  in  sharp  and  continued  combat 
the  Austriana  drove  the  invaders  back 
to  the  water's  edge.  Their  com- 
mander fearing,  however,  to  fall  upon 
greatly  superior  numbers  during  the 
night,  retired  to  Fombb,  and  Uiere 
took  post,  in  order  to  await  the 
arrival  of  more  troops.  Thia  was  a 
great  error,  for  if  his  eight  battalions 
and  eight  squadrons  really  amounted 
to  5000  men,  m  the  AoRtriw  returns 


aaaort,  be  moat  hftve  ban  a  tiMtnh 
fi)r  thie  Fitaidi  who  had  eroaaed  tlw 
rhr^  and  aboold  certainly  have  fol- 
lowed ap  hia  Uow. 

At  one  o'clock  oo  the  aflemooD  of 
the  Stb,  S^oleon  attacked  Fontbw 
with  about  10  or  12,000  mtai,  and 
after  a  sharp  action  drove  the 
defenders  &tnn  their  post,  with 
the  loss  of  600  in  kiUed  and 
wounded  i  the  vanqoiahed  r^ired 
behind  the  Adda.  And  where  waa 
Beanlien  while  this  decisve  action 
waa  in  progreaa?  He  had  arrived 
at  Belgiojoea,  twenty  roitea  from  the 
scene  of  combat,  on  the  evening  of 
the  7th,  and  could  easily  therdbre 
have  reached  Fombio  by  one  o'clodk 
on  the  6th;  bnt  it  waa  only  in 
the  forenoon,  and  while  the  boops 
were  cooking  their  dinners,  that  he 
received  the  tidings  of  the  action  of 
the  previous  day,  so  that  he  only 
commenced  his  march  at  the  very 
time  when  be  abould  already  have 
been  on  the  ground.  Hia  arrange- 
ments, however,  are  too  eoriooa  to 
be  paaeed  over  unnotioed.  He  very 
properly  directed  his  march  on  Orio 
and  Aspedaletto ;  but  not  to  be  out- 
flanked, as  the  official  reporta  say, 
and  to  be  certain  of  falling  in  with 
Liptai's  division,  he  again  divided 
hii  small  corps  in  the  following  un- 
heard-of manner.  One  battalion 
took  the  road  to  Seune,  another  to 
Somaglio,  two  marched  on  Fombio, 
two  others,  accompanied  by  foar 
squadrons  to  Cordogno,  so  that  the 
mun  body  of  the  Austrian  army, 
which  arrived  at  Aspedaletto  under 
the  field-marshal's  own  command 
consisted  of  three  battalions  and 
eight  squadrons  I  Since  wars  have 
been  carried  on,  there  is  probably 


,bly  no 
:  been 


aefficiency  by  the  exertions  o 
own  chieftain.  As  Liptai  waa  not 
fallen  in  with,  it  was  soon  perceived 
that  nine  battalions  scatttxed  over 
the  country  as  here  described  coold 
effect  nothinff ;  the  whole  were, 
therefore,  withdrawn  nest  day  be- 
hind the  Adda.  A  gallant  blow 
that  General  Schubert  struck  during 
the  night  at  Cordogno  led  to  no- 
thing. With  his  two  battalions  and 
four  squadrons  he  surprised  and  de- 
feated the  division  of  La  Harpe,  and 
took  six  guns  from  them,  the  com- 
mander being  killed  in  the  actiOD ; 


18460 


Th0  Ifalian  Campaigns. 


39 


but  a  partial  advantage  of  this  kind 
could  not  retrieve  the  errors  already 
committed.  On  the  5th  of  May,  we 
find  General  Beaulieu  preparing  to 
defend  the  passage  of  the  Fo,  with 
twenty-seven  battalions  and  twenty- 
eight  squadrons,  which  he  had  in 
hand  at  Valegio.  With  this  force 
he  might  easify,  but  for  his  extra- 
ordinary disposition  to  detach  entirie 
corps,  and  the  strange  circumstance 
of  his  not  receiving  information 
of  the  action  of  the  7th,  have 
been  at  Fombio  on  the  morning 
of  the  8th;  and  the  chances  are 
that  such  a  force  would  not  only 
have  defeated  the  10,000  or  12,000 
men  with  which  Napoleon  attacked 
Liptai^  but  that  such  a  victory 
would  have  turned  the  fate  of  the 
campaign  ;  instead  of  this,  the  deci- 
sive action  is  fought  by  eight  bat- 
talions and  eight  squadrons. 

Were  we  to  judge  the  passage  of 
the  Fo  by  the  French  as  a  mere 
military  measure,  it  would  certainly 
be  exposed  to  considerable  censure ; 
for,  though  all  operations  of  war  are 
attended  with  risk  and  danger,  it  is 
only  in  proportion  to  the  pressure  of 
necessity,  that  they  should  be  under- 
taken when  the  chances  of  defeat 
out-balance  those  of  success.  On  the 
present  occasion  there  was  no  imme- 
diate necessity  of  forcing  the  passa^ 
of  the  river;  17,000  men  of  tne 
army  of  the  Alps  were  already  on 
the  march  to  join  Napoleon;  and 
their  arrival  would  have  rendered 
the  operation  comparatively  easy: 
while,  as  we  have  seen,  the  causes 
that  prevented  Beaulieu  from  being 
present  with  a  sufficient  force  to  drive 
back  the  republicans  on  the  first 
morning  after  their  passage,  were  of 
a  nature  peculiar  to  himsdf,  and  not 
such  as  can  be  fairly  calculated  upon 
in  war.  Napoleon  acted  here  as  on 
every  subsequent  occasion  of  his  life ; 
he  placed  every  thins  upon  the  ha- 
zara  of  the  die,  and  those  who  may 
question  the  great  military  qualities 
ascribed  to  him  are  forced  to  allow 
that  he  was  a  bold  player  and  long 
remained  a  successfiit  gambler. 

But  here  we  have  an  important 
question  to  ask  of  the  admirers  of 
his  military  genius.  Why  did  not 
the  French  general  cross  the  Fo  at 
Cremona  instead  of  Fiacenza  ?  The 
former  place  is  only  a  fe^  miles 
}ow^r   down  the  stream  than  the 


latter;  the  breadth  of  the  river  is 
the  same ;  but  by  effecting  the 
passage  at  Cremona  the  French 
woula  have  turned  the  Adda  and 
cut  off  the  Austrians  fi*om  the  direct 
road  to  Mantua,  advantages  of  the 
highest  consequence.  Had  any  par- 
ticular obstacles  rendered  the  passage 
more  difficult  at  the  latter  tnan  at 
the  former  place,  Napoleon  would 
have  mentioned  them  in  his  memoirs ; 
but  he  takes  no  notice  of  the  subject, 
from  which  it  is  probable  that  he 
was  anxious  to  prevent  attention 
from  bein^  drawn  to  the  great  mili- 
tary oversight. 

The  victor  remsuned  at  Fiacenza  on 
the  9th,  and  while  his  cavalry  and 
artillery  were  passing  the  river,  took 
the  opportunity  of  imposing  a  con- 
tribution of  two  millions  of  mncs  on 
the  Grand  Duke  of  Farma,  forcing 
him  at  the  same  time  to  surrender 
twenty  of  his  finest  pictures.  Seven 
million  francs  and  twenty  pictures 
were  soon  afterwards  demanded  of 
Hercules  HI.  duke  of  Modena.  Both 
princes  were  at  peace  with  France : 
fear  had  prevented  them  from  join- 
ing the  allies,  and  they  had  now  to 
pay  for  their  pusillanimity.  The 
practice  of  seizing  works  of  art,  as 
trophies  of  war,  had  been  usual  with 
the  Romans,  during  their  long 
career  of  plunder  and  aggression. 
In  the  middle  ages  the  same  system 
was  occasionally  resorted  to,  and  the 
Venetians,  when  lords  of  the  Archi- 
pelago, carried  away  the  last  spoils 
of  unhappy  Greece.  As  late  even 
as  the  Thirty  Years*  War,  Maximilian 
of  Bavaria  sent  the  celebrated  Hei- 
delbeig  library  to  Rome,  as  a  pre- 
sent to  the  Fope;  while  the  Swedes, 
not  to  be  behmd  their  enemies,  en- 
riched the  libraries  and  galleries  of 
Upsola  and  Stockholm  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  Catholic  princes  of 
Germanv.  In  latter  times  the  prac- 
tice had,  however,  been  altogether 
discontinued.  Frederick  II.  though 
a  real  lover  of  the  arts,  respected 
the  gallery  of  Dresden;  and  the 
Austrian  and  Russian  commanders, 
who  during  the  same  war  took  pos- 
session of  Berlin,  did  not  remove 
any  of  the  treasures  of  art  which  it 
contained.  The  French  republicans 
acted  a  different,  if  not  a  nobler 
part.  The  government,  composed  of 
men  without  character,  were  suffi- 
ciently coi^scious  that  they  had  little 


40  Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napolem.    [Jaonary, 

guard;  tbeir  error  conEisted  in  not 
being  prepared  to  destroy  the  bridge 
tbe  moroent  their  troops  nad  passed. 

General  SebottendoriTs  orders  were 
to  hold  the  Adda  for  tnentj-four 
hours,  to  give  the  army  time  to  rett«i 
some  secure  position  in  which  they 
could  rest  from  their  late  exertions. 
The  force  at  his  disposal  consisted  of 
twelve  battaliong,  sixteen  squadrons, 
and  fourteen  guns;  three  battalions 
he  placed  at  the  ford  of  Credo,  two 
miles  below  the  town ;  so  that  he 
had  only  7000  men  left  for  the  de- 
fence of  his  post.  SeauUeu  with 
the  remainder  of  the  troops  was 
already  on  his  march  towuds  tbe 
Oglio. 

The  French  entered  Lodi  o 


hold  on  the  affections  of  the  people ; 
tbey  strove,  therefore,  to  augment 
their  influence,  bj  calling  national 
vanity  to  their  aid ;  and,  well  con- 
vinced that  the  French  would  be 
flattered  by  imilsting  the  Romans, 
and  by  seeing  tbe  masterpieces  of 
art  brought  as  trophies  of  war  to 
adorn  the  capital  of  their  country, 
they  ordered,  or  sanctioned,  the 
revival  of  this  antiquated  system  of 

C'  Jidcr.  That  they  equalled  the 
t  of  their  predecessors  is  not  to 
be  denied ;  how  far  the  treasures  so 
gathered  prospered  in  the  hands  of 
tbe  spoilers,  we  shall  have  occasion 
to  shew  hereafter. 

We  now  come  to  the  combat  of 
Jjodi,  one  of  the  most  celebrated 
actions  of  the  war.  The  extravagant 
tales  to  which  it  bas  given  rise 
call  upon  us  for  a  more  detailed 
account  of  the  transaction  than  would 
otherwise  be  required. 

Lodi  is  situated  on  the  Adda,  a 

river   that    issues  from  the  lake  of 

Como,  and  falls  into  Ibc  Fo  a  little 

below  the  small  fortified  town  of 

Fizzighetone.     la  ordinary  seasons 

it    hu  few  practicable    fords,    and 

though   too  insignificant  to    arrest 

the   progress  of  a  victorious   array, 

offers,  wncn  its  bridges  arc  guarded 

or  destroyed,    a   deicnsiblc   barrier, 

behind  which  troops  may  find  some 

momenta!^  shelter  from  the  pursuit 

of    superior     adversaries.       When 

Beaulieu  abandoned  the  defence  of 

the     Po,     he     retired    behind     the 

Adda  by  the  bridge    of  Lodi ;    the 

troops  near  Milan  were  onlered  to 

leave  ISOO  men  in  the  citadel  of  that 

city  and  to  cross  the  same  river  st 

Cassano;     while    Scbottendorf  and 

Wucassowitch,  who  remained  about 

Favia,  were  directed  to  march  on 

ring  to  Kapoleon's  halt  on 

.11   these   detached  parties 

e  left  bank  of  the  stream ; 

guard  of  Wucassowitch's 

mg  before  Lodi  from  the 

at  the  same  time  that  the 

guard    of    the     French 

Dm  the  south.    Sebotten- 

ery  properly  left  a  couple 

IS  in  the  town  to  take  up 

guard,  who  after  a  short 

'cre  brought  safely  across 

The   Austriaus    have 

3d  for  not  destroying  the 

ut  tbey  could  not  do  so 

xttiug  off  tbeir  «wa  ku 


morning  of  the  10th  of  May,  along 
with  the  rear  guard  of  Wucassowitch  iS 
corps ;  but  the  Austrian  gun»» 
posted  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
river,  prevented  tbem  from  crossing 
the  bridge.  Xapoleon,  Sushed  with 
success,  la  the  full  career  of  victory, 
instantly  resolved  to  dislodge  this 
rear  guard ;  nor  was  the  difficulty  so 
great  as  is  generally  represented. 
The  whole  of  the  French  artillery 
were  brought  into  action,  some  of  the 
gvns  were  placed  to  great  advantage 
on  the  old  ramparts  of  the  town; 
and  a  fierce  cannonade  opened  upon 
the  Au.itrians,  who  wore  not  slow  in 
replying  to  the  fiery  salutations ;  hut 
the  superior  number  of  the  French 
guns,  the  protection  aflbrded  them 
by  the  waifs  of  the  town,  aiid  the 
greater  elevation  of  the  western  over 
the  eastern  bank  of  the  river,  made 
every  chance  of  combat  incline  to 
tlic  side  of  the  invaders,  and  caused 
considerable  loss  to  the  Aostriaa 
artillery. 

While  the  cannonade  was  thinning 
the  ranks  of  the  Germans,  Napoleon 
placed  3500  grenadiers,  formed  in 
close  column,  behind  the  rampart  of 
the  Ixidi,  the  head  of  the  column 
being  close  to  the  bridge,  ready  to 
wheel  to  the  left  and  rush  across  at 
tbe  first  signal.  To  fadlitalc  the 
intended  attack,  be  despatched  Ge- 
neral Beauinon  witli  the  cavalry  to  a 
ford  about  three  miles  up  the  stream, 
where  he  was  to  cross,  and  fall  upon 
tbe  right  flank  of  the  enemy,  the 
onset  of  the  cavalry  was  to  be  the 
signal  for  the  advance  of  tbe  in- 
fantry :  Napoleon,  indeed,  pretends 
thU  it  was  so,  but  this  is  not  the 


1846.] 


The  Italian  Campaigns, 


41 


case,  as  the  cavalry  never  came  into 
action. 

A  five  hours'  cannonade  had  not 
driven  the  Austrians  from  their 
position ;  hut  had  a  good  deal  slack- 
ened the  fire  of  their  guns.  The 
signal  for  the  advance  of  the  column 
was  therefore  given,  and  the  gallant 
grenadiers  instantly  rushed  fonvard 
to  the  loud  shouts  of  Vive  la  R6pub' 
liqtie.  Met  hy  a  shower  of  grape  and 
musketry  that  struck  down  the  lead- 
ing ranks,  the  mass  halted  before  they 
reached  the  hostile  bank.  **  A  mo- 
ment's hesitation,"  says  Napoleon, 
^  would  have  been  ruin,  but  General 
Berthier,  Massena,  Cervoni,  Lannes, 
and  Dallemagne,  pushed  to  the  front 
and  turned  the  still  uncertain  scales  of 
fate."  How  these  officers  made  their 
way  through  a  close  column  of  men, 
crowded  together  upon  a  narrow 
bridge,  the  front  men  pressing  back 
while  the  rear  were  pressing  for- 
ward, is  not  easily  understood,  and 
should  have  been  explained  by  those 
who  were  satisfied  with  repeating 
the  idle  tale.  The  fact  is  this.  The 
bed  of  the  Adda  is  about  two  hun- 
dred yards  wide  at  Lodi;  but  the 
deep  channel  is  comparatively  nar- 
row and  runs  close  to  the  walls  of 
the  town;  towards  the  eastern  side 
the  water  is,  in  general,  so  shallow 
as  to  leave  two  sand-banks  under  the 
bridge  completely  dry;  and  as  the 
country  is  flat,  the  bridge  has  no 
great  elevation  above  the  level  of 
the  stream.  When  the  advance  of 
the  column  was  checked,  the  soldiers, 
not  to  remain  exposed  to  the  Aus- 
trian fire,  descended  by  the  beams  of 
the  bridge  to  these  sand-banks  and 
formed  themselves,  as  usual,  into 
bands  of  tirailleurs  and  advanced 
upon  the  enemy,  when  those  who 
had  remained  on  the  bridse  also 
rushed  forward.  The  wild  and 
gallant  swarm  once  across,  pushed 
on  as  they  were  reinforced;  some 
buildings  near  the  bank,  from  which 
the  Austrians  had  been  driven  by 
the  fire  of  the  French  artillery,  gave 
them  good  shelter ;  and  having  thus 
obtained  a  firm  footing,  superior 
numbers  soon  decided  the  action  in 
their  favour.  The  Austrians  lost 
all  their  guns,  and  nearly  2000  men 
in  killed,  wounded,  and  prisoners; 
but  they  were  allowed  to  retire  un- 
pursued  to  Crema. 

That  no   military^   perhaps  we 


should  say,  no  strategical,  object  was 
gained,  or  sought  for,  by  this  extra- 
ordinary feat  of  arms  is  evident  from 
the  fact,  that  Napoleon  immediately 
desisted  from  the  further  pursuit  of 
the  vanquished,  and  facing  to  the 
right  about  marched  upon  Milan 
and  Favia.  In  his  memoirs,  he  at- 
tempts to  shew,  that  the  action  of 
Lodi  was  not  a  mere  scene  of 
slaughter  entered  upon  without  ob- 
ject ;  for  he  intended,  he  says,  to 
cut  off  the  retreat  of  General  Colli, 
who  with  10,000  men  was  retiring 
by  Cassano.  But  dates  and  distances 
shew  very  plainly  that  this  is  one  of 
the  many  strategical  plans  that  result 
from  after-thoughts;  for  Colli  had 
crossed  the  bridge  of  Cassano,  which 
is  twenty-five  miles,  a  good  day's 
march  from  Lodi,  he/are  Napoleon 
had  forced  the  passage  of  the  Adda ! 

Colli  had,  besides,  less  than  2000 
men  with  him;  and  the  chance  of 
cutting  them  off  was  not  worth  the 
risk  that  might  have  been  sustained 
in  what  is  called  the  "  terrible  storm 
of  the  Bridge  of  Lodi."  Nor  does 
it  seem  that  he  was  very  clear  how 
the  victory  had  really  l>een  gained, 
for  he  not  only  gives  an  inconsistent 
but  evidently  evasive  account  of  the 
passage  of  the  bridge  ;  and  adds,  also, 
that  tlie  enemy  were  defeated  by  les 
feux  redoutables  de  ccUe  invincible 
colonne,  though  every  military  man 
will  know  that  the  fire  of  such  a 
column  would  hardly  be  equal  to 
the  fire  of  an  ordinary  platoon,  or  to 
that  of  fifty  or  sixty  men  p^aps. 
Ilere,  as  every  where  else.  Napoleon 
hurled  brave  men  forward,  leaving 
the  result  to  fortune  and  the  gal- 
lantry of  the  troops. 

But  if  no  strategical  advantages 
were  gained  by  the  victory  of  L^, 
it  augmented,  m  a  very  high  degree, 
the  moral  force  of  the  conquerors. 
No  feat  of  arms  ever  caused  so  much 
astonishment  in  Europe  as  the  pass- 
age  of  the  Adda.  It  excited  the 
most  boundless  enthusiasm  in  favour 
of  the  French  and  their  general. 
The  pai'tisans  of  the  new  order  of 
things  were  delighted,  and  thought 
that  nothing  would  be  impossible  for 
such  a  man  to  achieve  with  such 
soldiers.  The  renublicans  began, 
indeed,  to  fancy  tnemselves  invin- 
cible, and  such  a  belief  is  already  a 
ffreat  step  towards  victory ;  particu- 
brly  when,  as  in  the  present  case^ 


42 


Principal  Campaigni  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.    [January, 


the  spirits  of  the  yanqnished  were 
depressed  in  the  same  proportion  in 
which  those  of  the  conqueror*s  were 
devated.  If  this  was  the  advantage 
for  which  Napoleon  stormed  the 
bridge  of  Lodi,  he  ^ined  his  object 
completely ;  but  this  is  hardly  to  be 
supposed,  as  the  view  taken  of  the 
action  could  never  have  been  antici- 
pated, because  the  assault  of  any 
breach  in  the  rampart  of  a  re^ar 
fortress  of  ordinary  strecu^  is  in 
reality  infinitely  more  difficult  and 
dangerous  than  was  this  boasted 
passage  of  the  Adda.  In  the 
attack  of  a  breach  the  assailants 
have  to  advance  fully  exposed  to  the 
fire  of  well-sheltered  foes;  they 
have  to  effect  a  difficult  descent 
into  the  ditch  at  the  very  muzzles  of 
hostile  guns,  and  they  have  then  to 
force  their  way  over  the  ruined  frag- 
ments of  rampart,  over  loaded  shells 
of  grenades,  and  over  the  maneled 
bodies  of  their  comrades,  falling 
thick  and  fast  under  the  fiery  mis- 
siles hurled  from  above,  or  burst- 
ing in  treachery  beneath  their  feet. 
Such  were  the  obstacles  encountered 
in  the  breaches  of  Roderigo  and 
Bad^joz,  but  at  Lodi  there  was 
only  a  rush  across  a  straight  and 
level  bridge  of  200  yards  in  length, 
and  in  the  face  of  foes  who  had  for 
five  hours  been  exposed,  without 
shelter,  to  the  tellinjz  fire  of  the  French 
artillery.  The  trining  loss  sustained 
by  the  assailants  is  also  a  proof  that 
the  difficulties  of  this  exploit  have 


been  most  shamefully  exa^sierated. 
French  accounts  say  that  ISey  had 
only 200  men  killed  and  wounded; 
and  though  we  may  well  suppoee 
that  the  number  was  in  realitv 
much  greater,  it  could  not  weu 
have  been  ten  times  greater,  which 
the  successful  attack  of  a  well- 
defended  breach  would  probably 
have  made  it. 

Napoleon  was  no  doubt  impelled 
to  this  attack  by  the  snirit  of  victorv 
which  then  animatea  the  French 
army,  and  by  the  thirsting  for  suc- 
cess and  battles  which  lent  them  so 
much  enerey  and  resolution.  And 
if  he  struck  the  blow  to  intimidate 
his  adversaries,  and  to  keep  high  the 
brilliant  reputation  his  troops  had 
acquired,  he  might  deserve  praise 
for  the  action ;  but  this  view  neither 
himself  nor  his  biographers  have 
been  able  to  take ;  they  nave  rested 
the  merits  of  the  victory  on  strate- 
gical grounds  and  have  failed  com- 
pletely. 

For  a  just  understanding  of  the 
snirit  in  which  Napoleon  and  his 
idolaters  have  written,  it  is  rijzht  to 
add  that,  not  satisfied  with  defeating 
Sebottendorf  and  his  7000  men  at 
Lodi,  they  generally  defeat  Beaulieu 
and  his  whole  army  there,  even  as 
they  had  before  defeated  him  at 
Deffo  and  Monte- Notte,  though  that 
untortunate  commander  was  already 
a  dav*s  march  in  advance  towards 
the  Oglio. 


1846.] 


On  the  Hiit&ry  of  Pm^cimim^i* 


43 


Olf   THE    HISTORY   OF   PAKT0tfIM£8. 


IN  A  I«£TTSB  TO  OIIYSB  TOBKB,  S&i^. 


BsspscTED  OuYSB,  —  You  know 
many  things,  and  know  them  well ; 
but  confess  frankly  that  you  share 
the  eommon  ignorance  respecting  the 
rise,  progress,  and  decline  of  glorious 
pantomime.  Did  you  ever,  m  your 
most  recondite  researches,  venture 
into  that  obscure  subject — a  subject 
not  less  important  than  obscure? 
You  did  not.  You  have  relished 
many  a  performance  in  the  halcyon 
days  of  Doyhood ;  but  did  you  ever, 
in  the  soberer  studies  of  mannood,  ask 
yourself  whence  came  this  species  of 
dramatic  entertainment?  Ino,  such 
a  thought  never  crossed  vour  mind ; 
or,  crossing  it,  was  instantly  dismissed. 
Now,  O  worthy  Oliver!  I  have 
asked  this  question  of  many  a  learned 
man,  and  many  a  dusty  volume,  but 
without  satisfactory  result.  All  my 
researches  only  eive  me  brief  and 
scattered  facts.  These  facts  I  en- 
deavoured to  interpret.  I  formed  a 
theory  on  the  matter,  and,  as 

<•  Ta  solebas 
Mesa  esse  eliquid  putare  nugas/' 

— to  speak  with  that  rare  fellow  Ca- 
tullus,—  will  transmit  you  both  my 
data  and  theory. 

The  Christmas  pantomimes  have 
confessedly  been  getting  worse  and 
worse  for  some  years.  Ask  any  re- 
spectable play-goer,  and  he  wiU  tell 
you,  with  a  sigh,  that  pantomimes 
are  not  what  they  used  to  be.  Now 
tohai  used  they  to  be?  and  when? 
Here  at  once  is  the  historic  question 
raised.  People  usually  content  them- 
selves with  referring  to  the  French 
stage,  where  pantomime  was  trans- 
planted from  the  Italian ;  the  Italians 
again  borrowed  it  from  the  Romans 
and  Greeks.  A  sequent  tradition  is 
thus  given,  or  supposed  to  be.  But 
look  a  little  closer;  don*t  be  satisfied 
with  mere  verbal  resemblances,  and 
then  say  what  resemblance  has  the 
entertainment  we  call  pantomime 
with  the  attellanse  of  Home  or  the 
pantomimes  of  Greece  ?  Not  to  ffo 
BO  far,  what  resemblance  has  it  to  tne 
pantomime  of  Italy  and  France  ? 

Simply  that  of  nami^  aud  dresses. 


These,  indeed,  are  traditional.  I  will 
rapidly  trace  the  history  of  the  prin- 
cipal pantomimic  personages,  and 
then  come  to  the  thmg  itself.  Har- 
lequin is  certainly  the  Italian  ArleC' 
chino,  which  was  also  the  Boman 
Sannio  (he  is  also  called  Zcaun  in 
Italian).  The  Sofinio,  as  his  name 
imports,  was  a  buffoon  (f^om  sarma^ 
a  grimace) ;  his  dress  was  very  simi- 
lar to  that  of  our  harlequin,  onlv  it 
was  mean  and  miserable,  instead  of 
beinff  spansled  and  splendid.  He 
has  his  head  shaved  (rasis  capiHbxu\ 
and  his  face  begrimed  with  soot  (Ju' 
ligine  fadem)  ;  these  are  represented 
by  a  short  black  mask  and  skull-cap 
in  the  modem  dress.  His  feet  were 
unshod  (planipedes) ;  the  feet  of  the 
modern  are  cased  in  delicate  pumps. 
His  dress  was  a  thing  of  shreds  and 
patches,  formed  of  various  colours 
and  various  materials,  so  that  Aristo- 
phanes would  have  recommended 
him  to  Euripides  (you,  Oliver,  re- 
member the  o«t  fM*  f»»t»9  Ti  T*v  waXmw 

lf»fAar6t,  don't  you  ?) ;  but  this  mi- 
serable dress  is  in  the  modem  ele- 
vated to  the  splendour  of  spangles 
and  variegated  colours. 

Pantaloon  is  of  Venetian  origin. 
Pardaleone  19  pianta  leone  (he  planted 
the  lion),  and  therefore  the  desi^a- 
tion  of  a  standard-bearer,  the  Vene- 
tian standard  being  a  lion.  Such  is 
the  common  etymology,  though  there 
is  absolutely  nothing  to  be  made  out 
of  it.  Why  should  a  standard-bearer 
be  chosen  as  the  type  of  old  men — 
the  ^  heavy  fkthers^  in  the  drama  ? 
True  it  is  that  the  tight  red  hose  and 
yeUow  slippers  of  Pantaloon  are  also 
those  of  the  standard-bearer ;  but  the 
question  remains  unanswered.  Why 
was  the  standard-bearer  chosen  ?  1 
have  a  suggestion  to  offer.  The 
tight  red  hose  and  yellow  slippers 
became  the  costume  of  the  "Venetian 
merchants.  When  these  were  su- 
perseded by  the  full  flowing  garment, 
the  change  was  of  course  at  first  only 
adopted  by  the  yoiins.  The  old  men 
continued  to  wear  tne  old  costume, 
and  thus  the  red  hose  became  a  mark 
of  an  old  Venetian  in  the  same  way 
as  the  jpigtail  wns  a  fewye«rs  ago  the 


44 


On  the  History  of  Pantomimes. 


[January, 


mark  of  an  old  Englishman.  "  Pig- 
tail** might  represent  a  **  heavy  fa- 
ther** in  a  modem  farce,  so  Panta- 
leone,  i.  e.  the  costume  of  Pantaleone, 
represented  the  old  man  in  Venetian 
farce;  for  Pantaloon  is  always  the 
old  man  who  cries  up  the  wisdom  of 
the  bygone  times  and  deplores  the 
folly  of  the  present— always  the  old 
man  to  be  duped  and  laughed  at. 
Such  is  my  explanation.  The  princi- 
pal fact,  however,  to  be  noticed  here 
18  that  the  modem  Pantaloon  has 
substantially  the  same  dress  and  name 
as  his  prototype. 

Clown  is,  we  know,  the  Pierrot  of 
the  French  and  the  Scaramuccia  of 
the  Italian  stage.  The  dress  is,  how- 
ever, somewhat  different,  and  in  the 
opinion  of  one  learned  in  such  mat- 
ters, it  is  the  invention  of  the  im- 
mortal Joey  Grimaldi,  who  to  the 
white  flowing  habit  of  Pierrot  added 

blue  and  r^  ^^1^?^)  ^^^  ^^^  ^^^ 
trousers  short.  Ine  wondrous  po- 
pularity of  this  prince  of  clowns 
made  every  other  clown  adopt  his 
dress,  and  thus  those  of  the  amphi- 
theatre and  those  who  perfoimed 
their  antics  on  the  1st  of  May  thought 
right  to  copy  Grimaldi*s  dress. 

But  it  is  m  the  characters  that  we 
must  look  for  the  greatest  changes. 
Pantaloon  continues  much  the  same  ; 
but  Harlequin  used  to  be  a  heavy, 
lumbering  lout,  whose  stupidities 
were  a  set-off  to  the  adroitness  of 
Brighella,  or  Clown.  Now  he  is  a 
fairy -worker,  and  carries  a  fairy 
wand.  His  dress  has  undergone 
changes  in  keeping  with  the  chaise 
in  his  character — ^it  is  fairy -like.  In 
the  Italian  drama  he  had  to  bear  the 
penalties  of  all  the  larceny  and 
Knavery  of  his  fellow-servant,  Brigh- 
ella ;  the  kicks  fell  upon  him  as  they 
now  fall  upon  Pantaloon,  who  has 
inherited  that  portion  of  the  **  busi- 
ness.** Our  Harlequin  has  an  ele- 
ment in  his  composition  which  is 
quite  foreign  to  his  prototype, — fo- 
reign, indeM,  to  the  whole  Italian  and 
French  entertainments.  None  of  the 
Italian  characters  have  any  thing 
more  than  their  adroitness  and  au- 
dacity to  assist  them  in  their  tricks, 
but  Harleauin  has  a  magic  power. 
He  is  the  lover  favoured  by  fairies. 
He  whirls  about  in  the  giddy  mazes 
of  the  dance  with  his  beloved  Colum- 
bine ;  and  whenever  the  clever,  mis- 
chieyous  Olown,  or  the  dull,  mis* 


chievous  Pantaloon,  attempt  to  disturb 
their  felicity,  the  magic  wand  per- 
forms its  magic  wonders. 

Now  here  in  this  one  element  we 
see  something  altogether  different 
from  the  Boman,  Italian,  or  French 
pantomimes.  Whence  the  origin  of 
this  element  ?  How  came  Harlequin 
by  his  wand?  How,  in  short,  did 
pantomime  become  what  it  now  is,  a 
mixture  of  magic  and  buffoonery  ? 
Whoso  talks  about  our  getting  our 
pantomime  from  France  or  Italy 
should  also  tell  us  whence  came  the 
magic,  and  whence  the  mixture ;  be- 
cause a  pantomime — such  as  Mother 
Ooose,  loT  example — is  altogether  a 
different  entertainment  firom  those  of 
the  Italian  stage. 

Let  us  rummage  amongst  old  play- 
bills and  forgotten  books.  There  we 
shall  find  certain  distinct  facts  worth 
collecting.  In  1 704,  we  find  recorded 
that  a  party  of  French  tumblers  per- 
formed at  Drury  Lane  with  immense 
success.  This  success  produced  Eng- 
lish imitations.  This  is  one  fact 
In  1718,  CoUey  Cibber  tells  us  that 
the  affairs  of  Drury  Lane  were  des- 
perate. The  Italian  Opera  had  car- 
ried away  the  town.  The  "legiti- 
mate dnuna**  seemed  as  hopeless  a 
case  then  as  it  does  now.  Then,  as 
now,  "  confounded  foreigners  **  were 
the  objects  of  that  bitter  hatred  which 
tracks  the  heels  of  success ;  and  "  na- 
tive talent,**  with  empty  pockets,  had 
to  console  itself  with  the  vastness  of 
its  pretensions.  The  "  legitimate 
drama**  drawing  no  money  to  the 
treasury,  an  attempt  was  made  wor- 
thy of  the  "Poet  Bunn;**  that  at- 
tempt was  the  pantomime  entitled 
Mars  and  Venus,  So  much  play- 
bills and  records  tell  us.  But  this 
thing  called  a  pantomime,  what  was 
it?  Was  it  a  thing  like  our  pan- 
tomimes ?  Not  in  the  least.  It  was 
what  we  should  call  a  serious  ballet. 
Clown  and  Pantaloon,  tumbling  and 
magic,  were  absent.  Our  next  clue 
is  as  follows : — Rich  produced  some 
little  harlequinades,  in  the  style  of 
the  Italian  Night  Scenes.  In  1723 
these  had  a  new  direction  g^ven  to 
them.  Thurmond,  a  dancing-master, 
having  brought  out  his  pantomime  of 
Harlemdn  Dr.  Faustus  at  Drury 
Lane,  Rich  produced  his  Necromancer^ 
or  Dr.  Faustusj  at  Covent  Grarden. 
The  success  was  prodigious.  Pope 
alludes  to  the  rivaliy  in  tneie  lines  :«* 


« 

ft 

f 

I 
I 
c 

I. 
f 
I 


1846.] 


On  the  History  of  Pantomimes. 


A& 


"  Wlien,  lo !  to  dark  encounten  in  mid 
air. 

New  wisairds  riae,  here  Booth,  and  Gib- 
ber there. 

Booth  in  hia  cloudjr  tabernacle  ahrined  ; 

On  grinning^  dragons  Gibber  mounts  the 
wind !" 


The  nature  of  these  pieces  may  be 
pretty  well  guessed  from  this  pass- 
age. They  were  obnously  very 
much  the  same  as  what  we  dow  call 
the  introduction  to  the  pantomime. 
The  success  of  this  species  was  so 
great  that  the  prices  of  admission 
were  doubled.  At  first  the  boxes 
were  two  and  sixpence :  for  the  pan- 
tomimes, they  were  raised  to  fiye 
shillings ;  and  the  "run  was  so  great 
that  adyanced  prices  became,  not  the 
exception,  but  the  rule,  and  formed 
the  ordinary  prices." 

Out  of  these  facts  what  do  we 
gather  ?  We  gather,  that  serious 
ballet  and  necromantic  spectacle  had 
been  introduced  with  success;  but 
as  yet  no  hint  of  what  we  call  pan- 
tomime. The  mixture  of  tumbling 
and  buffoonery  with  necromancy, 
was  not  yet  accomplished!  yet  this 
mixture  ibrms  the  yery  essence  of 
our  species.  Neyertheless,  although 
not  yet  conjoined,  these  elements  ex- 
isted. I  noticed  before,  the  fact  of 
the  success  of  the  French  tumblers ; 
and  this  fact  I  couple  with  the  suc- 
cess of  the  spectacle,  and  deduce  the 
following  conclusion : — 

Mana^rs,  it  is  notorious,  seize 
with  ayidity  on  any  novelty  liiat 
will  attract]  audiences.  Bunn  s  offer 
to  Murphy,  the  weather  prophet,  to 
deliver  a  course  of  lectures  at  Drury 


Lane  on  meteorology,  though  co- 
mical enough,  was  but  an  instance 
of  the  managerial  anxiety  to  fill  his 
house  by  any  means,  x  ates  made 
Gface  Darlinff  an  offer  in  the  same 
spirit.  Tamed  animals  and  wonder- 
ful posture-masters  are  found  to  at- 
tract the  public,  as  well  as  leading 
tragedians  or  low  comedians.  What 
does  the  manager  care  about  con- 
gruity  ?  His  care  is  for  pence.  This 
being  premised,  I  say,  that  managers 
in  these  da3rs,  finding  French  tum- 
blers attractive,  and  spectacle  also 
attractive,  bethought  them  of  unit- 
ing the  two  in  one  entertainment. 
Thus  the  necromancy  was  Joined  to 
the  posturing.  Clown  and  Fantaloon 
were  not  only  types  of  adroit  and 
studied  knavery ;  they  were  also 
posture-masters.  Harlequin  was  not 
only  the  lover,  but  he  was  also  pro- 
tected by  fairies,  and  gifted  with  a 
magic  wand. 

The  idea  once  started,  various  mo- 
difications soon  suggested  themselves. 
Thus  the  magic  wand  suggested 
transformations ;  and  these  trans- 
formations soon  became  politiod 
"  hits,"  and  popular  bubbles.  Thus, 
also,  as  scenery  was  lavishly  em- 
ployed when  dioramas  were  invented 
and  succeeded,  they  were  quickly 
transplanted  to  the  pantomune,  of 
which  they  now  form  an  inseparable 
constituent. 

I  need  not  dwell  on  this  matter ; 
you  have  my  theory,  and  the  facts  on 
which  it  is  based ;  of  the  profundity 
of  the  one,  and  the  recondity  of  the 
other,  you  alone  can  judge. 
I  remain,  &c. 

ViviAii  Latouche. 


46 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty. 


[January, 


THE  PRIDE  OF  A  SPOILED  BEAUTY. 
ADAPTED  FBOM  THE  FBENCH  OF  H.  DS  BALZAC. 

Chapter  I. 


The  Comte  de  Fontaine,  the  head  of 
one  of  the  most  ancient  families  of 
Foitou,  had  gallantly  served  the  cause 
of  the  Bourhons  during  the  war 
which  the  Yendeans  waged  against 
the  republic  Although  ruined  by 
confiscations,  the  faithful  Yendean 
constantly  refused  the  lucrative  places 
which  ^poleon  offered  him.  Un- 
varying in  his  aristocratic  creed,  he 
blindly  followed  its  maxims  in  his 
choice  of  a  wife.  Notwithstanding 
the  seductions  of  a  rich  revolutionary 
parvenu  who  very  much  desired  the 
alliance,  he  marned  a  Demoiselle  de 
Kergarouet,  with  no  other  dowry 
than  that  of  belonging  to  one  of  the 
oldest  families  of  Brittany. 

The  Restoration  found  Monsieur 
de  Fontaine  burdened  with  a  numer- 
ous family.  Although  to  solicit  fa- 
vours never  entered  his  plans,  he 
nevertheless  acceded  to  his  wi£e*8 
wishes,  left  his  estate  in  the  countrv, 
the  moderate  income  of  which  barely 
sufficed  for  his  children's  wants,  and 
came  to  Faris. 

Disgusted  by  the  avidity  with 
which  his  former  comrades  sought 
for  places  and  constitutional  dignities, 
he  was  about  to  return  to  his  estate 
when  he  received  a  ministerial  letter, 
announcing  to  him  his  nomination  to 
the  rank  of  field-marshal,  in  virtue 
of  the  order  which  permitted  the 
ofiicers  of  the  Catholic  armies  to 
reckon  as  years  of  service  the  first 
twenty  unacknowledged  years  of 
Louis  the  Eighteenth's  reign.  A 
few  days  afterwards  the  Yendean 
received  ofiicially  and  without  so- 
licitation the  cross  of  the  Order  of 
the  Legion  of  Honour  and  that  of 
Saint  Louis.  Shaken  in  his  resolu- 
tion by  these  successive  favours,, 
which  he  believed  he  owed  to  the 
monarch's  remembrance,  he  was  no 
longer  satisfied  with  taking  his  family, 
as  he  had  done  every  Sun&y,  to  shout 
Vive  le  JRoi  inthe  Salle  des  Marechaux 
in  the  Tuileries  when  the  princes  went 
to  chapel,  but  demanded  a  private  au- 
dience. This  audience,  very  promptly 
? -anted,  had  nothing  private  in  it. 
here  the  oouat  found  anoient  com* 


panions  who  received  him  rather 
coldly,  but  the  princes  appeared  to 
him  adorable ;  an  expression  of  en- 
thusiasm which  escaped  him,  when 
the  most  gracious  of  masters,  to  whom 
the  count  thought  himself  known 
only  by  name,  grasped  his  hand  and 
proclaimed  him  the  most  patriotic  of 
the  Yendeans. 

Notwithstanding  this  ovation,  none 
of  these  auffust  perscmages  thought 
of  asking  the  amount  of  his  losses, 
nor  that  of  the  money  so  generously 
appropriated  to  the  use  of  the  Catho- 
lic army.  He  perceived  rather  late 
that  he  had  made  war  at  his  own 
expense.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
evening  he  thought  he  mieht  venture 
an  allusion  to  the  state  ot  his  affairs, 
similar  to  that  of  so  many  gentlemen. 
His  majesty  laughed  heartily,  for 
every  thing  in  the  least  witty  pleased 
him;  but  he  replied,  nevertheless, 
by  one  of  those  royal  jests,  of  which 
the  mildness  is  more  to  be  feared 
than  the  anger  of  a  reproof.  One  of 
the  kine's  confidants  was  not  long  in 
approaching  the  Yendean  reckoner, 
and  insinuating  in  polite  terms  that 
the  time  was  not  yet  come  to  reckon 
with  his  masters :  there  were  accounts 
of  much  earlier  date  than  his.  The 
count  prudently  quitted  the  venerable 
group,  which  formed  a  respectful 
semi- circle  before  the  august  family. 
Then  having,  not  without  some  dif- 
ficulty, disentangled  his  sword  from 
the  legs  amon^  which  it  had  got 
twisted,  he  reamed  on  foot,  through 
the  court  of  tne  Tuileries,  the  coach 
he  had  left  on  the  quai. 

This  scene  cooled  the  zeal  of  Mon- 
sieur de  Fontaine,  and  all  the  more 
because  his  requests  for  an  audience 
always  remained  unanswered.  He 
saw,  moreover,  the  intruders  of  the 
empire  obtaining  some  of  the  situa- 
tions reserved  under  the  ancient  mo- 
narchy for  the  best  families. 

"  All  is  lost !"  said  he,  one  morn- 
ing. "  Decidedly  the  king  has  never 
been  any  thing  but  a  revolutionist. 
Without  Monsieur,  who  does  not 
change,  and  who  consoles  his  faithful 
followers,  I  do  not  know  in  what 


Id46.] 


The  Pride  of  a  Spaited  Beauty. 


Af 


hands  the  crown  of  France  would 
one  day  fall  if  this  arrangement 
lasted.  Their  cursed  constitutional 
system  is  the  worst  of  all  ffovem- 
ments,  imd  can  never  suit  France. 
Louis  XVHI.  and  M.  Beugnot  have 
spoiled  every  thing  for  us  at  Saint 
Ouen  r 

The  despairing  count  was  pre- 
paring to  return  to  his  estate,  nobly 
aban£>ning  his  pretensions  to  any 
indenmity.  At  this  time,  the  events 
of  the  20th  of  March  announced  a 
fresh  tempest  which  threatened  to 
overwhelm  the  kingand  hisdefenders. 
Like  those  generous  people  who  do 
not  dismiss  a  follower  when  a  rainy 
day  comes,  M.  de  Fontaine  raised 
money  on  his  property  in  order  to 
follow  the  monarch,  without  knowing 
whether  this  complicity  of  emigration 
would  be  more  propitious  to  him 
than  his  former  devotion  had  been ; 
but  havizig  observed  that  the  com- 
panions oiexiie  were  more  in  favour 
than  the  brave  men  who  had  for- 
merly protested,  sword  in  hand, 
against  the  establishment  of  the  re- 
public, he,  perhaps,  hoped  to  find  in 
this  journey  to  a  foreign  land  more 
profit  Ihan  in  active  and  perilous  ser- 
vice at  home. 

During  this  short  absence  of  royalty, 
M.  de  Fontaine  had  the  good  fortune 
to  be  employed  by  Louis  XVIII., 
and  found  more  than  one  occasion  of 
giving  the  king  proofs  of  great  po- 
Sticaf  honesty  and  sincere  attach- 
ment. One  evening  when  the  mo- 
narch had  nothing  better  to  do,  he 
remembered  a  witticism  uttered  by 
M.  de  Fontaine  at  the  Tuileries. 
The  old  Yendean  did  not  let  such  an 
Apropos  escape,  and  told  his  story 
with  sufficient  cleverness  for  the  kin^, 
who  forgot  nothing,  to  remember  it 
at  a  proper  season.  The  august  man 
of  letters  remarked  the  elegant  turn 
of  a  few  notes,  the  compiling  of  which 
had  been  confided  to  the  discreet 
noble.  This  little  merit  inscribed 
Monsieur  de  Fontaine  in  the  king*s 
memory  among  the  most  loyal  ser- 
vants of  his  crown.  At  the  second 
return,  the  count  was  appointed  one 
of  those  envoys  extraordinary  who 
traversed  the  provinces  with  the 
mission  of  judging  the  inciters  of  the 
rebellion,  and  he  used  his  terrible 
power  with  moderation.  As  soon 
as  this  temporary  jurisdiction  had 

ceased,  flie  bigli  proyost  took  bis 


place  in  the  council  of  state,  be- 
came a  dSpiUS^  spoke  little,  listened 
much,  and  changed  his  opinions  con- 
siderably. 

This  was  followed  by  an  appoint- 
ment which  gave  M.  de  Fontame  an 
administration  in  the  private  domains 
of  the  crown.  In  consequence  of  the 
intelligent  attention  with  which  he 
listened  to  the  sarcasms  of  his  royal 
friend,  his  name  was  on  his  majest^*s 
lips  ever^  time  that  a  commission 
was  appomted,  of  which  the  members 
were  to  be  lucratively  remunerated. 
He  bad  the  good  sense  to  be  silent  on 
the  favour  with  which  the  monarch 
honoured  him,  and  knew  how  to 
maintain  it  by  a  lively  manner  of 
narrating  (in  those  familiar  chats  in 
which  Louis  XYIII.  delighted  as 
much  as  in  well-written  notes)  the 
political  anecdotes,  and  the  diplo- 
matic  or  parliamentary  gossip  wfech 
then  abounded.  Thanks  to  the  wit 
and  address  of  the  count,  each  mem- 
ber of  his  family,  however  young, 
ended,  as  he  used  to  say  laughin^ty 
to  his  master,  by  reposing  like  a  silk- 
worm on  the  leaves  of  the  budset. 
Thus  by  the  king*s  bounty  his  eldest 
son  attained  an  eminent  place  in  the 
fixed  magistracy.  The  second,  a 
simple  captain  before  the  Bestoration, 
obtained  a  legion  immediately  after 
his  return  from  Ghent ;  then,  under 
cover  of  the  movements  of  1815, 
during  which  regulations  ceased  to 
be  observed,  he  passed  into  the  royal 
guard,  then  back  again  into  the  body 
guards,  returned  into  the  line,  and 
after  the  affair  of  the  Trocad^ro, 
found  himself  a  lieutenant-general 
with  a  command  in  the  guards.  The 
youngest,  appointed  a  sous  prifet^ 
soon  became  maitre  des  requites^  and 
director  of  a  municipal  administration 
in  the  city  of  Paris,  in  which  he 
found  himself  safe  from  legislative 
tempests.  These  quiet  favours,  as 
secret  as  the  count*s  own,  were  granted 
unremarked.  Their  political  fortune 
excited  no  envy.  At  the  period  of 
the  first  estabushment  of  the  con- 
stitutional system,  few  persons  had 
just  notions  respecting  the  peaceful 
regions  of  the  budget,  m  which  adroit 
favourites  knew  how  to  find  the 
eauivalent  of  destroyed  abbeys. 
Monsieur  de  Fontaine,  who  used  once 
to  boast  of  never  having  read  the 
Charter  and  shewed  such  mdignatioa 

at  the  ayidity  of  courtiers^  was  not 


▼^ 


ji  rtb    A    f  »««««   wj 


14i     M##««^»»VWW 


'i' 


L""*' 


long  in  proving  to  his  noble  master 
that  he  understood  as  well  as  himself 
the  spirit  and  resources  of  the  repre- 
sentative system.  Yet  notwithstand- 
ing the  security  of  the  careers  opened 
to  his  three  sons,  notwithstanding  the 
pecuniary  advantages  resulting  from 
the  possession  of  four  places,  M.  de 
Fontaine  was  at  the  liead  of  too 
numerous  a  family  easily  or  quickly 
to  repair  his  fortune.  Ilis  three  sons 
were  rich  in  favour,  talent,  and  pro- 
spects ;  hut  he  had  three  daughters, 
and  feared  to  wear^  the  monarch's 
kindness.  He  devised  the  plan  of 
never  speaking  to  him  of  more  than 
one  at  a  time  of  these  virgins  anxious 
to  light  their  hymeneal  torch.  The 
king  had  too  much  good  taste  to  leave 
his  work  unfinished.  The  marriage 
of  the  first  with  a  receiver-general 
was  settled  by  one  of  those  royal 
phrases  which  cost  nothing  and  are 
worth  millions.  One  evening  when 
the  monarch  was  out  of  spirits,  he 
smiled  on  learning  the  existence  of 
another  Demoiselle  de  Fontaine, 
whom  he  married  to  a  young  magis- 
trate of  bourgeois  extraction,  it  is 
true,  but  rich,  full  of  talent,  and 
whom  he  created  a  baron.  When 
in  the  following  year,  the  Vendean 
mentioned  Mademoiselle  Emilie  de 
Fontaine,  the  king  replied  in  his 
sharp  voice, — 

^*  Amicus  PlatOf  sed  magis  arnica 
naHoT 

From  this  time  there  was  less 
amenity  in  his  intercourse  with 
Monsieur  de  Fontaine.  The  cool- 
ness of  the  monarch  was  the  more 
painful  to  the  count,  because  never 
was  a  marriage  so  difficult  to  arrange 
as  this  beloved  daughter's.  To  con- 
ceive all  the  obstacles,  we  must  pene- 
trate into  the  handsome  mansion  in 
which  the  administrator  was  lodged 
at  the  expense  of  the  civil  list.  Emilie 
had  passed  her  childhood  on  the 
estate  of  Fontaine,  enjoying  that 
abundance  which  suffices  for  the  first 
pleasures  of  youth.  Her  least  wishes 
were  laws  to  her  sisters,  brothers, 
mother,  and  even  to  her  father.  Her 
relations  doted  on  her.  Arriving  at 
the  age  of  reason  precisely  at  the 
moment  when  her  family  was  over- 
whelmed with  the  favours  of  fortune, 
the  enchantment  of  her  life  continued. 
The  luxury  of  Paris  appeared  to  her 

Juite  as  natural  as  the  abundance  of 
owers  and  fruit,  wi  the  rostiQ 


opulence  which  formed  the  delight  of 
her  earlv  years.    As  she  had  never 
met  with  any  contradiction  ia  her 
infancy,  so  when  she  wanted  to  satisfy 
her  desire  of  enjoyment,  she  found 
herself  still  obeyed  when  at  the  age 
of  fourteen  she  threw  herself  into  the 
whirlpool    of  the  world's   gaieties. 
Thus  accustomed  by  degrees  to  the 
advantages  of  fortune,  ttie  cares  of 
the   toilet,   the  elegance    of  gilded 
saloons  and  equipages,    became    as 
necessary  to  her  as  the  real  or  false 
compliments  of  flattery,  and  the  balls 
and  vanities  of  the  court.     Every 
thing  smiled  upon  her :  she  saw  in- 
terest excited  for  her  in  all  eyes. 
Like  most  spoiled  children,  she  ty* 
rannised  over  those  who  loved  her, 
and  reserved  her  coquetries  for  those 
who  were  indifferent.    Her  defects 
only  grew  with  her  years,  and  her 
parents  were  soon  to  reap  the  bitter 
fruits  of  this  fatal  education.    Ar- 
rived at  the  age  of  nineteen,  Emilie 
de  Fontaine  had  as  yet  refused  to 
make  any  choice  among  the  numerous 
young  men  whom  M.  de  Fontaine's 
policy  assembled  in  his  parties.    Al- 
though so  young,  she  enjoyed  in  the 
world  all  the  freedom  of  opinion 
which  a  woman  can  enjoy.     Her 
beauty  was  so  remarkable,  that  from 
the  moment  she  appeared  in  a  draw- 
ing-room  she  was  supreme  there. 
Like  kings,  she  had  no  friend,  and 
she  saw  herself  every  where  the  ob- 
ject of  a  complaisance  which  a  better 
disposition   tlian   hers   might    not, 
perhaps,  have  withstood.    No  man^ 
even  an  old  one,  had  the  >vill  to  con- 
tradict the  opinions  of  a  young  girl 
from  whom  a  glance  revived  love  in 
the  coldest  heart.     Educated  with 
great  care,   she  painted   tolerably, 
spoke  English  and  Italian,  played 
divinely  on  the  piano;  her  voice, 
perfected  by  the  best  masters,  had  a 
ton^  which  lent  irresistible  seductions 
to  her  singing.    Witty,  and  fed  on 
all  literatures,  it  mignt  have  been 
thought,  as  Mascarille  says,  that  peo- 

Ele  of  quality  come  into  the  world 
nowing  every  thing.  She  talked 
fluently  upon  Italian  or  Dutch  paint- 
ing, on  the  middle  ases  or  the  re- 
naissance ;  judged  both  old  and  new 
books,  and  shewed  up  the  defects  of 
a  work  with  most  cruel  wit.  Her 
most  simple  words  were  received  bv 
the  idolatrous  crowd  like  the  sultana 
fetfabytbeTurk9.   She  t^u9  dazzled 


1846.] 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty, 


49 


superficial  people;  as  to  profound 
people,  ber  natural  tact  helped  her 
to  recoenise  them;  and  with  them 
she  displayed  so  much  coquetry,  that 
she  escaped  from  their  examination 
under  favour  of  her  attractions.  This 
varnish  concealed  an  indifferent  heart, 
and  the  opinion  common  to  a  great 
number  of  young  girls  that  no  one  in- 
habited a  sphese  sufficiently  elevated 
to  be  able  to  comprehend  the  ex- 
cellence of  her  soul,  and  a  pride 
based  as  much  on  her  birth  as  on  her 
beauty.  In  the  absence  of  the  vio- 
lent sentiment  which  sooner  or  later 
ravages  the  heart  of  a  woman,  she 
carried  her  youthful  ardour  into  an 
immoderate  love  of  distinction,  and 
betraved  the  most  profound  contempt 
for  tiic  plebeians.    Excessively  im- 

Sertinent  to  the  new  nobility,  she 
id  her  utmost  to  induce  her  parents 
to  place  themselves  on  an  e(}uality 
witn  the  most  illustrious  families  of 
the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain. 

These  sentiments  had  not  escaped 
the  observant  eye  of  Monsieur  de 
Fontaine,  who  more  than  once,  at 
the  time  of  his  two  eldest  daughters' 
marriages,  sighed  over  Emilie^s  sar- 
casms and  wit.  Reflecting  people 
will  wonder  to  see  the  old  vendean 
giving  his  eldest  daughter  to  a  re- 
ceiver-general who  possessed,  it  is 
true,  a  few  baronial  lands,  but  whose 
name  was  not  preceded  by  that  par- 
ticle (tlie  de)  to  which  the  throne 
owed  so  many  defenders,  and  the 
second  to  a  magistrate  too  recently 
ennobled  to  allow  any  one  to  forget 
that  his  father  had  sold  fagots. 
This  notable  change  in  the  ideas  of 
the  noble,  when  he  was  about  to 
attain  his  sixtieth  year,  a  period  of 
life  at  which  men  rarely  alter  their 
opinions,  was  not  owing  only  to  the 
habitation  of  the  modem  Babylon  in 
which  all  country  people  end  by 
rubbing  off  their  asperities;  the 
Count  de  Fontaine's  new  political 
conscience  was  again  the  result  of  the 
king's  friendship  and  advice. 

The  new  ideas  of  the  chief  of  the 
Fontaine  family  and  the  wise  alliances 
of  his  two  eldest  daughters  which 
were  their  results,  had  met  with 
strong  resistance  in  the  bosom  of 
bis  family.  The  Comtesse  de  Fon- 
taine remained  &ithful  to  the  ancient 
ideas  which  could  not  be  renounced 
by  a  woman  belonging,  on  the  mo* 
ther*8  side,  to  the  Konans.  Although 
VOL.  xxxin.  Ko.  cxcni. 


for  a  moment  she  opposed  herself  to 
the  happiness  and  fortune  which 
awaited  her  elder  daughters,  she 
yielded  to  those  secret  considerations 
which  married  people  confide  to  each 
other  at  night  when  their  heads  re- 
pose on  the  same  pillow.  The  countess 
yielded,  but  she  declared  that  at  least 
her  daughter  Emilie  should  be  mar- 
ried so  as  to  satisfy  the  pride  which 
she  had  unfortunately  contributed  to 
develope  in  that  young  mind. 

Thus  the  events  which  ought  to 
have  spread  joy  in  the  family  intro- 
duced into  it  a  slight  leaven  of  dis- 
cord. The  receiver-general  and  the 
young  magistrate  were  received  with 
the  most  freezing  ceremony  the 
countess  and  Emilie  could  create. 
Their  etiquette  soon  had  ample  means 
of  exercising  its  domestic  tyranny : 
the  lieutenant-general  married  the 
only  daughter  of  a  banker ;  the  pre- 
sident wisely  married  a  girl  whose 
father^  a  millionnaire  two  or  three 
times  over,  had  been  a  manufacturer 
of  printed  cottons;  and  the  third 
brother  remained  faithful  to  these 
plebeian  doctrines  by  taking  his  wife 
from  the  family  of  a  rich  notary  in 
Paris.  The  three  sisters-in-law  and 
the  two  brothers-in-law  found  so 
much  pleasure  and  personal  advant- 
age in  remaining  in  the  high  sphere 
of  political  power,  and  in  haunting 
the  salons  of  the  Faubourg  Saint  Ger- 
main, that  they  all  agreed  in  forming 
a  little  court  round  the  haughty 
Emilie.  This  compact  between  in- 
terest and  pride  was  not  so  thoroughly 
cemented  out  that  the  young  sove* 
reign  frequently  excited  revolutions 
in  her  little  state.    Scenes,  which 

food  taste  would  have  disavowed, 
ept  up  between  all  the  members  of 
this  powerful  family  a  spirit  of  ridi* 
cule  which,  without  sensibly  dimi- 
nishing the  friendship  displayed  in 
public,  sometimes  degenerated  in 
private  into  sentiments  far  from  cha- 
ritable. The  air  of  ridicule  with 
which  the  sisters  and  brothers-in-law 
sometimes  greeted  Mademoiselle  dc 
Fontaine's  avowed  pretensions,  ex- 
cited in  her  an  anger  hardly  appeased 
by  a  shower  of  epigrams.  Wnen  the 
chief  of  the  famdy  suffered  some 
diminution  of  the  tacit  and  precarious 
friendship  of  the  monarch,  he  trem- 
bled the  more,  ap,  but  for  her  sis- 
ters' chdlenges,  his  beloved  daughter 
had  never  looked  so  high. 


In  the  midst  of  these  circumstances, 
and  at  the  time  when  this  little  do- 
mestic broil  was  becoming  serious^ 
the  monarch,  with  whom  M.  de  Fon- 
taine hoped  he  was  regaining  his 
former  favour,  was  seized  with  the 
illness  which  carried  him  off.  Uncer- 
tain of  the  favour  to  come,  the  Comte 
de  Fontaine  made  the  greatest  efibrts 
to  assemble  round  his  last  daughter 
the  Mite  of  marrying  young  men. 

Those  who  have  endeavoured  to 
solve  the  difficult  problem  which  the 
establislunent  of  a  proud  and  fanciful 
girl  presents,  will,  jperhaps,  under- 
stand!^ the  trouble  taken  by  the  poor 
Yendean.  Accomplished  to  the  satis- 
faction of  his  beloved  child,  this 
would  worthily  have  completed  the 
career  of  the  count  at  Paris  during 
the  last  ten  years.  Therefore  the 
old  Yendean  was  unwearied  in  his 
presentation  of  suitors,  so  much  had 
ne  at  heart  the  happiness  of  his 
daughter:  but  nothing  was  more 
amusing  than  the  manner  in  which 
the  impertinent  creature  pronounced 
her  decisions  and  judged  the  merits 
of  her  adorers.  It  might  have  been 
thought  that,  similar  to  one  of  those 
princesses  of  the  Thousand  and  one 
Niffhts,  Emilie  was  sufficiently  rich 
and  beautiful  to  have  a  right  to 
choose  amidst  all  the  princes  of  the 
world:  her  objections  were  all  one 
more  ridiculous  than  another.  One 
had  legs  too  large  or  knock-knees ; 
another  was  short-sighted ;  the  name 
of  one  was  Durand ;  another  limped ; 
almost  all  were  too  fat.  More  lively, 
beautiful,  and  gay  after  rejecting  two 
or  three  suitors,  she  entered  into  the 
pleasures  of  winter,  and  hastened 
to  balls  where  her  keen  glances  ex- 
amined the  celebrities  of  the  day; 
where  often,  by  means  of  her  charm- 
ing talk,  she  succeeded  in  guessing 
the  secrets  of  the  most  mysterious 
heart,  where  she  took  pleasure  in 
tormenting  young  men,  and  with 
instinctive  coquetry  inciting  them  to 
proposals  which  she  always  refused. 

Nature  had  given  her  in  profusion 
the  advantages  neicessary  to  the  part 
she  played.  Tall  and  elegant,  Emilie 
de  Fontaine  possessed  at  will  a  dig- 
nified or  lively  carriage.  Her  rather 
long  neck  enabled  ner  to  assume 
charming  attitudes  of  disdain  and 
impertinence.  She  had  a  large  col- 
3Ction  of  those  turns  of  the  head  and 

minine  gestures  which  explain  so 


cruelly  or  so  happily  syllables  and 
smiles.    Fine  black  nair,  tbirJk  and 
strongly  marked  eyebrows,  gave  her 
physii^omy  an  expression  of  fierce- 
ness which  coquetry,  as  well  as  bcr 
looking-glass,  had   taught  her    to 
render  terrible  or  tender    by    the 
fixedness  or  the  mildness  of  her  look, 
by  the  immovability  or  the  slight 
inflections  of  her  lips,  by  the  coldness 
or  graciousness  of  her  smile.    When 
Emilie  wanted  to  win  a  heart,  her 
clear  voice  was  not  without  melody  ; 
but  she  could  also  give  it  a  sort  of 
sharp  distinctness  when  she  under- 
took to  paralyse  the  indiscreet  tongue 
of  a  cavalier.    Her  pale  face  and 
marble  brow  were  lixe  the  limpid 
surface  of  a  lake  which  by  turns 
becomes  ruffled   by  a  breeze,  and 
regains  its  joyful  serenity  when  the 
air  is  again  calm.    More  than  one 
young  man,  victims  of  her  disdain,  ac- 
cused her  of  acting;  but  such  fire 
glowed,  such  promises  lurked  in  her 
black  eves,  that  she  justified  herself 
by  making  the  hearts  beat  of  so 
many  of  her  partners.    None  knew 
better  than  herself  how  to  assume  a 
look  of  hautetvr  on  receiving  a  bow 
from  a  man  who  had  nothing  but 
talent;  or  to  display  an  insulting 
politeness  towards  persons  whom  she 
considered  as  her  inferiors,  and  pour 
forth  her  impertinence  on  all  tnose 
who  endeavoured  to  be  on  a  par 
with  her.     She  seemed,  wherever 
she  went,  to  receive  homages  rather 
than  compliments;  and  even  before 
a  princess,  her  appearance  and  man- 
ners would  have  converted  the  arm- 
chair in  which  she  sat  into  an  im- 
perial throne.    Monsieur  de  Fontaine 
discovered  too  late  how  much  the 
education  of  his  best  loved  daughter 
had  been  injured  by  the  tenderness 
of  the  whole  family.    The  admiration 
which  the  world  at  first  shews  a 
young  person,  but  is  not  long  in 
aven^ng,  had  still  more  incr^ised 
Emihe*s  pride  and  self-confidence. 
General  complaisance  had  developed 
in  her  the  egotism  natural  to  spoucd 
children.    At  that  time,  the  grace  of 
youth  and  the  charm  of  talent  con- 
cealed from  all  ejres  those  defects,  tdl 
the  niore  odious  in  a  woman  because 
devotion   and   abn^tion   are  her 
ffreatest  charms.     The  eyes   of  a 
lather  are  so  long  in  being  opened, 
that  the  cdd  Yendean  needed  more 
than  one  XmX  beibiv  hi  perceived 


1846.] 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty. 


61 


the  air  of  condescension  with  which 
his  daughter  granted  him  rare  ca- 
resses. She  resembled  those  little 
children  who  seem  to  say  to  their 
mothers,  **  Make  haste  and  kiss  me, 
that  I  may  go  and  play.*'  But  often 
by  those  sudden  caprices  which  seem 
inexplicable,  she  isolated  herself,  and 
was  only  rarely  to  be  seen ;  she  com- 
plained of  havinff  to  share  her  father's 
and  mother's  affection  with  too  many 
people ;  she  became  jealous  of  every 
thing,  even  of  her  brothers  and  sis- 
ters. Then  after  taking  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  to  create  a  desert  round 
herself,  this  singular  girl  accused  the 
whole  world  of  her  factitious  soli- 
tude and  Yolimtary  troubles.  Armed 
with  her  twenty  vears'  experience, 
she  condemned  &te,  because  not 
knowing  that  the  first  principle  of 
happiness  is  within  us,  sne  required 
it  from  the  things  of  this  worid. 
She  would  have  fled  to  the  end  of  the 
globe  to  avoid  a  marriage  like  thoae 
of  her  two  sisters ;  and,  nevertheless, 
she  felt  in  her  heart  a  fearful  jealousy 
at  seeing  them  married,  rich,  and 
happy.  In  fact  she  sometimes  made 
her  mother,  who  was  as  much  her 
victim  as  M.  de  Fontaine,  think  she 
had  a  slight  touch  of  madness.  This 
aberration  was  easily  explained ;  no- 
thing is  more  common  than  that 
secret  piide  bom  in  the  heart  of 
voun^  women  who  belong  to  families 
high  m  the  social  scale,  and  whom 
nature  has  endowed  with  great 
beauty.  Almost  all  are  persuaded 
that  their  mothers,  having  reached 
the  age  of  forty  or  fifty,  can  no  longer 
sympathise  with  their  young  minds, 
nor  conceive  their  fancies.  They 
imaeine  that  most  mothers,  jealous 
of  their  daughters,  dress  them  ac- 
cording to  their  taste,  with  the  pre- 
meditated design  of  eclipsmg  them, 
and  depriving  them  of  admiration. 
Thence  frequently  result  secret  tears 
or  underhand  revolts  against  the 
supposed  maternal  tyranny.  Amidst 
these  sorrows  which  become  real, 
although  founded  on  an  imaginary 
basis,  they  still  have  the  fancy  of 
composing  a  theme  for  their  existence, 
and  draw  a  brilliant  horoscope  for 
themselves.  Their  magic  consists  in 
mistaking  dreams  for  n&lities.  Thc^ 
secretly  resolve,  in  their  long  medi- 
tations, only  to  bestow  their  heart 
and  hand  on  a  man  who  possesses 
such  or  such  an  adyontage.    They 


picture  to  themselves  a  type  whom 
their  future  husband  must  resemble. 
After  experiencing  life,  and  making 
the  serious  reflections  which  years 
bring  with  them,  seeing  the  world 
and  its  prosaic  ways,  and  witnessing 
unhappy  examples,  the  bright  colours 
of  their  ideal  fade;  and  they  find 
themselves  one  fine  day  flowing  down 
the  stream  of  life,  quite  astonished  at 
being  happy  without  the  nuptial 
poetry  of  tneir  dreams.  Following 
this  custom,  Mademoiselle  Emilie  dc 
Fontaine  had  made  out  in  her  frail 
wisdom  a  programme  to  which  her 
suitor  must  answer  in  order  to  be 
accepted,  llencc  her  disdain  and 
sarcasms.  Although  ^oung  and  of 
ancient  family,  she  said  to  herself, 
^^  He  must  be  a  peer  of  France,  or 
the  son  of  a  peer! 

These  qualities  were  useless,  if  tliis 
being  did  not  likewise  possess  great 
amiability.  He  must  have  a  nice 
furure,  fine  talents,  and  must  be  slim, 
l^inness,  that  grace  of  the  body, 
however  fugitive,  was  a  necessary 
clause.  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine 
had  a  certain  ideal  measure,  which 
served  her  as  a  model.  The  young 
man  who,  at  the  first  glance,  did  not 
fulfil  the  required  conditions,  never 
obtained  a  second. 

'*  See  how  fat  that  man  is !"  was, 
with  her,  the  deepest  expression  of 
disdain. 

Any  one  who  heard  her  might 
have  thought  that  people  respectably 
corpulent  were  incapable  of  feeling, 
bad  husbands,  and  unworthy  to  enter 
into  a  civilized  society.  AUhough  a 
beauty  sought  after  in  the  East, 
plumpness  seemed  to  her  a  misfortune 
m  woman,  but  a  crime  in  man.  The 
count  felt  that  later,  his  daughter's 
pretensions,  the  ridicule  of  which 
would  be  visible  to  certain  women  as 
clear-sjghted  as  uncharitable,  would 
become  a  fatal  subject  for  laughter. 
He  feared  that  his  daughter's  singular 
ideas  would  become  numvais  ton.  He 
trembled  lest  the  pitiless  world  al- 
ready sneered  at  a  person  who  re- 
mained so  long  before  the  public 
without  ending  the  oomedy  she  played 
there.  More  than  one  actor,  dis- 
pleased at  a  refusal,  appeared  to  await 
the  smallest  unfortunate  incident  in 
order  to  revenge  himself.  The  in- 
different and  icUe  spectator  began  to 
grow  weary :  admiration  is  always  a 
fatigue  to  the  human  species.    The 


52 

old  VL-ndcnn  knew  better  than  uny 

onetlint  if  you  should  cboosewjtli  fut 
the  moment  of  entering  on  the  boards 
of  the  world,  on  those  of  e,  conrt,  in 
a  drawiQg'room,  or  on  a  theatre,  it 
is  still  more  difficult  to  withdraw 

Weary  of  liia  daughter's  conduct, 
he  resolved  upon  a  stroke  of  autho- 
rity; and,  not  ivithout  some  secret 
emotion,  ordered  his  old  valet  to  tell 
the  proud  girl  to  appear  immediately 
before  him. 

"  Joseph,"  said  he,  as  the  latter 
finished  dressing  his  master's  hair, 
"  take  off  this  napkin,  draw  the  cur- 
tains, put  these  chairs  in  their  places, 
■hake  the  rug,  and  dust  every  thing. 
Give  my  room  a  little  fresh  wr  by 
opening  the  window." 

The  count  multiplied  his  ordere, 
put  Joscphout  of  breath,  who,  guess- 
ing his  master's  intentiooB,  restored 
a  tittle  freshness  to  this  naturally  the 
most  n^lected  room  in  the  house, 
and  succeeded  in  giving  a  kind  of 
harmony  to  the  heaps  of  accounts, 
the  papers,  books,  and  furniture  of 
this  sanctuary  in  which  the  interests 
of  the  royal  domain  were  debated. 
When  Joseph  had  put  this  chaos  in 
a  little  order,  and  broug^ht  into  a 
prominent  position  the  things  which 
might  be  moat  agreeable  to  look  at, 
or  might,  by  their  colours,  produce 
a  sort  of  bureaucratic  poetry,  he 
stopped  in  the  midst  of  the  labyrinth 
of  papers  spread  about  on  the  carpet, 
admired  bis  work  for  a  moment, 
nodded  his  head,  and  went  out.  • 

The  poor  sinecuriEt  did  not  share 
his  servant's  good  opinion.  Before 
seating  himself  in  his  large  arm-chair, 
he  gave  a  suspicious  glance  round 
him,  examined  his  dressing-gown  with 
an  air  of  hostility,  shook  off  a  few 
grains  of  annff,  arranged  the  ehovel 
and  tongs,  poked  the  fire,  pulled  up 
the  heels  of  his  slipjiers,  threw  back 
his  litlle  pig-tail  vjiich  lay  horizon- 
tally between  the  roll  of  his  waistcoat 
and  that  of  his  dressing-gown,  and 
restored  it  to  its  ^perpendicular  po- 
nition.  AUcr  givmg  a  last  look  at 
the  room,  the  old  Vendean  sat  down, 
hoping  that  nothing  in  it  would  give 
rise  to  the  lively  but  impertinent 
remarks  with  which  bis  daughter  was 
accustomed  to  reply  to  his  sage  advice. 
In  this  occurrence  he  did  not  wish  to 
compromise  his  paternal  dignity.  He 
delicately  took  a  pinch  ofmulf,  and 


The  Pride  of  a  Spmled  Beauty. 


[.laouan, 


coughed  two  or  three  times,  as  if 
preparing  hiuisel  f  to  demand  a  nomi- 
nal summons.  He  heard  the  light 
footsteps  of  his  daughter,  who  en- 
tered hnmming  an  air  from  It  Bar- 

"  Good  morning,  papal  What  do 
yon  want  so  early  P 

After  these  words,  utfered  as 
carelessly  as  the  ritomella  of  the  air 
she  song,  she  kissed  the  count,  not 
with  that  familiar  tenderness  which 
renders  the  filial  sentiments  so  sweet 
a  thing,  but  with  the  careteesnesa  of 
a  mistress,  sure  of  pleasing,  whatever 
she  might  do. 

"  Aly  dear  child,"  said  Monaear 
de  Fontaine,  gravely,  "  I  sent  for 
you  to  talk  seriously  about  your 
prospects.  The  necessity  which  ex- 
ists at  this  moment  for  your  choosing 
a  husband,  so  as  to  render  your  hap- 
piness durable " 

"  My  dear  fiither,"  replied  £nulie, 
interrupting  him  in  her  most  caress- 
ing tones,  "  it  seems  to  mc  that  the 
armistice  we  made  with  regard  to  my 
suitors  is  not  yet  expired.' 

"  £milie,  let  us  cease  to-day  to  jest 
on  so  important  asubject.  I'or  some 
time  past  the  efforts  of  all  who  truly 
love  you,  my  dear  child,  have  been 
united  in  endeavouring  to  procure 
for  you  a  suitable  establishment,  and 


stowing  on  you. 

On  hearing  these  words,  and  alter 
giving  a  slyly  investigatory  glatice  at 
the  furniture  of  the  paternal  room, 
the  young  girl  went  to  the  arm-chair 
which  appeared  to  have  been  least 
used  by  petitioners,  brought  it  herself 
to  the  other  side  of  the  chimney- 
piece,  BO  as  to  place  herself  in  front 
of  her  father,  assumed  so  grave  an 
appearance  that  it  was  impossible  not 
to  see  in  it  symptoms  of  mischief,  and 
crossed  her  arms  over  the  rich  trim- 
mings of  a  piUrine  a  la  neige,  the 
innumerable  tiille  nichet  of  which 
were  pitilessly  crushed.  AiWrgivinc 
a  laughing  side-glance  at  her  old 
fathers     gloomy    face,     she    broke 

"  1  never  heard  you  say,  my  dear 
father,  that  the  government  made  its 
commimications  en  robe  de  ckambre  ; 
but,"  added  she,  smiling,  "  never 
mind,  the  people  must  not  be  fas- 
tidious.   Ijet  us,  then,  see  your  pro- 


1846.] 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty, 


53 


jects  of  laws,  and  official  presenta- 
tioos." 

*'  I  shall  not  always  have  the  power 
of  making  any,  young  maa-cap! 
Listen,  Emilie !  My  intention  is,  no 
longer  to  compromise  my  character, 
which  is  a  part  of  my  children's  for- 
tune, hy  recruiting  tnat  regiment  of 
dancers  which  you  put  to  the  rout 
every  spring.  You  have  already 
been  the  cause  of  many  dangerous 
ruptures  with  certain  families.  I  hope 
you  will  now  understand  better  tne 
difficulties  of  our  and  your  position. 
You  are  twenty,  my  cnild,  and  you 
might  have  been  marri^  nearly 
three  years.  Your  brothers  and 
sbters  are  richly  and  happily  settled ; 
but,  my  child,  the  expenses  which 
th(»e  Lnui^  brougVt  upon  ns, 
and  the  style  of  living  you  make 
your  mother  keep,  have  so  absorbed 
our  revenues,  that  I  shall  hardly  be 
able  to  give  you  a  wedding-portion 
of  100,000  francs.  Henceforward  I 
must  look  to  the  prospects  of  jour 
mother,  who  must  not  be  sacnficed 
to  her  children.  Emilie,  if  I  were 
to  die,  Madame  de  Fontaine  must  not 
be  at  any  body's  mercy,  and  must 
continue  to  enjoy  the  comforts  by 
which  I  too  late  repaid  her  devotion 
to  my  misfortunes.  You  see,  my 
child,  that  the  smallness  of  your 
fortune  cannot  harmonise  with  your 
ideas  of  grandeur.  Even  that  will 
be  a  sacrifice  which  I  have  made  for 
no  other  of  my  children ;  but  they 
have  generously  agreed  not  to  object 
some  day  to  the  advantaffes  given  to 
a  too-much-loved  child. 

"•  In  their  position !'"  said  Emilie, 
ironically. 

"  My  Emilie,  do  not  thus  depre- 
ciate those  who  love  you.  Know 
that  the  poor  only  are  senerous! 
The  rich  alwajrs  have  excdlent  rea- 
sons for  not  giving  up  20,000  francs 
to  a  relation.  Well,  do  not  pout, 
my  child,  and  let  us  talk  reasonably. 
Among  the  marrying  youn^  men, 
have  you  not  remark^  Monsieur  de 
Manerville  r 

*^  Oh !  he  bitrrs  his  r*«,  always  looks 
at  his  foot  because  he  thinks  it  a 
small  one,  and  gazes  at  himself  in  the 
glass.  Besides,  he  is  fair,  and  I  do 
not  like  fair  men  [" 

"  Well,  then,  Monsieur  de  Bean- 
denord  ?'* 

**  He  is  not  noble.  He  is  badly 
made  and  fat»    He  is  dark,  it  is  true. 


These  two  gentlemen  ought  to  unite 
their  fortunes,  and  the  first  give  his 
person  and  name  to  the  second,  who 
might  keep  his  hair,  and  then — per* 


"  What  can  you  say  against  Mon- 
sieur de  Rastignac  ?" 

"  He  is  almost  a  banker !" 

"  And  our  relation,  the  Vicomte 
de  Portendufere  ?" 

"  A  child  who  dances  ill,  and,  be- 
sides, is  without  fortune.  In  fact, 
papa,  those  people  have  no  titles.  I 
will,  at  least,  be  a  countess  like  my 
mother  !** 

**  You  have,  then,  seen  no  one  this 
winter  who " 

"  No,  papa  I" 

"  What  do  you  then  want  ?" 

"  The  son  of  a  peer  of  France !" 

^  My  daughter,  you  are  mad  T"  said 
Monsieur  de  Fontaine,  rising. 

But  he  suddenly  raised  his  eyes  to 
heaven,  seemed  to  find  new  resigna- 
tion in  a  religious  thought;  then, 
looking  with  fatherly  pity  on  his 
child,  who  was  touched,  he  took  her 
hand,  pressed  it,  and  said,  with  emo- 
tion,— 

"  God  is  my  witness,  poor,  mis- 
guided creature,  that  I  nave  con- 
scientiously fulfilled  my  duty  as  a 
father  toyou  I  Conscientiously,  did 
I  say  P  With  love,  my  Emilie !  Yes, 
God  knows  it.  This  winter,  I  brought 
to  you  more  than  one  worthy  man, 
whose  qualities,  principles,  and  cha- 
racter, were  known  to  me ;  and  all 
appeared  worthy  of  you.  My  child, 
my  task  is  done.  Henceforth  I  make 
you  the  arbitrator  of  your  own  fate, 
feeling  myself  at  once  happy  and 
unhappy  at  being  relieved  from  the 
heaviest  of  paternal  responsibilities. 
I  know  not  if  you  will  long  hear 
a  voice  which,  unfortunately,  has 
never  been  severe;  but  remember 
that  conjugal  happiness  is  not  founded 
so  much  on  brilliant  qualities  or  for- 
tune as  on  mutual  esteem.  This 
happiness  is,  by  ita  very  nature,  re- 
tinue and  without  iclat.  Go,  m^'^ 
chilo,  my  consent  is  given  to  him 
whom  you  present  to  me  as  a  son-in- 
law  ;  but,  if  you  should  be  unhappy, 
remember  that  you  will  not  have  the 
right  to  accuse  your  father.  I  will 
not  refuse  to  take  any  steps  and  to 
help  you,  only  let  your  choice  be  a 
senous,  a  definite  one.  I  will  not 
twice  compromise  the  respect  due  to 
my  white  nairsJ' 


54 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty. 


[January, 


The  afTeetion  her  fother  testified 
for  her,  and  the  solemn  accent  >vith 
>vhich  he  pronounced  this  gentle 
admonition,  keenly  touched  Made- 
moiselle de  Fontaine;  but  she  dis- 
sembled her  feelings,  sprang  on  the 
knees  of  the  count,  who  had  reseated 
himself,  bestowed  on  him  the  most 
gentle  caresses,  and  coaxed  him  so 
gracefully  that  the  old  man*s  fore- 
head smoothed  itself.  When  Enulie 
considered  that  her  father  had  re- 
covered his  painful  emotion,  she  said 
to  him,  in  a  whisper, — 

**  I  thank  you  sincerely  for  your 
graceful  attention,  my  dear  father. 
X  ou  had  arranged  your  room  to  re- 
ceive your  beloved  daughter.  You 
did  not  expect,  perhaps,  to  find  her  so 
wild  and  rebellious.  But,  papa,  is  it 
then  very  difiicult  to  marry  a  peer  of 
France  ?  You  used  to  say  they  were 
created  by  dozens.  Ah!  at  least 
you  will  not  refuse  to  advise  me?" 

"  No,  no,  my  poor  child ;  and  I 
will  say  to  you  more  than  once, 
*Take  care!"  Consider  that  the 
peerage  is  too  new  a  feature  in  our 
gouvemetnentabiUti,  as  the  late  king 
used  to  say,  for  the  peers  to  possess 
large  fortunes.  Those  who  arc  rich 
want  to  become  more  so.  The  rich- 
est of  all  the  members  of  our  peerage 
has  not  half  the  income  of  the  poor- 
est lord  of  the  Upper  House  in  Eng- 
land. Therefore,  the  peers  of  France 
will  seek  rich  heiresses  for  their  sons 
wherever  they  are  to  be  found.  The 
necessity  the^  are  in  of  making  rich 
marriages  will  last  more  than  two 
centuries.  It  is  possible  that,  while 
expecting  the  hap[>y  chance  yon  de- 
sire— a  search  which  mav  cost  you 
your  best  years — your  charms  (for 
love-matches  are  not  uncommon  in 
our  century)  may  operate  a  miracle. 
When  experience  is  concealed  be- 
neath so  fresh  a  face  as  yours,  won- 
ders may  be  hoped  from  it.  Have 
you  not,  moreover,  the  facility  of 
discovering  virtues  according  to  the 
greater  or  smaller  volume  of  bodies  ? 
It  is  not  a  small  merit.  Therefore,  I 
need  not  caution  so  wise  a  person  as 
yourself  as  to  all  the  difficulties  of 
the  enterprise.  I  am  certain  you 
will  never  suppose  aw  unknown  to 
possess  good  sense  on  seeing  his  hand- 
some face,  or  virtuous  because  he  has 
a  good  figure.  I  am  perfectly  of  your 
opinion  respecting  the  obligation  all 
ons  of  peers  arc  under  of  possessing 


an  ur  peculiar  to  themselves,  and 
perfectly  distinctive  manners.  Al- 
though nothing  now  denotes  high 
rank,  those  young  men  will,  perhaps, 
have  for  you  a  Je  ne  sais  quoiy  which 
will  reveal  them.  Besides,  yoa  keep 
your  heart  in  check  like  a  good 
horseman,  sure  of  not  letting  his  steed 
stumble.  My  child,  good  luck  to 
you!" 

"  You  are  making  fun  of  me,  papa. 
Well,  I  declare  to  you  that  I  vrouid 
sooner  die  in  Mademoiselle  de  Conde's 
convent  than  not  be  the  wife  of  a 
peer  of  France!" 

She  sprang  fVom  her  father^s  knees, 
and,  proud  of  being  her  own  mis- 
tress, she  walked  away  singing  the 
air  of  "  Cara  non  dubitare,"  from  the 
Matrimonio  Segreto.  By  chance,  the 
fiunily  were  that  day  celebrating  the 
anniversary  of  some  domestic  event. 
At  dessert,  Madame  Flanat,  the  wife 
of  the  receiver-general  and  Emilie's 
eldest  sister,  spoke  rather  highly  of  a 
young  American,  the  possessor  of  an 
immense  fortune,  who,  having  fallen 

Eassionately  in  love  with  her  sister, 
ad  made  ner  an  extremely  brilliant 
ofifer. 

"  He  is  a  banker,  I  think,"  care- 
lessly replied  Emilie.  "  I  do  not  like 
financial  people." 

"  But,  Emilie,"  replied  the  Baron 
de  Yillaine,  the  husband  of  Emilie*s 
second  sister,  "  you  do  not  like  the 
magistracy  either ;  so  that  I  do  not 
see,  if  you  repulse  untitled  land- 
owners, in  what  class  you  will  choose 
a  husband." 

"  Especially,  Emilie,  with  your 
system  of  thinness,"  added  the  lieu- 
tenant-general. 

"  I  know,"  answered  the  young 
girl,  "what  I  want." 

"My  sister  wants  a  gr«it  name," 
said  the  Baronne  de  Fontaine,  "  and 
a  hundred  thousand  francs  a -year. 
Monsieur  de  Marsay,  for  example." 

"  I  know,  my  dear  sister,"  replied 
Emilie,  "that  I  shall  not  make  a 
silly  marriace,  like  so  many  I  have 
seen.  Besides,  to  avoid  these  nnp' 
tial  discussions,  I  declare  that  I  shall 
consider  as  the  enemies  of  my  re- 
pose those  who  speak  to  me  of  mar- 
riage." 

An  uncle  of  Emilie's,  a  vice-admi- 
ral, whose  income  had  just  been  in- 
creased twenty  thousand  francs  by 
the  law  of  indemnity,  an  old  man  of 
seventy,  with  the  power  of  6a}ing 


1846.] 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty. 


65 


fieyere  truths  to  hid  great  niece, 
whom  he  worshipped,  exclaimed,  in 
order  to  dissipate  the  sharpness  of 
this  conversation, — 

"  Do  not  torment  my  poor  Emilic  f 
do  not  you  see  that  she  is  waiting 
for  the  coming  of  age  of  the  Due  de 
Bordeaux  ?" 

An  universal  laugh  greeted  the 
old  man's  pleasantry. 

"  Take  care  lest  I  marry  you,  you 
silly  old  man!"  retorted  tne  young 
giri,  whose  last  words  were  happily 
dro^vned  hy  the  noise. 

**My  cmldren,"  said  Madame  de 
Fontaine,  to  soften  this  impertinence, 
"  Emilie,  like  the  rest  of  you,  will 
only  follow  her  mother's  advice." 

**  Certainly  not.  I  shall  listen  to 
no  one  hut  myself  in  an  affair  which 
concerns  myself  only,"  said  Made- 
moiselle de  Fontaine,  very  distinctly. 

All  eyes  were  then  turned  to  the 
head  of  the  family.  Every  one 
seemed  curious  to  know  how  he 
would  maintain  his  dignity.  Not 
only  did  the  venerable  vendean 
enjoy  great  consideration  in  the 
world,  but,  happier  than  many  fa- 
thers, he  was  appreciated  by  his  fa- 
mily, all  the  members  of  which  re- 
cognised the  solid  qualities  which 
h£^  enabled  him  to  make  the  for- 
tunes of  those  who  belonged  to  him. 
He  was,  therefore,  surrounded  with 
the  profound  respect  which  English 
families,  and  some  continental  aristo- 
cratic houses,  bear  to  the  represent- 
ative of  the  genealogical  tree.  Pro- 
found silence  followed ;  and  the  eyes 
of  the  guests  danced  alternately  at 
the  sullen  and  haughty  face  of  the 
spoiled  child,  and  the  severe  counte- 
nances of  Monsieur  and  Madame  de 
Fontaine. 

"  I  have  left  mv  daughter  Emilie 
mistress  of  her  iate,"  was  the  an- 
swer made  by  the  count,  in  a  solemn 
voice.  The  relations  and  guests  then 
gazed  at  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine 
with  mingled  curiosity  and  pity. 
Those  words  seemed  to  announce 
that  paternal  tenderness  was  weary 
of  struggling  against  a  character 
which  the  family  knew  to  be  incor- 
rigil)le.  The  sons-in-law  murmured, 
and  the  brothers  smiled  scornfully 
at  their  wives.  Henceforth,  every 
one  ceased  to  interest  himself  in  the 
hauffhty  girl's  marriage.  Her  old 
uncle  was  the  only  one  who,  in  his 
quality  of  an  old  sailor,  used  to  en^ 


counter  her  broadsides,  and  suflfer 
from  her  whims,  without  any  diffi- 
culty in  returning  fire  for  fire. 

When  the  fine  weather  arrived, 
after  the  budget  had  been  voted, 
this  family,  a  true  model  of  the  par- 
liamentary families  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Channel,  who  have  a  finger  in 
every  administration,  and  ten  votes 
in  the  Commons,  flew  off  like  a  nest- 
ful  of  birds  towards  the  beautiful 
prospects  of  Aulnay,  Antony,  and 
Chfttenay.  The  opulent  receiver- 
general  had  recently  bought  a  house 
in  this  neighbourhood  for  his  wife, 
who  only  remained  at  Paris  during 
the  session.  Although  the  fair  Emilie 
despised  the  plebeians,  this  sentiment 
did  not  extend  to  the  fortunes  amassed 
by  them.  She  therefore  accompanied 
her  sister  to  her  magnificent  villa, 
less  from  affection  for  those  of  her 
family  who  assembled  there,  than 
because  fashion  imperiously  com- 
mands every  woman  who  respects 
herself  to  quit  Paris  during  the  sum- 
mer. The  green  meadows  of  Sceaux 
admirably  fulfilled  the  conditions  de- 
manded by  fashion,  and  the  duty  of 
public  avocations. 

The  bal  champHre  at  Sceaux  is 
celebrated :  it  is  rare  when  the  most 
coUets  monies  proprietors  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood do  not  emigrate  once  or 
twice  in  the  season  to  this  palace  of 
the  village  Terpsichore.  The  hope 
of  meeting  there  some  women  of  the 
fashionable  world,  and  of  being  seen 
by  them ;  the  hope  less  frequently 
deceived  of  seeing  there  young  pea- 
sant girls  as  shrewd  as  judges,  bnngs 
on  a  Sunday,  to  the  ball  of  Sceaux< 
innumerable  swarms  of  lawyers' 
clerks,  of  disciples  of  Esculapius,  and 
of  young  men,  whose  pale  complex- 
ions and  freshness  are  kept  up  by^ 
the  damp  air  of  Parisian  back  snops. 
A  great  number  of  bourgeois  mar- 
riages have  been  planned  to  the 
sounds  of  the  orchestra,  which  occu- 
pies the  centre  of  this  circular  room. 
If  the  roof  could  talk,  how  many 
love-affairs  it  could  tell  I  This  in- 
teresting medley  makes  the  ball  of 
Sceaux  more  piquant  than  two  or 
three  other  balls  in  the  environs  of 
Paris,  over  which  its  rotunda,  the 
beauty  of  its  situation,  and  the  charms 
of  its  garden,  give  it  incontestable 
advantages.  Emilie  was  the  first 
who  manifested  the  desire  to  go  and 
/aire  peupk  at  this  joyous  ball,  an4 


56 


The  Pnde  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty. 


[January, 


promised  herself  intense  pleasure 
from  such  au  assembly.  Every  one 
was  astonished  at  her  w  ish  to  wander 
about  in  the  midst  of  such  a  crowd ; 
^ut  is  not  the  incognito  a  very  strong 
enjoyment  to  the  great  ?  Auidemoi- 
seiie  de  Fontaine  amused  herself  by 
imagining  all  the  citizen  figures ;  she 
saw  herself  leaving  in  more  than 
one  bourgeois  heart  the  remembrance 
of  an  enchanting  look  and  smile; 
already  laughed  at  the  affectations 
of  the  dancers,  and  cut  her  pencils 
for  the  scenes  with  which  she  ex- 
pected to  enrich  the  pages  of  her 
satirical  album.  Sunday  could  not 
arrive  soon  enough  to  satisfy  her 
impatience.  The  company  from  the 
Favillon  Flanat  set  out  on  foot,  in 
order  not  to  betray  the  rank  of  the 
persons  who  meant  to  honour  the 
oall  with  their  presence.  They  had 
dined  earlj^.  The  month  of  May  fa- 
voured  this  aristocratic  escapade  hy 
one  of  its  finest  evenings.  Mademoi- 
selle de  Fontaine  was  quite  surprised 
to  find  under  the  rotunda  some 
quadrilles,  formed  of  persons  who 
appeared  to  belong  to  good  society. 
Sue  certainly  saw  here  and  there 
some  young  men  who  appeared  to 
have  employed  the  savings  of  a  month 
to  shine  for  one  day,  and  discovered 
several  couples  whose  too  frank 
gaiety  was  decidedly  not  conjugal; 
but  she  had  only  to  glean  instead  of 
to  reap.    She  was  astonished  to  see 

f Measure  dressed  in  muslin  so  very 
ike  pleasure  robed  in  satin  ;  and  the 
bourgeoisie  dance  as  gracefully,  and 
sometimes  more  so,  than  nobility. 
Most  of  the  dresses  were  simple  and 
worn  gracefully. 

Mademoiselle  Emilie  was  even 
obliged  to  study  the  various  elements 
which  composed  this  assembly  be- 
fore she  could  find  in  it  a  subject  for 
pleasantry.  But  she  had  neither  the 
time  to  devote  herself  to  her  malici- 
ous criticisms,  nor  the  leisure  to  hear 
many  of  those  queer  sayings  which 
caricaturists  joyfully  collect.  The 
haughty  creature  suddenly  met  in 
this  vast  field  with  a  flower  (the  me- 
taphor is  an  appropriate  one),  of 
which  the  brilliancy  and  colours 
acted  on  her  imagination  with  the 
prentige  of  a  novelty.  We  often  look 
at  a  dress,  a  hanging,  a  blank  paper, 
with  so  much  carelessness,  as  not  to 
perceive  on  them  at  once  a  stain,  or 
some  dazzling  spot,  which  later  sud- 


denly strike  onr  eye,  as  if  thejr  only 
appoured  there  at  the  moment  vre 
leoome  consdons  of  them ;  by  a  to- 
lerably similar  species  of  moral  phe- 
nomenon, Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine 
discovered  in  a  young  man  the  type 
of  the  external  perfections  which  sne 
had  so  long  dreamed  of. 

Seated  on  one  of  the  rough  chairs 
which  formed  the  boundarv  of  the 
room,  she  had  placed  herself  at  the 
extremity  of  the  group  formed  by 
her  family,  in  order  to  get  up  or  ad- 
vance as  she  liked,  behaving  to  the 
living  pictures  and  groups  presented 
by  this  room  as  if  she  were  at  the 
exhibition  of  the  Musee.     She  im- 
pertinently put  up  her  eye-glass^  a 
person  a  few  steps  from  ner,  and 
made  her  reflections  as  if  she  had 
criticised  or  praised  a  head  in  some 
study  or  schie  de  genre.    Her  eyes, 
after  wandering  over  this  vast,  ani- 
mated canvass,  were  suddenly  ar- 
rested by  this  figure,  which  seemed 
to  have  been  placed  purposely  in  a 
comer  of  the  picture,  in  the  best 
light,  like  something  out  of  all  pro- 
portion with  the  rest.  The  unknown, 
pensive  and  alone,  leaning  against 
one  of  the  columns  which  support 
the  roof,  had  his  arms  folded,  and 
stooped,  as  if  he  had  placed  himself 
there  for  a  painter  to  take  his  pic- 
,  ture.    Although  full  of  elegance  and 
haughtiness,  Uiis  attitude  was  free 
from  affectation.    No  gesture  indi- 
cated that  he  had  placed  his  face,  and 
slightly  inclined  his  head  to  the  right, 
like  Alexander,  Lord    Bvron,  and 
some  other  great  men,  with  the  only 
view    of  attracting   attention.    liis 
gaze  followed  the  movements  of  a 
youn^  girl  who  was  dancing,  and  be- 
trayed   some    profound    sentiment. 
His  well-made  and  graceful  figure 
recalled  the  fine  proportions  of  the 
Apollo.    Beautiful  black  hair  curled 
naturally  over  his  high  forehead.  In 
one  glance  l^lademoiselle  de  Fontaine 
remarked  the  fineness  of  his  linen, 
the  fresh i)ess  of  his  kid  gloves,  evi- 
dently bought  at  the  best  maker's, 
and  the  smallness  of  a  foot  advan- 
tageously  displayed   by  well-made 
boots.    He  wore  none  of  those  igno- 
ble trinkets  with  which  the  dandies 
of  the  ^ar^e  naiionale^  or  the  Adonises 
of  the  counter,  adorn    themselves. 
Nothing  but  a  black  riband,  to  which 
his  eje-glass  was  suspended,  hung 
aver  his  well-cut  waistcoat.    Never 


1846.1 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty. 


51 


had  the  fastidious  Emilie  seen  the 
eyes  of  a  man  shaded  by  such  lon^ 
and  curled  lashes.  Melancholy  and 
passion  dwelt  in  this  countenance, 
rendered  more  manly  by  an  olive 
complexion.  His  mouth  seemed  al- 
ways ready  to  smile,  and  curl  the 
comers  of  two  eloquent  lips;  but 
this  disposition,  far  from  indicating 
gaiety,  rather  betrayed  a  species  of 
sad  sweetness.  There  was  too  much 
thought  in  the  head,  too  much  dis- 
tinction in  the  person,  for  any  one  to 
say, — There  is  a  handsome  man! 
You  desired  to  know  him.  On  see- 
ing  the  unknown,  the  most  perspica- 
cious observer  could  not  have  avoided 
taking  him  for  a  man  of  superior 
talent,  whom  some  powerful  interest 
attracted  to  this  village  festival. 

This  mass  of  observations  only 
cost  Emilie  a  moment's  attention, 
during  which,  this  privileged  man, 
submitted  to  a  severe  anaiysi$>,  be- 
came the  object  of  secret  admiration. 
She  did  not  say  to  herself,  "  He 
ni  vst  be  a  peer  of  France !"  but,  "  If 

he  is  noble,  and  he  must  be  so " 

Without  finishing  her  thought  she 
suddenly  rose,  and  went,  followed  by 
her  brother  the  lieutenant-general, 
towards  the  pillar,  while  appearing 
to  look  at  the  joyous  quaclriiles ;  but 
by  an  optical  artifice  familiar  to  wo- 
men, she  did  not  lose  one  single 
movement  of  the  young  man  whom 
she  was  approaching.  The  unknown 
politelj'  gave  way  to  the  new-comers, 
and  leant  on  another  column.  Emilie, 
as  piqued  by  the  stranger's  polite- 
ness as  she  would  have  been  by  an 
impertinence,  began  to  talk  to  her 
brother  in  a  much  shriller  tone  than 

good  taste  allowed;  she  moved  her 
ead,  multiplied  her  gestures,  and 
laughed  without  much  cause,  less  to 
amuse  her  brother  than  to  attract 
the  attention  of  the  imperturbable 
unknown.  None  of  these  little  arti- 
fices succeeded.  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine  then  followed  the  direction 
of  the  young  man's  eyes,  and  ))er- 
ceived  the  cause  of  this  indifference. 
In  the  midst  of  the  quadrille  be- 
fore her,  was  a  pale  young  girl,  simi- 
lar to  those  Scotch  deities  whom  Gi- 
rodet   has  placed   in  his   immense 


composition  of  the  French  warriors 
received  by  Ossian.  Emilie  thought 
she  recognised  an  illustrious  Engnsh 
lady,  who  had  recently  come  to  in- 
habit a  neighbouring  country-house. 
Her  partner  was  a  boy  of  fifteen, 
with  red  hands,  nankin  trousers,  a 
blue  coat,  and  white  shoes,  which 
proved  that  her  love  of  dancing  did 
not  make  her  fastidious  in  the  choice 
of  her  partners.  Her  movements 
did  not  correspond  with  her  appa- 
rently delicate  health ;  but  a  slight 
red  tinge  was  already  berinning  to 
colour  her  pale  cheeks,  and  her  com- 

Slexion  was  becoming  brighter.  Ma- 
emoiselle  de  Fontame  approached 
the  quadrille,  in  order  to  examine 
the  stranger  when  she  returned  to 
her  place,  while  the  ms-h-vis  re- 
peated the  figure.  But  the  unknown 
advanced,  leaned  towards  the  pretty 
dancer,  and  the  inquisitive  Emilie 
distinctly  heard  these  words,  although 
pronounced  in  a  voice  at  once  gentle 
and  decided, — 

"  Clara,  my  child,  do  not  dance 
any  more.*' 

Clara  pouted  her  lips,  nodded  in 
token  of  obedience,  and  ended  by 
smiling.  After  the  quadrille  the 
young  man  took  all  the  precautions 
of  a  lover,  thro^ving  a  cashmere 
shawl  over  the  girl's  shoulders,  and 
placing  her  on  a  seat  sheltered  from 
the  wind.  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine, 
who  saw  them  get  up  and  walk 
round  the  enclosure,  like  people 
about  to  depart,  soon  found  means 
of  following  them,  under  the  pretext 
of  admiring  the  scenery  from  the 
garden.  Her  brother  lent  himself 
with  arch  good  nature  to  the  caprices 
of  this  rambling  walk.  Emilie  then 
perceived  the  handsome  couple  get- 
ting into  an  elegant  tilbury,  which  a 
livery  •  servant  on  horseback  was 
taking  care  of.  At  the  moment  the 
young  man  sat  down,  and  endea- 
vourra  to  equalise  the  reins,  she  ob- 
tained from  him  "bne  of  those  looks 
which  one  carelessly  bestows  on  large 
crowds ;  but  she  had  the  feeble  satis- 
faction of  seeing  him  look  back  two 
different  times,  and  his  companion 
imitated  him.    Was  it  jealousy  P 


58 


Public  Patronage  of  Men  of  Letters. 


[Jannary, 


PUBLIC  PATRONAGE  OF  MEK  OP  I.ETTERS- 


OuE    literary  men    have    not  yet 
assumed,  it  is  said,  that  position  in 
society  so  pre-eminently  due  to  them. 
Mr.  Cobden,  in  the  spirit  we  hope  of 
a  true  prophet,  foretels  their  future 
advancement.     The  destinies  of  the 
French  nation  are  directed  by  literary 
men — byGuizot,who  is  in  place,  and 
by  Thiers,  who  is  out  of  it.     Our 
literary  men  have  no  such  rank  in 
England.     In  short  they  have  no 
rank  or  position  at  all.    They  are  a 
scattered  race,  working  in  knots,  or 
cliques,  or  single-handed,  and  exist 
as  a  body  by  name  alone.    The  one- 
half  are  unknown,  except  by  repu- 
tation, to  the  other  half;  and  while 
other  classes  combine  and  at  times 
cabal    to   extend  their  reputations, 
the  most  influential  race  of  men,  the 
directors  of  the  minds  and  passions, 
and  even  prejudices  of  the  people, 
are  scattered  throughout  the  three 
kingdoms,  often  at  war  with  and  too 
often  unknown  to  one  another. 

This   should   not  be!     Literary 
men  should   no  longer  live  aloof; 
they  should  combine  in  one  common 
cause,  the  advance  of  their  own  re- 
spectability and  standing  in  society, 
tne  growth  of  good  letters,  and  the 
interchange  of  ideas.      The  sea  of 
politics  keeps  too  many  apart.    The 
editor    of  the  Quarterly  holds   no 
communication  with    the  critics  of 
the  Edinburgh^  or  the  editor  of  The 
Times  with  the  writers  of  the  Morn- 
ing Chronicle.     The  author  of  the 
£ivs  of  Ancient  Rome  thinks  very 
little  of  the  editor  of  BosnoeU^  and 
the  editor  of  BosiceU  of  the  editor  of 
theXa^«.  The  sentiment  is  reciprocal. 
There  is,  therefore,  very  little  nope  of 
anything  like  an  interchange  of  ideas 
between  these  doughty  personages. 
They  might  meet  and  be  perhaps  more 
civil  to  one  another  than  Dr.  Johnson 
and  Adam  Smith  were,  but  civility 
is  all  that  would  pass — the  shrug  of 
dislike  would  folio  nv  the  bow  of  com- 
mon politeness,  and  they  would  part 
only  to  renew  hostilities. 

The  critics  are  a  very  numerous 
race,  and  literary  men  too  often  live 
on  one  another.  Other  grades  and 
classes  of  intellectual  men  are  with- 
out critics  by  profession,  but  litera- 


ture  cannot   do,     it    would  appear, 
without  them.      The  'cormotion  oi 
an  author  is,  we  are  told,   tne  gene- 
ration of  a  critic,  and    there  is  too 
much  reason  to  believe  that  the  say- 
ing is  a  true  one.     A  disappointed 
poet  seeks  consolation  iu  criticism— 
ne  has  no  other  joy  than  to  r^alia^ 
while  the  successAil  critic  is  afraid  to 
append  his  name  to  any  publication 
of  his  own  for  fear  of  the  mtmsi^ 
owls  that  haunt  the  purlieus  of  his 
trade.    Yet  jealousy  is  by  no  means 
a  prominent  feature  in  the  literary 
character.       Your    Fellows  of  tbe 
Royal  Society  and  Koyal  Acadeoii- 
cians  are  still  more  jealous,  but  as  few 
of  them  can  write  a  style  fit  to  appear 
in  i^rint  they  want  a  ready  outlet  for 
their  venom.    The  pen  is  a  feaifvil 
weapon.    The  opportunity  of  saying 
a  good  thing,  of  resenting'  an  un^ 
criticism,  or  of  pulling  down  a  man 
of  genius  to  your  own  level,  are  too 
tempting  to  be  resisted.    With  yotmg 
men  this  is  too  often  the  case — ^thcv 
aim  at  notoriety  in  this  way,  and  htji 
disappointed  ambition  with  the  satis- 
factory feeling  of  inflicting  a  stab  in 
the  dark. 

The  critics,  wc  have  said,   are  « 

prolific  people,  and  we  are,  jjcrhaps^ 

to  impute  their  number,  and  in  some 

respects  their  existence,  as  a  class, 

more  to  a  want  of  combination  amon^ 

literary    men   than   any  particulw 

appetite  on  the  part  of  the  public  for 

the  sour  produce  of  the  "  vmgeBtk 

craft."     The  forty  artists  who  are 

Royal  Academicians  stand  firm  to 

one    another,   through    good   and 

through  evil  report.    An  Ul-naturcd 

or   even   severe   criticism  upon  an 

individual  member  is  viewed  as  an 

aspersion   upon   the   whole    body. 

This  is  in  some  degree  the  secret  of 

the  extraordinary  influence  of  that 

well-organized  association.    It  is  one 

part  of  a  member*s  creed  to  beJJevc 

that  the  forty  Royal  Academicians 

are    the   forty  best  artists  in  the 

country,  and  that    the  best  artisj 

out  of  the  Academy  is  the  individual 

who  will  be  elected  a  member  on  the 

next  vacancy.  This  is  a  happy  state  ot 

things ;  and  what  is  the  result  ?— that 

the  rankof  Royal  Academician  carri^^ 


/ 


1846.] 


Public  Patronage  of  Men  of  Leitere, 


59 


an  appendage  of  respectability  with 
it.  But  tne  literary  man  has  no 
such  rank,  he  has  no  class  to  uphold 
him,  he  has  no  distinction  to  as- 
pire to,  he  has  no  lay  benefice  to 
tiope  for.  We  look  for  our  artists 
in  the  ranks  of  the  Royal  Aca- 
demy, for  our  men  of  science  in  the 
ranks  of  the  Royal  Society,  for  our 
physicians  in  their^CoUege,  for  our 
lawyers,  if  not  already  ennobled,  on 
the  benches  of  their  respective  Inns, 
and  for  our  authors  in  the  columns 
of  the  daily,  weekly,  and  monthly. 
Who  are  our  literanr  men?  The 
question  would  seem  by  many  to  be 
very  easily  answered.  But  each 
would  answer  for  his  set,  and  you 
would  hear  of  classes,  composed 
somewhat  in  this  way  —  I.Moore, 
Rogers,  Hallam,  and  Macaulay;  2. 
Wordsworth,  Wilson,  Ix)cknart, 
Milman,  and  Wilson  Croker ;  3.  Tal- 
fourd,  Bulwer,  Dickens,  and  Jer- 
rold,  with  Tennyson  and  Monckton 
Milnes,  Henry  Taylor,  and  Mr. 
Browning. 

But  a  union  of  literary  men  is  not 
so  hopeless  as  it  at  first  would  seem ; 
a  good  writer  will  outlive  an  unfair 
criticism,  "  I  never  knew,"  says  Dr. 
Johnson, "  a  man  of  merit  neglected; 
it  was  generally  by  his  own  fault  that 
he  failed  of  success."  Look  at  the 
history  of  opinion,  as  written  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review,  read  its  early 
and  its  after  criticisms  on  Words- 
worth and  Southey,  on  Coleridge  and 
Lamb,  on  Byron  and  on  Moore.  The 
silly  Mr.  Wordsworth  of  its  early 
volumes  is  the  philosophical  poet  of 
its  later  numbers.  It  nas  had  to  do 
penance  for  its  early  mistakes,  and 
its  penance  has  been  accepted.  Lord 
Pyron  forgave,  it  is  said,  Mr. 
Brougham,  and  the  author  of 
LaUa  Bookh  lives  in  friendly  in- 
tercourse with  the  Dennis  of  his 
early  lucubrations.  Literary  resent- 
ments are  not,  therefore,  so  lasting 
as  they  would  seem.  But,  then, 
there  is  this  obstacle  to  the  formation 
of  a  society  of  literary  men.  Criti- 
cism, as  a  profession,  must  necessa- 
rily cease.  This,  however,  is  not, 
let  us  hope,  so  formidable  an  ob- 
stacle as  it  at  first  would  seem.  A 
society  of  authors  must  have  a  limi- 
tation of  numbers.  The  Royal 
Academy  is  honourably  efficient  on 
this  account,  and  the  Royal  Society 
is  notorioasly  defective  because  it  is 


not  restricted.  A  society  of  forty  of 
the  best  authors  making  common 
cause  with  one  another,  might  treat 
with  contempt  the  onset  of  the  gad- 
flies of  criticism  without ;  while  every 
vacancy  that  occurred  would  afford 
an  opportunity  of  strengthening  your 
ranks  and  quieting  the  clamour  of 
the  ablest  of  your  assailants. 

Good  authors  need  no  protection 
from  criticism.  Your  Milboumes 
and  Dennises  wither  and  rot  of  their 
own  accord  if  left  unnoticed.  We 
would  suggest  the  formation  of  a  so- 
ciety of  forty  of  the  best  authors,  for 
a  very  distinct  and  different  reason. 
We  wish  to  bring  our  literary  men  to- 
gether, to  give  them  collectively  that 
standing  in  society  which  a  few  of 
them  individually  possess,  and  to  shew 
our  own  people,  and  our  continental 
neighbours  as  well,  that  a  society  of 
literary  men  in  England  is  no  com- 
mon body,  that  they  are  aware  of 
their  own  strength,  and  can  maintain 
that  influential  station  in  established 
society  so  pre-eminently  due  to  them. 

The  history  of  letters  in  England 
is  not  without  a  record  of  several 
attempts  at  combination  among  li- 
terary men,  but  so  imperfectly  ma- 
tured or  inauspiciously  started  that 
it  is  perhaps  unfair  to  speak  of  them 
as  anything  more  than  the  mere 
spectres  of  attempts.  Authors  have 
been,  and  we  believe  are,  still  a 
friendly,  even  a  convivial  race. 
Your  meetings  at  the  Mermaid  with 
Sliakspeare  and  his  "fellows,"  your 
suppers  in  the  Apollo  with  Ben 
Jonson  and  his  "sons,"  your  late 
hours  with  Dryden  at  Wills',  and 
still  later  at  Button's  with  Addison 
and  Steele,  are  among  the  most 
pleasing  memories  preserved  to  us 
of  days  gone  by.  It  is  not,  however, 
to  meetings  of  this  kind  that  we  wish 
to  do  more  than  refer  at  present. 
We  allude,  more  particularly  at  this 
moment,  to  the  formation  of  the  Li- 
terary Club,  the  incorporation  of  the 
Royal  Society  of  Literature,  the 
establishment  of  the  Athenieum 
Club,  and  the  institution  of  the  late 
Literary  Union. 

The  Literary  Club,  or  the  Club,  as 
it  was  first  called,  was  founded  by 
Samuel  Johnson  and  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds.  It  was  Johnson's  original 
intention  that  the  number  of  the 
club  should  not  exceed  nine,  but 
Samuel  Dyer,  — "th^  learned  Mr. 


60 


Public  Patronage  of  Men  of  Letiers. 


[January, 


Dyer,"  00  Johnson  calls  him  —  who 
had  heen  for  some  years  abroad, 
made  his  appearance  amongst  them 
and  was  cordially  received.  The 
members  met  one  evening  in  every 
week  at  seven  for  supper,  and  gene- 
rally continued  their  conversation  till 
a  late  hour.  The  club  soom  became 
distinguished,  new  members  were 
admitted,  and  in  the  eighth  year 
of  their  existence  the  supper  was 
changed  to  a  dinner.  There  was  as 
yet  no  limitation  in  the  number  of 
members,  but  a  limitation  was  found 
necessary,  and  it  was  resolved  that 
the  Club  should  never  exceed  forty. 
All  elections  took  place  by  ballot, 
nor  could  it  be  said  tnat  the  selection 
was  an  unfair  one,  when  the  Club 
had  amongfit  its  members  the  distin- 
guished names  of  Burke  and  Fox, 
(jibbon  and  Goldsmith,  Colman  and 
Garrick,  the  elder  and  the  younger 
Warton,  Boswell  and  Sheridan,  Adam 
Smith  and  Sir  William  Jones,  Stee- 
vens  and  Malone,  Bishop  Percy,  Sir 
Joseph  Banks. 

But  the  Club,  strictly  speaking, 
was  hardly  a  literary  club ;  for  among 
the  forty  wc  find  many  distinguished 
by  birth  and  station  alone,  and  others 
who  conld  make  but  slender  claims 
to  litcrarv  distinction.  We  are,  how- 
ever, to  bear  in  mind,  that  this  was 
a  club  framed  for  convivial  pur- 
poses, and  for  an  interchange  of  ideas 
over  a  glass  of  wine,  not  a  society  or 
academy  formed  solely  of  literary 
men,  and  for  the  encouragement  of 
literature.  The  Club  fell  off  when 
Johnson  died;  and  though  still  in 
being,  ma^  be  said  rather  to  exist 
than  flourish.  Mr.  Hallam  is  the 
last  name  of  literary  eminence  on  its 
list. 

"  The  Hoyal  Society  of  Literature 
of  the  United  Kingdom,"  as  it  is 
called,  is  an  establishment  of  twenty 
years*  standing,  with  a  royal  charter 
and  numerous  pretensions.  One  of 
its  foundation  objects  was  the  assign- 
ment of  honorary  iSewards  for  works 
of  great  literary  merit ;  a  second  and 
a  much  higher  object  was  the  esta- 
blishment of  a  list  of  Royal  Asso- 
ciates, ten  in  number,  ana  each  in 
the  receipt,  from  the  Society,  of  one 
hundred  guineas  a-prear.  The  idea 
of  this  Society  originated,  it  is  said, 
Avith  King  George  IV.  The  king 
certainly  supplied  out  of  his  own 
privy  purse  the  annual  contribution  of 


one  thousaud  ^ineas  for  the  ten  Royal 
Associates,  and  one  hundred  guiaeas 
for  the  medals  astdgncd  as  honorary 
rewards  to   authors    of  distinction. 
The  ten  Royal  Associates  were  the 
poet  Coleridge ;    Dr.   Jamieson,  the 
author  of  the  admirable  JSfymological 
Dulionary  of  the  ScottUh  Language; 
Malthus,  who  -wrote  on  Population; 
Mathias,  the  author  of  the  Pursmti 
of  Literature;  tHe  Kev.  Henry  John 
Todd,  the  editor  of  Johnsons  Dtc- 
tionary;   Sharon  Turner  the  histo- 
rian; Mr.  Roscoe  of  Liverpool;  the 
Rev.  Edward    Davies,    Mr.  James 
Milligen,  and  Sir  William  Oosely. 
Two  medals  were  distributed  annu- 
ally ;   nor  would  it  be  easy  to  find 
fault  with  the  selection  of  the  indi- 
viduals to  whom  they  were  awarded. 
The  two  first  medals  were  assigned 
to  Mitford  the  author  of  the  History 
of  Greece^  and  Signor  Angelo  Ma', 
librarian  to  the  Vatican.     The  me- 
dals of  the  second  year  were  awarded 
to  Major  Rennell,  author  of  a  3femoir 
on  Hindoatan;  and  Charles  Wilkinsthc 
editor  of  the  Bhagvat-  Oeeta.    Of  the 
third  year,  to  Professor  Schwefehie- 
user,  the  editor  of  Appian,  and  Pro- 
fessor Dugald  Stewart ;  of  the  fourth 
year,  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Ut. 
Southey;  of  the  fifth  year,  toCrabhe 
and  Archdeacon  Coxe;  of  the  sixth 
year    to  AVilliam    Roscoe    and   k 
baron   Antoine  Isaac   Silvestre  de 
Sacy,  a  writer  of  repute  on  Perpwn 
antiquities;  of  the  seventh,  to  Wash- 
ington Irving  and  JVrr.  Hallam,  the 
historian  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  talK 
about  the  Royal  Society  of  Litera- 
ture, and  what  it  was  to  effect,  before 
it  came  into  actual  existence.  Sir 
Walter  Scott  calls  it,  in  a  letter  to 
the  then  Secretary  of  State  (Low 
Sidmouth),  "  a  very  ill-contnved 
project,"  and  one  which  can  only  end 
"  in  something  very  unpleasant.*  "1** 
men  of  letters,"  he  says,  "  fight  their 
own  way  with  the  public,  and  i^^ 
his  Majesty  honour  with  his  patron* 
age  those  who  are  able  to  distingw^P 
themselves,  and  alleviate  by  *"^ 
bounty  the  distresses  of  such  as,  witn 
acknowledged  merit,  may  ^et  h*^'® 
been  unfortunate  in  procuring  inde- 
pendence. The  immediate  and  direct 
favour  of  the  sovereign  is,"  he  adds, 
"  worth  the  patronage  of  ten  thousand 
societies."  Scott's  objections  apply?  »^ 
must  be  understood,  to  the  principle* 


1S46.] 


Public  Patronage  of  Men  of  Leiters. 


61 


on  which  the  first  Society  was  to 
have  been  established.  What  this 
first  Society  was  like,  no  one  has  as 
yet  told  ns;  something,  it  is  said,  re- 
sembling the  French  Academy.  The 
original  plan,  whatever  it  was,  went 
through  many  modifications;  but 
Scott's  opinion  was  unaltered.  *^  I 
do  not  belong,"  he  writes  in  his  diary, 
^*  to  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature, 
nor  do  I  propose  to  enter  it  as  a 
coadjutor.  I  do  not  like  your  Koyal 
Academies  of  this  kind ;  they  almost 
always  fall  into  jobs,  and  the  mem* 
bers  are  seldom  those  who  do  credit 
to  the  literature  of  a  country.**  But 
this  Society  really,  at  one  time,  ef- 
fected a  good — ^it  rescued  the  last 
years  of  Coleridge's  life  from  com- 
plete dependence  on  a  friend,  and  it 
placed  the  learned  Dr.  Jamieson 
above  the  wants  and  necessities  of  a 
man  fast  sinking  to  the  grave.  The 
associateship  was  not  in  the  nature 
of  a  charity,  it  was  no  literary  alms- 
giving, it  flowed  from  the  bounty  of 
the  sovereign,  and  was  a  reward  of 
merit.  No  autlior,  independent  in 
mind  though  poor  in  circumstances, 
w^ould  wish  it  to  be  said  that  he  had 
been  relieved  by  the  Council  of  the 
Literary  Fund;  but  the  author  surely 
might  boast  that  his  necessities  had 
been  relieved  by  the  honourable  po- 
sition he  held  of  Koyal  Associate  in 
a  Society  under  the  direct  patronage 
of  his  sovereign. 

The  palmy  days  of  tlie  Royal  So- 
ciety of  Literature  soon  passed  away, 
for  William  IV.  withdrew,  on  his 
accession,  the  annual  grant  of  eleven 
hundred  guineas  presented  to  the 
Society  b^  hb  more  generous  brother. 
The  Society  had,  Uierefore,  to  rely 
on  its  own  sayings  and  the  annual 
subscriptions  of  its  members.  Their 
funds  were  small,  and  they  now  sank 
into  a  Transaction  Society,  with  a 
small  library,  large  ideas,  and  poor 
and  insignificant  jierformances. 

The  Athenaeum  Club,  in  Fall  Mall, 
was  a  pet  with  peers  and  persons  of 
literary  distinction,  and  the  Literary 
Union,  in  .Waterloo  Place,  a  pet  of 
poor  Tom  CampbelFs.  Both  had 
the  same  primary  object^  the  for- 
mation of  a  society  of  literary  men, 
and  both  went  to  work  in  the  same 
ineffectual  manner.  Good  authors 
were  found  insufiicient  in  number  for 
a  modem  club.  An  author  intro- 
duced a  firieud  who  was  not  m  author ; 


but  something  he  would  add,  with  a 
laugh,  much  better  —  Dr.  Johnson*8 
definition  of  asood  fellow,  '*  a  club- 
bable man."  This  friend  introduced 
another  friend  of  the  same  acceptable 
description.  Both  grew  up  in  this  way ; 
but  the  Athenaeum  swelled  in  import- 
ance ;  a  new  site  was  thought  of, — Mr. 
Decimus  Burton  must  build  them  a 
house,  and  Mr.  Henning  copy  the 
frieze  of  the  Parthenon  to  shew  the 
classic  character  of  the  members. 
The  Literary  Union  no  longer  ex- 
ists; it  was  any  thing  but  a  literary 
Club;  all  kinds  and  degrees  of  per- 
sonages might  have  been  found  among 
its  members,  and  so  notorious  had  it 
become,  that  it  was  at  length  obliged 
to  dissolve,  to  change  its  name,  and 
start  anew. 

The  Athenaeum  is  one  of  the  best 
of  our  London  Clubs.  Authors  of 
eminence  may  be  found  among  its 
members,  and  still  adherine  to  its 
love  for  men  distinguished  by  their 
genius,  its  oouncU  is  empowered  to 
admit  annually  from  the  list  of  candi- 
dates individuals  of  eminence  in  litera- 
ture, art,  and  science.  This  is  a  wise 
law,  for  few  authors  of  eminence 
would  care  to  go  through  the  tire- 
some ordeal  of  election,  which  is  by 
ballot  among  the  whole  body  of 
members. 

When  the  Grey  government  was 
in  power,  and  the  passing  of  the  Re- 
form-bill a  novelty  in  conversation, 
there  was  a  talk  of  forming  a  Guel- 
phic  Order  of  Literary  Merit,  and  of 
bringing  Letters  under  the  avowed 
and  active  encouragement  of  the  Go- 
vernment. Lord  Brougham,  then 
lord  chancellor,  took  the  matter 
up  very  warmlv,  and  Southcy  was 
written  to  by  tne  chancellor  for  his 
opinion.  The  laureate's  letter,  in  re- 
j)iy,  is  a  noble  specimen  of  his  far- 
sighted  seeking  and  admirable  good 
sense  on  all  occasions.  "  When  butter 
times  shall  arrive  (whoever  may  live  to 
see  them),"*  writes  the  author  of  Cul' 
hqiiies  on  the  Progress  and  Prospects 
of  Society^  "  it  will  be  worthy  the 
consideration  of  any  government 
whether  the  institution  of  an  aca- 
demy, with  salaries  for  its  members 
(in  the  nature  of  literary  or  lay  bene- 
fices), might  not  be  the  means  of  re- 
taining in  its  interests,  as  connected 
with  their  own,  a  certain  number  of 
influential  men  of  letters,  who  should 
hold  those  benefices,  and  a  much 


62 


Pubiie  Patronage  of  Men  of  Letters.  [Janiiary  * 


greater  number  of  aspirants  who 
would  look  to  them  in  their  turn. 
A  yearly  grant  of  10,000/.  would  en- 
dow ten  such  appointments  of  500/. 
each  for  the  elder  class,  and  twenty- 
five  of  200/.  for  younger  men ;  these 
latter  eligible,  of  course,  and  prefer- 
ably, but  not  necessarily  to  be  elected 
to  the  higher  benefices  as  those  fell 
vacant,  and  as  they  should  have 
approved  themselves.  The  good  pro- 
posed by  this  as  a  political  measure," 
Mr.  Southey  adds,  *^  is  not  that  of 
retaining  such  persons  to  act  as 
pamphleteers  and  journalists,  but 
that  of  preventing  them  from  be- 
coming such,  in  h^ility  to  the  esta- 
blished order  of  things ;  and  of  giving 
men  of  letters,  as  a  class,  something 
to  look  for  beyond  the  precarious 
^ns  of  literature ;  thereby  inducing 
m  them  a  desire  to  support  the  ex- 
isting institutions  of  the  country,  on 
the  stability  of  which  their  own  wel- 
fare would  depend." 

We  may  add,  that  need  makes 
many  poets,  and  neediucss  makes  men 
dangerous  members  of  society,  quite 
as  often  as  afHuence  makes  them 
worthless  ones. 

Another  proposition  much  talked 
of  at  this  time,  and  immediately  con- 
nected with  the  former  inquiry,  was 
the  distribution  of  prizes  among  au- 
thors of  distinction.  "  With  re^rd 
to  prizes,**  says  Southey,  "  methmks 
they  are  better  left  to  schools  and 
colleges.  Honours  are  worth  some* 
thing  to  scientific  men,  because  they 
are  conferred  upon  such  men  in  other 
countries ;  at  home  there  are  prece- 
dents for  them  in  Newton  and  Davy, 
—  and  the  physicians  and  surgeons 
have  them.  In  ray  judgment,  men 
of  letters  are  better  vdUiout  them, 
unless  they  are  rich  enough  to  be- 
queath to  their  family  a  g£)d  estate, 
with  the  bloody  hand,  and  sufficiently 
men  of  the  world  to  think  such  dis- 
tinctions appropriate.  For  myself, 
if  we  had  a  Guelphic  order,  I  should 
choose  to  remain  a  Ghibclline.** 
Some  such  idea  as  is  here  so  admi- 
rably expressed  by  Mr.  Southey 
must  have  crossed  the  mind  of  his 
friend  Sir  liobert  Peel,  when,  in  1834. 
he  spoke  lo  strongly  in  the  Houso 
of  Commons  against  a  proposition 
brought  forward  by  Mr.  Hume  that 
our  authors,  artists,  and  men  of  sci- 
ence, should  have  assigned  to  them 

\jy  Purliam^t  BOUMi  bluO  ribaud  of 


distinction.    We   recollect    hemring 
Sir  Robert  PeeVs  speech  on  that  occa- 
sion with  a  very  great  deal  of  pica* 
sure.    He  thought,  and  with  reason, 
that  literary  men  should  have   more 
fruitful  honours  assigned   thestt   by 
Government  than  ribands  and  badges 
of  distinction.    Poets  have  the  bays 
already.     ''The  king,''  says   Gold- 
smith, ''has  lately  been   pleased  to 
make  me  Professor  of  Ancient  His- 
tory in  the  Royal  Academy  a£  Paint- 
ing he  has  just  established^  hui  there 
is  no  salary  annexed,  and  I  toc4ic  it 
rather  as  a  compliment  to  the  insti- 
tution than  any  benefit  to  myself. 
Honours  to  one  in  my  situation  are 
someUiin^  like  ruffles  to  one   that 
wants  a  uiirt." 

Before  we  stay  to  inquire  how  &r 
Peel  in  power  has  realised  the  views 
of  Peel  out  of  power,  and  the  poaidon 
of  literary  men  has  been  improved 
by  the  direct  encouragement  of  the 
Crown,  it  may  be  as  well  to  look 
through  the  postern  of  time,  long 
elapsed,  at  the  actual  position  of  the 
literary  character  before  ribands 
were  talked  about  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  or  medals  were  awarded 
from  the  purse  of  the  sovereign. 

In  the  infancy  of  civilisation,  when 
all  our  thoughts  were  on  wars  abroad 
and  broils  and  tournaments  at  home, 
we  find  the  name  of  Geoffrey  Chau* 
cer,  the  &ther  of  our  poetry,  among 
the  annuitants  of  King  Edward  III. 
and  King  Richard  U.  But  literature, 
there  is  too  much  reason  to  believe, 
had  little  to  do  in  procuring  for  the 
great  poet  the  annuity  from  the  Ex- 
chequer and  the  pitcher  of  wine  from 
the  royal  cellar.    We  wish  we  could 
agree  with    those   antiquaries  who 
would  trace  the  salary  of  the  poet- 
laureate  and  his  pipe  of  canary  to 
Chaucer's  pension  and  his  pitcher  of 
wine.    No  better  original  could  well 
be  had,  but  there  is  little  or  no  au- 
thority, we  fear,  to  support  so  inge« 
nious  a  supposition.     Be  that  as  it 
may,  it  is  ^easing  to  find  that  one  of 
the  greatest  of  our  poets  and  the  first 
English  writer  of  any  eminence  in 
our  ton^e,  was  not  altogether  over- 
looked m  so  d&rk  a  century. 

The  long  Lancastrian  wars  were 
detsimentalto  the  growth  of  letters, 
but  Caxton  came  among  us,  and  found 
a  friend  in  Earl  Rivers.  The  nation 
now  grew  quiet  for  a  time.  Stepliea 
Uawos,  the  author  of  a  poem  called 


i  846;] 


Public  Patronage  of  Men  of  Letters, 


63 


T'he  Pastime  of  Pleasure  (a  kind  of 

connecting  link  between  Chaucer  and 

Spenser),  met  with  the  patronage  of 

the  queen  of  Henry  YII. ;  old  John 

Jleywood,    the    epigrammatist,  was 

player  on  the  virginals  to  Henry 

VII.,    with    a   fee    of    cightpence 

a- day.    Henry  VUI.  was  no  ^eat 

friend  to  letters.    The  rude,  railing 

satirist,  Skclton,  was,  it  is  true,  a 

kind  of  poet-laureate  to  the  crown  ; 

and   £rasmu8    was    received    with 

favour :  but  literature  in  this  reign 

suffered  a  severe  loss  in  the  cruel 

executions  of  the  learned  More  and 

the  poetic  Earl  of  Surrey. 

Queen  Elizabeth  distributed  her 
bounty  with  the  same  sparing  hand 
with  which  she  bestowed  her  ho- 
nours.   Raleigh  and  Sidney,  Yere, 
iN'orris,  Drake,  Walsingham,  and  Gre- 
Tille,  were  the  new-made  knights  of 
the  court  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Poets 
came  in  for  a  portion  of  her  bounty. 
Gaacoigne  and  Churchyard  were  sent 
on   missions  abroad.    Ronsard   the 
poet    received  a  present   of  forty 
French  crowns,  and  Thomas  Pres- 
ton, the  author  of  a  tragedy  '^  con- 
teyning  the  Life  of  King  Cambises,**  a 
pension  of  20/.  a-year.  But  the  great 
scandal  of  her  age  was  the  fate  of 
Spenser.  Not  that  the  poet  was  alto- 
gether overlooked.    He  received  at 
one  tipae  a  mat  of  confiscated  pro- 
perty in  Ireland,  and  subsequently  a 
pension  of  fifty  pounds  a-year.    But 
the  land  proved  a  ruinous  afiair,  and 
the  pension,  there  is  reason  to  be- 
lieve, was  subsequently  withdrawn. 
His  end  was  melancholy — ^*  lie  died," 
says  Jonson,  **for  lack  of  bread;** 
and  Waller,  who  lived  not  too  late 
to  be  well  informed,  confirms  his 
testimony : — 

"  to  fttonre, 
That  Spenser  knew." 

A  sad  termination  for  a  poet*s  life,  nor 
is  it  without  its  lesson. 

<'  Tell  them  how  Spenser  starved,  how 
Cowley  mourn'd, 
How  Butler's  faith  and  service  was 
retum'd." 

This  was  said  by  a  poet  who  might 
have  added  his  own  name  to  the 
number  of  neglected  poets.  It  was 
said  by  Otway . 

Literature  was  not  overlooked  by 
the  Stuarts  in  Scotland  before  their 
aceeoiioQ  to  the  English  throne. 
Dunbar  (the  Chaucer  of  his  ooun» 


try)  enjoved  by  the  bounty  of  King 
James  1 V .  a  yearly  pension  of  consi- 
derable amount,  at  a  time  when  the 
price  of  labour  and  provisions  was 
very  low.  The  sixth  James  was  him- 
sdf  a  poet,  with  the  j^wer  to  appre- 
ciate genius,  and  the  inclination,  it  is 
said,  to  relieve  its  necessities.  Raleigh, 
it  is  true,  was  imprisoned,  and  at 
length  beheaded  by  him,  but  Jonson 
enjoyed  a  pension  by  his  bounty. 
Daniel  was  patronised  by  his  queen, 
Wotton  was  one  of  his  ambassadors 
abroad,  and  Ayton  was  his  wife's 
secretary. 

It  is  mcidentaUy  observed  by  Far- 
mer, and  repeated  by  Mr.  uifford, 
that  playwriting  in  Shakspeare*s 
days  **  was  scarc^  thought  a  credit- 
able employ.*'  lliis  may  be  easily 
accounted  for.  The  poets  who  wrote 
for  the  stage  were  also  actors;  and 
the  profession  of  an  actor  was  viewed 
for  a  very  long  time  as  a  kind  of  va- 
grant occupation.  Yet  the  drama 
was  at  its  height  and  most  encou- 
raged when  apparently  most  looked 
down  upon.  King  James  was  a  great 
patron  of  the  dmna.  He  was  the 
first  of  our  kings  who  formed  a  com- 
pany of  actors ;  and  such  actors  too 
as  he  had  —  Burbage,  Shakspeare, 
Kemp,  Ileming,  Condell,  Lowen, 
Taylor.  They  were  frequently  sum- 
moned to  play  before  him,  and  were 
always  paid,  and  liberally  too,  for 
their  performances.  Nor  did  he 
confine  his  encouragement  to  his  own 
servants;  the  queen*s  players  (as 
they  were  called),  the  players  of 
Prince  Henry,  and  the  players  of 
the  Prince  Palatine,  were  summoned 
every  Christmas  to  play  before  him. 
The  usual  rates  of  remuneration,  we 
may  add,  were  generally  accompanied 
by  a  further  sum  by  way  of  his 
maje8ty*s  reward. 

A  love  of  literature  was  hereditary 
in  the  family  of  the  Stuarts.  Henry 
prince  of  Wales,  a  boy  of  only 
eighteen  when  he  died,  nad  Owen 
the  epigrammatist,  Michael  Drayton, 
and  Joshua  Sylvester,  on  his  hst  of 
pensioners  and  annuitants.  Authors 
presenting  him  with  thdr  books 
went  away  with  some  substantial 
mark  of  his  good -will.  Rowland 
Cotgrave,  the  Teamed  author  of  the 
dictionary  which  bears  his  name, 
received  his  bounty;  nor  was  the 
amusing  Coryatt  overlooked  by  the 
young  and  discerning  prince. 


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Public  Patronage  of  Men  of  Letters.  [January^ 


K4ng  Charles  I.  M'ould  appear  to 
have  imbibed  his  love  of  art  from 
his  elder  brother,  for  Kin^  James 
had  no  particular  predilection  that 
way.  Nor  ytaa  Charles  without  his 
brother  Henry*s  taste  for  literature, 
or  his  s^'mpathy  with  literary  men. 
It  would,  perhaps,  be  difficult  to 
name  any  author  of  eminence  unpro- 
tected or  unnoticed  by  the  king. 
Ben  Jonson  was  his  poet  laureat, 
and  Davenant  succeeded  to  the  lau- 
rel at  Jonson*s  death.  The  plays 
of  Shirley,  Massinger,  and  May,  were 
read  by  him  in  MS.  and  then  acted 
at  court  before  him.  He  altered 
passages,  for  he  was  a  poet  himself, 
and  lie  suggested  subjects.  His 
taste  was  excellent.  The  tasteful 
Carew  filled  the  office  of  sewer  in 
ordinary ;  Quarles  received  a  pen- 
sion; Denham  and  Waller  M'ere 
about  his  court,  Falkland,  Fan- 
8hawe,and  Suckling  about  his  person. 
Nor  were  the  elder  poets  overlooked ; 
he  quotes  Chaucer  in  his  letters, 
draws  allusions  from  the  drama,  bor- 
rows a  prayer  from  Sydney's  Arcadia^ 
and  finds  in  Shakspeare  a  solace  in 
his  su£ferinffs. 

During  the  Commonwealth,  lite- 
rary men,  rather  than  literature, 
found  favour  with  Cromwell  and  his 
colleagues.  The  Protector  wrote  a 
graceless  style,  full  of  hard  meaning, 
and  disguised,  like  all  he  did,  from 
common  observation.  He  had  little 
leisure  for  the  refinements  of  language 
or  the  graces  of  composition;  and 
less  leisure  to  consider  what  authors 
were  worthy  of  reward,  or  what  they 
were  worth  to  a  government  in  need 
of  support.  He  was  not  blind,  how- 
ever, to  the  beauties  of  art  or  the 
graces  of  literature ;  he  retained  the 
best  pictures  in  the  collection  of 
Charles  I.  (the  Cartoons  of  Kaphael), 
for  the  furniture  of  his  own  apart- 
ments, and  was  reviving  the  drama 
under  Davenant  when  he  died. 
Good  poets  found  employment  in 
prose  composition  under  the  govern- 
ment of  Cromwell.  The  hbtory  of 
the  Long  Parliament  by  May,  ^vritten 
at  the  time,  and  under  the  patronage 
but  not  the  influence  of  parliament, 
is  one  of  the  fairest  histories  ever 
written.  It  is  clear  and  temperate 
in  its  views,  calm  and  consistent  in 
its  style ;  so  temperate  indeed,  that 
our  present  historians  of  the  period 
of  which  it  treats  (writers  on  both 


sides  of  the  question)  might  derive  a 
tlseful  lesson  from  its  study.     Other 
noets  found  employment  at  this  time, 
Milton    and    Marveli    among*     the 
number.     May   was   an    apologist, 
Milton  a  defender,  and  MarYelTan 
assistant  under  Milton  in  the  office 
of  secretary  for  the  Latin   ton^e. 
But  May  had  more  authority  Uian 
Milton;  indeed  nothing  can  well  be 
more  absurd  than  the  views  adopted 
by  the  hip  and  thigh  admirers  of  the 

g)litical  conduct  of  the  great  poet. 
iographers    like    S3rmnioix8,     and 
writers  of  his  class,  contemplate  the 
ill-paid    secretary   for    the     Latin 
tongue  in  the  light  of  a  secretary  of 
state  for  home  and  foreign  afiairs. 
There  is  no  reason  to  believe  that 
Cromwell  was  euided  by  his  counsel,      t 
or  even  asked  nis  advice  ou  any  one      ' 
occasion.     This  seems  so  dear,  from 
the  terms  in  which  Whitelocke  speaks 
of  him  on  the  solitary  occasion  in 
which  he  mentions  his  name,  that 
blind  and  wilful  prejudice  alone  could 
view  (we  are  sorry  to  say)  the  poli- 
tical  John  Milton  in  the  light  of 
anything  else  than  a  translator  from 
Latin  in  English,  and  from  English 
into  Latin.    Whatever  the  real  posi-      i 
tion  of  Milton  may  have  been,  his      i 
office  ceased  with  the  usurpation ;  and      * 
in  the  succeeding  reign  he  fell,  to  use      | 
his  oVfn  language,  on  evil  days  and 
evil  times.      ^^When  Paradise  Last 
was  first  published,"  writes  Swift  to 
Sir    Charles    Wogan,    "few    liked, 
read,  or  understood  it,  and  it  gained 
ground    merely    by     its     merits.'* 
Milton  had  excluded  himself  by  his 
politics  from  preferment  or  notice; 
his  religious  principles  were  obnox- 
ious, and  there  was  little  in  his  poem 
to  invite  the  attention  of  the  gay 
and  thoughtless  thousands  who  wit- 
nessed the  Restoration.    If  Paradise 
Lost    had    excited    even    ordinary 
attention  at  the  time  of  its  publica- 
tion, Mr.  Pep3'8  would  have  been 
sure  to  have  said  something  about  it 
in  his  Diary.    But  he  is  silent^  and 
there  is  too  much  reason  to  bdicve 
that  it  attracted  little  or  no  atten- 
tion.   Would  it  attract  much  now 
as  a  new  publication  ?  Mr.  Hallam 
thinks   not,    and   in  these  exciting 
times   of  railway   speculation  and 
corn-law  abolition,  few  would  have 
time  to  think  what  a  new  poem  of 
this  description  was  like.     Yet  when 
the  repeal  of  the  Copyright  law  was 


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Public  Patronage  of  Men  of  LeiUrs* 


65 


an  all-en^oflsing  subject  of  conversa- 
tion in  literary  circles,  and  Milton's 
poor  reward  for  his  divine  epic  was 
particularly  insisted  upon;  Mr.  T^, 
we  remember,  either  in  speech  orl^ 
letter,  ridiculed  the  idea  of  such  a 
circumstance  ever  occurring  again, 
and  either  exclaimed  or  wrote — 
^'  Only  bring  me  a  Paradise  LoU^  and 
see  wnat  I  will  rive  for  it!"  The 
intelligent  publisher  of  Cheapside 
was  safe  in  what  he  said,  there  is  no 
occasion  to  suspect  that  a  new  epic 
reaching  to  the  height  of  Milton's 
poem  is  likely  to  be  produced  again. 

Charles  II.  condescended  to  talk 
familiarly  with  poets,  but  did  little 
to  foster  their  genius  or  better  their 
condition.  He  fed  them  with  kind 
words  and  fair  promises,  but  his 
remembrance  was  not  eaaly  awak- 
ened. This  "  Unthinking  king,**  as 
he  was  called  by  one  ol  his  court 
favourites,  was  not  however  wholly 
neglectful  of  letters.  He  gave  the 
laurel  on  Davenant*s  death,  and  the 
office  of  historiographer  on  HowelFs, 
to  glorious  John  I)ryden;  recom- 
mended subjects  for  the  employment 
of  Dr^den's  muse;  permitted  his 
imperious  mistresses  to  protect  his 
plays;  nominated  his  son  to  the 
Charterhouse  School,  and,  shortly 
before  he  died,  gave  him  a  small 
sinecure  situation  in  the  Customs. 
But  his  salary  was  not  veiy  r^u- 
larly  paid.  He  was,  moreover,  em- 
ployed by  the  king  in  party  satire, 
and  indifferently  rewarded  for  what 
he  did.  Others,  however,  fared  still 
worse.  Cowley  died  at  Chertsey, 
neglected  by  the  court  he  had  served 
in  exile;  and  the  king,  who  carried 
Hudihras  about  witn  him  in  his 
pocket,  and  quoted  from  it,  it  is  said 
inimitably  well,  did  nothing  for  the 
poet  but  grant  a  protection  to  him 
from  the  piratical  booksellers  of  the 
period.  Butler's  end  is  well  known ; 
oc  lived  for  some  years  before  his 
death  in  an  obscure  alley,  and  died 
at  last  disappointed  and  in  want. 
"  Which,"  asks  Goldsmith,  with  mfi- 
nite  irony,  *4s  the  greatest  scandal  on 
his  age,  Butler's  poem  or  Butler's 
fate  ?^' 

These  sad  lessons  were  not  with- 
out their  advantage  to  the  poets  who 
came  after.  **It  is  enough  for  one 
age,"  says  Dr3'den,  urging  his  claims 
for  puDlic  emplo3rment  on  Hyde 
Lord  Rochester,  ^  it  is  enough  for 

TOL.  XXXIU.  KG.  CZCm. 


one  age  to  have  neglected  Mr.  Cowley 
and  to  have  starved  Mr.  Butler. 
The  lesson  was  of  temporary  use. 
Lord  Rochester  relieved  his  warts, 
and  obtained  for  him  the  small  sine- 
cure situation  in  the  Customs  already 
alluded  to. 

In  the  short  reign  of  King  James 
n.  poor  Nat.  Los  was  supported 
while  in  Bedlam  by  the  bounty  of 
the  king ;  but  Otway  died  in  want, 
choked,  it  is  said,  with  the  first 
mouthful  of  bread  he  had  obtained 
for  a  very  long  time. 

King  Williiun  rU.  knew  no  more 
about  poetry  than  he  knew  of  St. 
Evremond,  and  exhibited  his  Dutch- 
garden  taste  in  poetry  in  selecting  the 
individual  to  whom  he  assigned  the 
laurel,  removed  for  political  conside- 
rations from  the  brovrs  of  Dryden. 
He  gave  it  to  Shadwell.  The  then 
lord  chamberlain,  the  witty  £arl 
of  Dorset,  may  have  had  scmiething 
to  do  with  this:  Shadwell  was  a 
friend  of  his ;  he  admired,  and  with 
reason,  his  comic  powers,  and  wished, 

Ssrhaps,  to  do  something  for  him. 
ut  Snadwell  was  not  a  poet  in  any 
sense  of  the  word,  and  his  appoint- 
ment carried  a  bad  precedent  with  it, 
for  though  he  was  the  first  bad  poet 
who  wore  the  laurel,  he  was  not  die 
last  He  was  the  poetic-father  of  a 
Tate,  a  Eusden,  and  a  Pye.  But 
WilHam  was  essentiaUy  a  soldier. 
We  are  not,  therefore,  to  quarrel 
with  him  for  his  selection  of  Shad- 
well, or  that  he  mistook  Blackmore 
for  a  poet,  and  dubbed  him  Sir 
Richard  for  his  bad  epic  called  King 
Arthur. 

'*  The  hero  William    and    tbe    martyr 
Cbarles ; 
One   knighted    Blackmore    and    ona 
pensioned  Qoarles.*' 

But  here  the  rhjrme  occasioned  an 
injustice,  for  Quarles,  though 
tedious  at  times,  was  a  true  poet; 
whereas  Blackmore  is  one  dead  level 
of  a  bog  throughout. 

The  age  of  Anne  was  an  era  in  the 
history  of  letters.  Literary  men 
found  ample  and  almost  unexpected 
encouragement  from  the  ministerial 
advisers  of  the  cro^vn.  Whie  and 
Tory  leaders  vied  with  each  other  in 
advancing  the  interests  of  such  as  coul^ 
assist  them.  The  battle  of  Blei^el 
was  sung  by  a  Whig  and  by  a  Tf 
poet ;  and  Addison^s  Cato  was  a  p 


66 


Publio  Pairanage  of  Men  of  Letters.  [January, 


play.  The  great  Wfaiff  patron  was 
Charles  Montague,  earl  of  Halifax; 
the  great  Tory  patron,  Barley,  earl 
of  Oxford.  Halifax  fonnd  a  sinecure 
situation  for  Congreve,  and  Addison 
and  Steele  experienced  his  bounty. 
Pope  kept  aloof  from  the  sea  of  po» 
litics ;  while  Swift  was  the  adviser  of 
Harley,  and  Prior  his  ambassador  at 
the  luigue.  The  queen  herself  took 
very  little  interest  in  literature,  and 
Whiff  encouragement  ceased  when 
Charles  Montague  died;  for  the  great 
Duke  of  Marl&)rongh,  and  his  son- 
in-law  the  Lord  ^nreasurer  Godol- 
phin,  knew  or  eared  very  little  about 
it.  Yet  the  queen  was  not  insenfloble 
to  the  wants  of  literary  men.  Hie 
infant  children  of  Farquhar  received 
a  small  annuity  at  her  nand,  and  the 
widow  of  Betterton  a  pension  of  lOCtf. 
a-^r. 

The  death  of  the  queen  and  the 
accession  of  the  house  of  Hanover 
brought  the  Whigs  once  more  in 
office.  Addison  was  for  some  time 
secretary  of  state ;  Steele  received  a 
patent  u>r  a  new  theatre ;  Bowe  was 
sworn  in  as  poet- laureate,  and  his 
widow,  at  his  death,  received  a  pen- 
sion. But  Addison  was  not  very 
long;  in  office,  and  Steele*s  pecuniary 
difficulties  b^n  anew.  The  kinff 
was  a  Strang  to  our  language,  ana 
had  no  particular  taste  for  the  litera- 
ture of  the  people  he  came  amongst. 
His  favourite  Whigs  encountered  the 
ridicule  of  Swift  and  contemptuous 
irony  of  the  splenetic  St.  John.  The 
Whigs  had  no  one  to  defend  them. 
Addison  was  deftd,  and  Steele  idle 
and  unwilling.  They  soon  grew 
callous  to  what  was  said,  and  over- 
looked in  indifference  the  cultivation 
of  letters  and  the  wants  of  literary 
men.  Something,  however,  was  done. 
By  the  interest  and  friendship  of 
3>odington,  the  kin^  was  taught  to 
find  a  poet  in  Dr.  xoung,  and,  better 
still,  induced  to  settle  a  pension  of 
200/.  a-ycar  on  the  youthful  satirist 

Swift  has  made  a  oomphtint  in 
verse  of  the  neglect  of  letters  in  his 
time,  but  his  complaint  is  not  alto- 
gether founded  on  iustioe.  He  ac- 
cuses Halifax  of  neglecting  Congreve, 
talks  of  the  poet*s  '*  one  poor  raice/* 


and  then,  in  his  own  inimitable  way, 
raises  a  laugh  at  the  ^pense  of  the 
most  munificent  patron  of  genius  we 
had  had  as  yet  or  have  smoe  nad.  The 
truth  is,  Congreve  enjoyed  a  plural- 
ity of  offices.  He  had  no  estate  oi 
his  own ;  he  did  not  make  litemtiire 
a  profession ;  he  lived  like  the  gen- 
tleman he  assumed  to  be,  and  be  died 
rich.  But  Swift  was  too  fond  of 
saying  any  thing  ill-natured  against 
the  Earl  of  Haluax,  and  we  are  told 
that,— 

"  Congreve  spent  in  vriUn|;  pbja 

And  one  poor  offioa  belf  iiis  days ; 

While  Montague,  who  cUim'd  tbestmtioa 

To  be  Mecenas  of  the  nation, 

For  poeti  open  table  kept, 

Bat  ne*6r  consider'd  where  tbej  slept." 

Who  keeps  open  table  now  ?  Who 
has  kept  an  open  table  for  poets 
since  ?  But  Halifax  did  not  confine 
his  patronage  to  poets ;  he  knew  and 
valued  the  great  Sir  Isaac  Newton, 
and,  by  his  interest,  he  was  made 
Master  of  the  Mint.  The  truth  isy 
Swift  was  so  di^st^  with  the  Whi^ 
of  Walpole's  time,  that  every  Whig 
from  the  devil — ^who  was  the  fii^ 
Whig,  according  to  Dr.  Johnscm*s 
idea — came  in  for  a  share  of  his  sar- 
castic condemnation.  The  change 
was,  indeed,  great  between  the  re- 
gard entertained  for  letters  in  the 
reign  of  Queen  Anne,  and  the  l%ht 
in  which  letters  were  held  in  the 
reiffu  of  her  successor. 

Swift  pined  and  complained  in  a 
poor-paid  Irish  deanery.  It  is  true 
that  he  had  nothing  to  expect  finom  a 
Whig  administration.  His  ¥rit  was 
enlisted  on  the  other  side,  and  car- 
ried this  serious  evil  with  it,  that  the 
Whigs,  in  contemning  Swift,  ex- 
tended their  contempt  to  letters  in 
general. 

George  II.  was  just  such  another 
as  George  I.*,  and  Sir  Kobert  Wal- 
pole  just  such  another  as  the  Earl  of 
Godolphin.  The  king  left  every 
thing  to  Walpole  and  his  queen. 
And  what  a  reign ! 

"  Beneath  his  reign  shall  Eusden  wear 

the  bays, 
Cibber  preside  lord  ebancelknr  of  plays." 


*  "  O  oould  I  mount  on  the  Maeonian  wing, 

Your  arms,  your  actions,  yonr  repose  to  sing  ! 
Pat  verset  alas,  your  majesty  disdaina ! " 

Pore  to  CftorgB  JI» 


1846.] 


PttUk  Patronage  of  Men  of  Letters. 


67 


Walpole  encouraged  no  kind  of 
merit ;  the  contempt  of  posterity  was 
nothing  to  a  man  who  nad  no  cares, 
or  wants,  or  anxieties  beyond  the 
exigencies  of  the  year.  Gray  ex- 
prised,  like  Spenser,  the  sorrows  of 
court  expeetaneies ;  and  jevery  at- 
tempt to  direct  the  current  of  patron- 
age into  the  wide  field  of  literature 
was  wholly  ineffectual, — 

"  Harmonious  Gibber  entertains 
The  court  with  annual  birthday  straina  j 
Whence  Gay  waa  baniah'd  in  disgrace; 
Where  Pope  will  never  aheir  hta  hoe  : 
Where  Young  must  torture  his  ioren. 

tion. 
To  flatter  knaves  or  lose  his  pension." 

SwiTT. 

The  whole  patronage  of  the  crown 
was  engrossed  by  Walpole;  and 
''Bob,  the  poet's  foe,*"  as  he  was 
called,  felt  a  secret  pleasure  in  over- 
looking the  claims  of  literature  a«Kl 
the  necessities  of  literary  men. 

Gay  sot  something,  it  is  true,  at 
last  He  was  offered  the  situation  of 
gentleman-usher  to  the  Princess 
Louisa,  a  girl  of  two  years  old. 

"  Say«  had  the  court  no  better  place  to 

choose 
For  thee  than  malce  a  dry-nurse  of  tliy 

Muse? 
How  cheaply  had  thy  liberty  been  sold, 
To  squire  a  royal  girl  of  two  years  old ; 
In  leading-strings  her  infant  steps  to 

guide, 
Or  with  her  go-cart  amble  aide  by  side." 

Great  interest  had  been  made  for 
Gay.  Mrs.  Howard,  the  mistress  of 
the  king,  used  all  her  influence  in  his 
behalf;  but  Walpole  stood  in  the 
way  of  his  obtainmg  a  pension  or  a 
post  of  honour.  The  ^  servile  usher*s 
place  **  was  thought  an  insult,  and  as 
such  was  indignantly  declined.  Wal- 
pole, perhaps,  suspected  as  much; 
and  he  knew  that,  in  obstructing 
Gay*s  advancement,  he  angered  Swil^ 
whom  he  hated,  and  Bolingbrokc, 
whom  he  detested.  Gay  had  no  se- 
cond offer,  and  Pope  complains  that  a 
poet  of  his  reputation  should  die  un- 
X)en8ioned, — 

"Gay  dies  unpension'd  with  a  hundred 
friends.'* 

Caroline,  queen  of  George  II.  felt 
or  affected  a  sympathy  with  men  of 
genius.  She  conversed  with  New- 
ton and  corresponded  with  Leibnitz. 


To  the  widow  of  Dr.  Clarke  she  as* 
agned  a  yearly  pension.  Savage 
enlisted  himseu  as  her  volunteer 
laureate,  and  enjoyed  her  bounty. 
He  was,  however,  excluded  at  her 
death,  and  the  only  one  excluded 
fVom  the  list  of  persons  entitled  to 
pensions  from  the  crown.  In  Rich- 
mond garden  she  erected  a  Temple 
of  Fame,  containing  the  busts  of  four 
great  men,  Locke,  Newton,  Wool- 
aston,  and  Clarke,  and  gave  the 
key  of  the  temple  to  Stephen  Duck, 
the  thresher-poet.  The  wits  played 
off  their  jokes  at  her  majesty's  ex- 
pense. Pope  accuses  her  of  sneakinj^ 
mm  living  worth  to  dead ;  and  Swift 
admires  her  parsimony  in  exalting 
heads  that  cannot  eat. 

Frederick  prince  of  Wales,  the 
lather  of  George  III.,  was  to  have 
had  a  niche  in  a  new  edition  of  the 
royal  and  noble  authors.  The  prince, 
it  appears,  is  the  author  of  a  French 
hunting  song.  He  did  not,  however, 
exhibit  anv  partiality  for  poets. 
Lord  Lyttelton,  his  secretary,  and  a 
poet  withal,  saddled,  it  is  true,  some 
poetic  pensioners  upon  him.  Mal- 
let was  made  assistant-secretary ;  the 
gentle  elegiac  Hammond  filled  the 
oflice  of  equerry  to  the  prince ;  10<W. 
a-year  was  assigned  to  Gilbert  West, 
and  the  same  sum  to  Thomson,  the 
poet  of  The  Seaaom,  See  by  how 
slight  a  tenure  they  held  their  situ- 
ations, and  how  little  the  prince,  in 
reality,  cared  for  the  authors  he  had 
about  him !  He  quarrelled  with  Lyt- 
telton, and  the  poets  were  all  routed 
in  a  day. 

'*The  accession  of  George  III. 
opened,**  says  Boswell,  "  a  new  and 
brighter  prospect  to  men  of  literary 
merit,  who  had  been  honoured  witn 
no  mark  of  roval  favour  in  the  pre* 
ceding  reign.*  The  new  minister, 
Lord  Bute,  gave  a  pension  of  300/. 
a-year  to  Dr.  Johnson,  and  the  same 
sum  to  Home,  the  author  of  Douglas, 
Beattie  and  Mallet  were  pensioned 
by  the  crown.  The  king  conde- 
scended to  converse  with  Dr.  John- 
son. His  minister  rcconmiended  a 
literary  work  of  great  national  im- 
portance to  the  pen  of  Walpole,  and 
neld  out  hopes  tnat  the  work  would 
meet  with  tne  encouragement  of  go- 
vernment. But  Bute  went  out  of 
power,  and  nothing  was  done.  Small 
annuities  to  litcrarv  men  still  con- 
tinued to  be  granted.  Dr.  Shcbbeare 


68 


Public  PalronatjB  of  Men  of  Leiiers..  [January, 


and  Tom  Sheridan  each  received  a 
pension.    The  king,  it  was  said,  had 

Sensioncd  a  he'bear^  meaning  Dr. 
ohnson,  as  well  as  a  she^bear  (Dr. 
Shcbbeare).  Ko  one  knew  why 
Tom  Sheridan  received  a  pension. 
"What I"  said  Johnson,  "have. they 
given  him  a  pension?  Then,  it  is 
time  for  me  to  give  up  mine.** 

The  wisdom  of  rewarding  litera- 
ture in  the  person  of  Tom  Sheridan 
may  well  be  doubted.  Mallet  had 
no  great  claims  upon  the  government 
as  a  literary  man.  His  ballad,  it  is 
true,  is  very  beautiful ;  but  WUUam 
and  Margaret  did  nothing  for  Him. 
He  was  pensioned  for  the  dirty  work 
he  had  executed  for  a  ministry  in 
want  of  support.  Many  writers  of 
sterling  reputation  were  in  the  mean- 
time overlooked.  The  delightful 
author  of  The  Vicar  of  W^iejield 
became,  for  yery  existence,  a  mere 
literary  hack  or  drudge  for  book- 
sellers. "  In  Ireland,  says  Gold- 
smith, "  there  has  been  more  money 
spent  in  the  encouragement  of  the 
Padareen  ware,  than  ^iven  in  re- 
wards to  literary  men  since  the  time 
of  Usher.**  Smollett  sought  the  as- 
sistance of  Lord  Shelburne,  then  in 
power,  but  nothing  was  done  for  the 
entertaining  novelist ;  and  he  was 
allowed  to  end  his  days  in  perpetual 
exile,  pinched  in  his  means,  and  en- 
feebled in  body,  from  the  incessant 
employment  of  his  pen.*  Bums  was 
snatched  from  the  sickle  and  the 
plough  "  to  ^uge  ale  firkins,**  and 
support  a  wife  and  family  on  the 
poor  emoluments  of  an  cxciseman*s 
office.  A  woxd  to  the  Commissioners 
of  Excise  in  Scotland,  from  one  who 
quoted  his  poems  to  Mr.  Addington 
with  the  highest  approbation,  would 
have  given  him  a  lift  in  his  office, 
gladdened  the  hearth,  and  length- 
ened the  life  of  a  true-born  poet. 
We  refer  to  Mr.  Pitt;  when  Mr. 


Addington  reminded  that  great  states- 
man of  the  poet*s  genius,  and  the 
noor  situation  it  was  his  lot  to  fill, 
Mr.  Pitt  promised  to  do  something 
for  him,  pushed  the  bottle  on,  and 
remembered  hb  promise,  if  he  re- 
membered it  at  ail,  when  the  fine* 
hearted  poet  of  genuine  nature, 

"  Who  to  the  '  Illustrions*  of  bis  native 
land. 
So  properly  did  look  for  patronBges" 

was,  alas,  no  more  t 

If  ever  a  poet  deserved  a  pension 
from  the  Bntish  crown  for  the  real 
service  he  had  rendered  his  countiy, 
that  poet  was  Charles  Dibdin.  ws 
hallads  and  son^  cheered  up  the 
heart  of  poor  Jack  in  stormy  times, 
maintained  a  manly  and  a  loyal  fed- 
ing  throughout  the  British  nftyTi 
and  are  working  the  same  good  still. 
They  are  the  best  exponents  of  the 
heart  of  an  English  sailor.  But  what 
was  done  for  Dibdin  ?  Somethiiig, 
we  helieve,  at  last,  when  he  was  old 
and  unable  to  enjoy  it — solitary,  and 
could  not  impart  it. 

Pope  went  to  sleep  while  Fred- 
erick prince  of  Wales  talked  about 
poetry  to  him  at  his  own  table ;  but 
George  IV.,  while  conyersing  acci- 
dentally on  the  same  subject,  could 
engage  the  ear  of  a  poet  as  much  in- 
clinea  to  quarrel  with  kings  as  Pope 
himself. 

"  He/'  (the  Prince  Regent)  Lord 
Byron  writes  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  *'  of 
dered  me  to  be  presented  to  him  at  a 
ball :  and  after  some  sajiogs  pecaliarly 
pleasing  from  royal  lips,  as  to  my  ofrii 
attempts,  he  talked  to  me  of  vou  and 
your  immortalities;  he  preferred  you  to 
every  bard  past  and  present,  and  asked 
wliich  of  your  works  pleased  roe  most. 
It  was  a  difficult  question.  I  answered, 
I  thought  the  Lay,  He  said  his  own 
opinion  was  nearly  similar.  In  speoking 
of  the  others,  I  told  him  that  I  thought 
you  more  the  poet  of  princes,  as  they 


*  "  But  what  is  this  you  tell  me  of  your  perpetual  exile,  and  of  jour  never  re* 
turning  to  this  country  1  I  hope  that  as  this  idea  rose  from  the  had  state  of  your 
health,  it  will  vanish  on  your  recovery,  which,  from  your  past  experience,  you  mty 
expect  from  those  ha)jpier  climates  to  which  yon  are  retiring :  after  which,  the  desire 
of  revisiting  your  native  country  will  probably  return  upon  you,  unless  the  superior 
cheapness  of  foreign  countries  prove  an  obstacle,  and  detain  you  there,  i  could  wish 
that  means  had  been  fallen  on  to  remove  this  obiection  ;  and  that,  at  least,  ii  might 
be  equal  to  you  to  live  any  where,  except  when  the  consideration  of  your  health  gate 
you  preference  to  one  climate  above  another.  But  the  indifference  of  ministers  to- 
ward literature,  which  has  been  long,  and  indeed  almost  always  the  case  in  England, 
gives  little  prospect  of  ony  alteration  in  this  particular." — David  Hume  to  Smollett, 
tut  Sept,  1768. 


1846.] 


Public  Patronage  of  Men  of  Letters. 


69 


never  appeared  more  faacinating  than  in 
MarmioHt  and  the  Lady  of  the  Lake.  He 
was  pleased  to  coiocide,  and  to  dwell  on 
the  description  of  yonr  Jameses,  as  no  leas 
royal  ana  poetical.  He  spoke  alter« 
natelj  of  Homer  and  yourself,  and  seemed 
well-acquainted  with  both." 

This,  it  must  be  owned,  is  a  very 
pleasing  anecdote;  but  the  prince 
was  invariably  kind  to  Scott.  He 
offered  him  the  laureateship,  con- 
ferred a  baronetcy  upon  him,  gave 
him  a  gold  snuffbox  set  in  brilliants, 
*'  as  a  testimony  of  his  esteem  for  his 
genius  and  merit;**  made  him  a  pre- 
sent of  a  splendid  copy  of  Mont- 
fau9on*s  AntiquiUes  richly  bound  in 
scarlet,  and  a  set  of  the  Variorum 
Classics,  for  the  library  at  Abbots- 
ford  ;  anointed  his  son  Charles  to 
a  clerksnip  in  the  Foreign  Office; 
made  up  what  he  called  *'a  snug 
little  dinner  for  him**  at  Carlton 
House ;  called  him  by  his  Christian 
name  of  Walter ;  talked  of  his  "  ty- 
rannical self;**  quoted  Tom  Moore, 
**  Don*t  you  remember  Tom  Moore*fl 
description  of  me  at  breakfast  ? — 

"  '  The  table  spread  with  tea  and  toast. 
Death-warrants  and  the  Morning  Pott ; 


it> 


commanded  him,  on  another  occa- 
sion, to  pass  a  day  with  him  at  Wind- 
sor, where  he  was  received,  he  tells 
us,  with  the  same  mixture  of  kindness 
and  courtesy  which  always  distin- 

fuished  the  king*s  conduct  towards 
im. 

If  other  testimony  were  wanted  of 
King  George  IV.'s  regard  for  let- 
ters, his  annual  gift  to  the  Royal 
Society  of  Literature,  already  alluded 
to,  would  be  proof  sufficient.  There 
is,  however,  a  little  picture,  not  so 
well  known  as  it  deserves  to  be, 
which  exhibits  him  in  a  most  pleasing 
light.  The  picture  we  refer  to  is 
contained  in  a  letter  written  in  1826, 
and  addressed  bv  the  king  himself  to 
the  late  Sir  William  Knighton :  — 

*«  Dear  Friend,^  A  little  charitable 
impulse  induces  me  to  desire  you  to  in- 
quire  into  the  distressed  circumstances  of 
poor  old  O'Keefe,  now  ninety  years  of 
age  and  stone-blind,  whom  I  knew  a  lit- 
tle of  formerly,  havinz  occasionally  met 
him  at  parties  of  my  juvenile  recreation 
and  hilarity,  to  which  he  then  contri« 
buted  not  a  little.  Should  you  really 
find  him  so  low  in  the  world,  and  so 
divested  of  all  comfort  as  he  ia  repre- 
ae&ted  to  be,  then  I  do  conceife  that 


there  can  be  no  objection  to  yoor  offering 
him  from  me  such  immediate  relief,  or 
such  a  moderate  annual  stipend,  as  will 
enable  him  to  close  his  hitherto  long  life 
in  comfort, — at  any  rate,  free  from  want 
and  i^solute  begfcary,  which  I  greatly 
fear,  at  present,  is  but  too  truly  his  actual 
condition  and  situation.  Perhaps,  on 
many  accounts  and  reasons,  which  I  am 
sure  I  need  not  mention  to  you,  this  had 
best  be  effectuated  by  an  immediate  ap- 
plication, through  you,  to  our  lively  little 
friend,  G.  Colman,  whose  good  heart 
will,  I  am  certain,  lead  him  to  give  us  all 
the  assistance  he  can,  especiiuly  as  it  ia 
for  the  preservation  of  one  of  his  oldest 
invalided  brothers  and  worshippers  of 
the  I'hespian  Muse.  U.  R*" 

This  is  very  beautiful.  Instances 
of  this  kind  are  of  too  rare  an  oc- 
currence. 

We  have  already  alluded  to  a 
speech  of  Sir  Robert  Peel's  in  par- 
liament, and  when  out  of  power,  in 
reply  to  a  proposition  of  Mr.  Hume*a 
that  the  leadmg  characters  of  our 
country  in  literature,  art,  and  science, 
should  receive  some  badge  or  riband 
of  distinction  from  the  crown.  He 
ridiculed  the  idea,  and  preferred  the 
soUd  pudding  of  a  pecuniary  reward 
to  the  mere  empty  honours  of  a  yard 
of  riband.  And  well  and  nobly  has 
he  made  good  his  sentiments.  Here 
is  a  list  of  the  pensions  he  granted 
during  his  two  administrations  of 
1835  and  1841:— 

of 

Mr.Soutbey 300 

Mr.  Wordsworth 300 

Mrs.  Somerville SOO 

Jamea  Montgomery .' 150 

The  widow  of  Pond  the  Astronomer 

Royal «00 

Wife  of  Profeaaor  Airy 300 

Professor  Faraday 300 

Mr.  Tytler,  the  hiatorian WO 

Mr.  Tennyson,  the  poet 800 

Lady  Shee 200 

The  widow  of  Thomas  Hood 100 

The  Whigs  copied  the  example 
set  them  by  Sir  Kobert  Peel.  Here 
is  a  list  of  jOcnsions  granted  by  the 
members  or  Lord  Melbourne's  go- 
vernment, from  April  1835,  to  Au- 
gust 1841  :— 

£ 

Thomas  Moore 300 

Lady  Morgan 300 

John  Banim,  the  novelist 150 

Sir  David  Brewster 300 

Colonel  Gur wood «00 


#u 


A  f»v»*v  «   «»»fvr»i*y*  iir^ 


V  «««>« 


Widow  of  Dr.  M'Crie 100 

MiuMitford 100 

]^]n.  Someryille  (additional) 100 

Pr.  Dalton  (additional) 150 

Lady  Morgan's  300/.  a-year,  when 
contraated  with  Miss  Mitford*8  soli- 
tary 100/.,  seems  hardly  fair;  but 
" the  lady"  had  a  chiim,  it  is  under- 
stood, on  one  distinguished  member 
of  the  administration,  and  the  amount 
was  measured  by  friendship  rather 
than  by  genius.  The  wording  of  the 
warrant  granting  a  pension  to  Co- 
lonel Gurwood  deserves  citation : — 

••  Victoria  R. 

**  Whereat  it  bath  been  represented 
uDto  ua,  that  Our  Truaty  and  WelUbe- 
loved  John  Garwood,  Companion  of  the 
Bath,  Lieutenant-Colonel  in  our  Army, 
hath  rendered  Eminent  Service  to  the 
public  by  tlie  publication  of  tbe  De. 
apatobes  of  Field  Marsbal  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  and  thus  diffuaing  and  per. 
petuating,  both  in  tbis  Country  and 
among  Foreign  Nations,  a  knowledge  of 
tbote  aehiovojnenta  which  hare  been  ef- 
fected by  the  British  Armies  under  the 
direction  of  that  Great  Commander/'  &o. 

The  Whin  wished  to  pay  a  com- 
pliment to  the  Duke,  so  they  gare  a 
literary  pension  of  200/.  a-year,  to 
the  editor  of  the  Duke*s  Despatches. 
Kor  was  the  nenston  undeserved. 
Far  from  it.  Colonel  Gurwood  has 
rendered  a  lasting  service  to  the  mi- 
litary and  political  history,  not  of 
Britain  alone,  at  the  time,  but  of 
the  whole  civilised  world. 

"  Could  a  man  live  by  poetry,  it 
were  not  unpleasant  employment  to 
be  a  poet.**  The  sentiment  is  not 
ours  further  than  by  adoption— it 
belongs  to  Goldsmith.  The  truth  of 
it  is  beyond  dispute.  He  who  writes 
an  heroic  poem  leaves  an  estate  en- 
tailed, ana  gives  a  greater  gift  to 
posterity  than  to  the  present  age. 
Love  of  fame,  "and  omciousness  of 
couBcience,'*  are  the  great  promotions 
to  the  toil  of  compiling  books ;  not  any 
idle  expectation  of  riches,  "  for  those 
that  spend  time,**  said  Sir  William 
Daveuant,  "  in  writing  to  instruct 
others  may  find  leisure  to  inform  them, 
selves  how  tnean  the  provisions  are 
which  busy  or  studious  minds  can 
make  for  their  own  sedentar}'  bodies.** 
Surely,  then,  a  government  is  to  be 
commended  that  puts  a  literary  man 
of  merit  above  want,  and  keeps  his 


imnd  apart  for  the  good  of  tlie 
lie  from  the  week-day  world  annoy- 
ances of  life.  We  are  not  altogefelaer 
in  favour  of  a  very  extended  tist  ^  of 
pensions  to  literaiy  men.  Neoeanty^ 
IS  a  sharp  task-mistren ;  bat  snflE- 
ciency,  wnile  it  puts  the  mind    At 

ease,  is  apt  to  occasion  indolence, 

a  ccmunon  attendant  on  the  litenia^ 
character.   Let  ns  not,  howoTer, 
into  the  other  extreme,  and 
writers  to  sharpen  their  wits,  as 
put  out  nightingales*  ^es  to  make 
them  sing  the  better.  Wnat  we  ahoulci 
like  to  see  set  about  would  be  the 
appropriation  by  parliament  of  an  ade- 
quate annual  grant  for  the  advaoiae- 
ment  of  worksof great  nationa]  import- 
ance, which  can  only  beundertakoBk  by- 
co-operative  labour.    The  fomiatiftii 
of  an  English  Etymological  Dictioa- 
ary  is  a  work  of  this  deacriptaoa ; 
a  History  of  England  is  a  second ;  a 
Bimaphia  Britanmca  a  third ;  a  kud 
of  &iDaen*s  BrUanmui  a  fourth.     In 
this  way,  as  Southey  remarks,  litera- 
ture might  gain  much  by  receiving 
national   encouragement;    but    go- 
vernment, as  he  adds  most  properly, 
would  gain  a  great  deal  more   by 
bestowing   it.     Some   abuse    there 
would  certainly  be,  as  in  the  disposal 
of  all  preferments,  civil,  military,  or 
ecclesiastical;  but  nothing  so  gross, 
we  conceive,  as  the  Record  Commis- 
sion, so  positively  bad  as  the  British 
Museum  Catalogue  of  Books,  or  so 
slow  in  publication,  or  priced  so  dear 
when  published,  as  the  quarto  Col- 
lection of  State  Papers,  issued  under 
the  authority  of  her  majesty*s  go- 
vernment.   The  nation  tliat  gave  the 
estate  of  Woodstock  and  the  palace 
of  Blenheim  to  the  descendants  of 
the  great  Duke  of  Marlborough  has 
as  yet  no  kind  of  record  of  the  actions 
of  the  duke  worthy  of  the  name  of 
history.    We  vote  bronze  statues  and 
marble  monuments  to  our  heroes, 
but  what  are  they  worth?    Lord 
Heathfield  is  seen  in  St.  Paul*s  as  a 
drunken  sentinel;  he  has  no  such 
monument  to  his  memory  as  Drink- 
water*s  Siege. 

King  Charles  I.  bestowed  the  laarel 
on  Jonson  with  an  increased  annuity 
(worth  much  more  than  it  is  now), 
**  especially,**  it  is  said,  "  to  encourage 
him  to  proceed  in  those  services  of 
his  wit  and  pen  which  we  have  en- 
joined unto  iiim,  and  which  we  ex- 
pect fVom    him.**      But    the  two 


\\ 


1846.] 


Public  PiUnmaga  of  Men  qf  Ltttert. 


71 


Charleses  selected  their  ownlaureates : 
their  successors  left  the  selection  to 
the  lord  chamberlain  f(ff  ^e  time 
being.  Only  look  at  the .  list  of 
laureates  in  succession  from  Bsn  Jon- 
son  to  Mr.  Wordsworth : — 

Ben  Jonson.  Laurence  Eusden. 

Sir  W.  Darenant.  Coller  Gibber. 

Drjden.  W.  Wbitebead. 

SbHdwell.  T.  Warton. 

Nabum  Tate.  Pye. 

Kowe.  Smitbej. 
Woffdswortb. 


CoUey  Cibb^,  when  dying,  i» 
to  have  recommended  Henrr  Jones 
to  the  Duke  of  Grafton  (the  then 
lord  chamberlain)  as  his  successor  in 
the  laurel.  But  the  duke  had  a  fancy 
for  Whitehead,  and  Whitehead  got 
it.  One  thing  is  pretty  certain,  we 
shall  neyer  see  sudi  laureates  again 
as  Shadwell,  Tate,  £u8d€B,  Cibbefi 
Whitehead,  and  Pye  :^ 

"  Wbat,  what ! 
Pye  come  ag^ain !     No  more,  no  more  of 
that !" 

Gray  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  deoimed 
the  laurel  when  it  was  offered  them ; 
but  the  greatest  of  our  poets  hereafter 
will  accept  it  with  pnde,  redeemed 
from  courtly  stains  and  Duneiad 
strains  as  it  has  been,  by  8oathey  and 
by  Wordswwrth. 

The  office  of  historiographer  to 
the  crown  has  been  still  worse  be- 
stowed among  historians  than  the 
laurel  of  the  court  among  English 
poets.  Howell,  the  entertaining  let- 
ter-writer, enjoyed  the  office  for 
some  time,  and  was  succeeded  by 
Dryden,  who  could  have  made  but  a 
slender  title  to  the  distinction.  Shad- 
well  snceeeded  Dryden,  and  Bymer 
micceeded  Shadwell.  The  eompiler 
of  the  Foedera  ^served  the  office,  a 
compliment  we  are  unwillng  to  pay 
to  any  one  of  his  successors.  Who 
has  heard  of  Robert  Stephens,  Tho- 
mas Phlllipe,  Richard  Stonehewer, 
or  even  Mjr.  J.  S.  Clarke  ?  For  this 
tame  Mr.  Clarke  it  was  that  Southey 
was  reftised  the  office.  Both  had 
written  bmgrapbies  of  Nelson,  but 
few  have  heard  of  Mr.  Clarke's,  while 
Southey*s  is,  without  question,  the 
most  faultless  piece  of  biography  in 
the  language.  The  Prince  Regent 
bad  something  to  do  with  this  ap^ 
pointment.    Mr.  Clarke  was  his  li- 


brarian, and  he  was  under  a  promlae 
to  exert  his  influence  in  his  behalf. 
The  prince  expressed  his  regret,  and, 
under  the  circumstances,  he  could  do 
no  more. 

"  God  maketh  poets,'*  says  Daniel 
to  Lord  Ellesmere,  "•  but  his  creation 
would  be  in  vain  \£  vatroM  did  not 
make  them  to  live.  Ben  Jonson 
got  but  20/.  by  all  his  works.  Book- 
sellers paid  but  a  small  pniehtte* 
money :  there  were  few  readers,  and 
they  could  not  afford  to  pay  move* 
What  waa  to  be  done?  The  ^ 
relied  on  his  patron  for  remuneration. 
Spenser  has  seventeen  dedicaiory  mm-' 
nets  before  Ma  Faint  Queen  ;  Chap* 
man,  sixteen  before  his  translation  of 
Homer.  Shakspeare  addresses  his  two 
minted  poems  to  Lord  Southampton 
m  the  language  of  (me  who  would 
be  glad  of  a  reward.  Dryden,  the 
great  master  of  praise  in  proee,  drew 
the  arrow  of  adulation  to  the  head, 
lie  has  three  distinct  dedications  to  his 
VirgU;  Dr.  Young  has  a  dedication 
before  each  Satire  (this  is  what  Swift 
calls  flattering  knaves),  and  Thomson 
four  dedications  in  verse  before  his 
Seasons.  Well  might  Widpole  affirm, 
tiiat  nothing  can  exceed  uie  flattery 
of  a  genealogist  but  that  of  a  dedic** 
tor.  Let  us,  not,  however,  too 
severely  condemn  the  poets  who 
pursued  the  trade  of  flattery  in  a 
dedication. 

But  booksellers,  as  new  readers 
arose,  improved  the  price  of  litera« 
ture.  The  patron  was  no  longer  a 
necessary  part  of  a  poet's  existence, 
rhr.  Johnson  could  do  without  Lord 
Chesterfield)  could  substitute  in 
satire  the  patron  for  the  garret : — 

"  Tbeie  mark  wbat  Hie  the  scbolir'a  life 

assail ; 
Toil,  enrj,  want,  tbe  patron  and    tlie 

gaol  j" 

eould  call  Andrew  Millar  the  book- 
seller the  Mecaenas  of  his  day,  and 
add  a  compliment  that  was  well  de- 
served, "  1  respect  Andrew  Millar, 
sir,  he  raised  the  price  of  literature." 
But  Millar,  and  his  apprentice  Cadell, 
did  more  than  this,  —  they  raised  an 
author  above  the  necessity  of  relj^ng 
on&patron. 

We  trust  that  literaiy  men  will, 
before  long,  assume  as  a  class  a  per- 
manent pcmtion  for  themselves,  and 
for  the  author^  who  come  after  them. 


72 


The  First  Flower- Painter. 


[JaDuary, 


TUB  FIRST  FLOWER-PAINTER. 

A  LBG£MP  OF  SICTON. 

'■  Life  but  repeats  itself,  all  stale  and  worn  ; 
Sweet  Phantasy  alone  is  young  for  ever : 
What  ne*er  and  nowhere  on  this  world  is  bom 
Alone  grows  aged  never." — Scuilleb. 


SicTON  is  among  the  most  celebrated 
cities  of  ancient  Greece,  disputing  the 
palm  of  superiority  with  Corinth 
Itself,  and  laying  claim  to  some  of  the 
roost  brilliant  inventions  of  that  much 
boasted  capital,  which  it  certainly 
excelled  in  its  school  of  sculpture  at 
least.  Amid  the  names  of  those 
gifted  ones  who  helped  to  make  it 
famous,  we  find  that  of  Famphilus 
and  Apelles,  together  with  a  lon^  list 
of  tradition  -  haunted  appellations, 
whose  peculiar  claim  to  be  remem* 
bered  has  faded  almost  entirely  away 
in  the  dim  chronicles  of  the  past. 
Lysippus  was  also  a  native  of  Sicyon ; 
and  rausias,  of  whom  is  related  a 
wild,  sweet  legend,  well  worth  listen* 
ingto. 

lie  was  the  son  of  Bries,  or  Brietes, 
as  some  call  it,  and  instructed  by  him 
in  the  first  rudiments  of  an  art  in 
which  he  afterwards  arrived  at  sin* 
|;ular  perfection,  considering  the  age 
m  which  he  lived,  and  subsequently 
studied  encaustic  in  the  school  of 
Famphilus.  The  word  encaustic  sig« 
uifies  a  kind  of  painting,  in  which, 
by  heating  or  burning  in  (as  the 
Greek  term  implies),  the  colours  are 
rendered  permanent  in  all  their  ori- 
ginal splendour.  But.  as  neither 
vitruvius,  nor  any  other  ancient  au- 
thor has  left  a  clear  account  of  the 
method  employed,  it  may  be  reason- 
ably doubted  whether,  among  the 
various  processes  adopted  or  recom- 
mended oy  the  modems,  the  right 
one  has  yet  been  discovered.  With 
this,  however,  we  have  nothing  to 
do,  further  than  briefly  alluding  to 
the  extraordinuy  proffress  made  by 
Fausias  under  his  giftea  master,  which 
left  all  future  competitors  far  behind. 

In  every  thing  he  undertook  he 
was  almost  equally  successful,  and 
toon  gained  for  himself  a  name  en- 
graven among  the  records  of  that 
bright  land.  And  there  it  might 
have  remained,  covered  with  the  dust 
of  ages,  blotted  out  with  thousands 
h«  dim  and  tim«-staiari 


annals  of  the  past,  or  preserved  only 
in  dictionary  lore,  but  for  the  halo  of 
a  sweet  romance  which  circled  round 
it  like  a  ^loiy,  blending  the  classical 
and  poetical  together  m  the  golden 
web  of  human  sympathy  and  asso- 
ciation. We  can  have  but  few 
thoughts  and  feelings  in  common 
with  that  young  Greek  artist,  exist- 
ing so  many  centuries  back ;  the  city 
in  which  he  dwelt  retaining  but  the 
name  of  what  it  was  then ;  his  style, 
the  very  means  by  which  he  achieved 
celebrity,  long  since  passed  away. 
But  when  we  read  that  in  his  youth 
he  loved  and  was  beloved — ay,  even 
as  it  is  with  the  young  in  our  own 
times — the  past  comes  home,  as  it 
were,  to  the  heart,  and  we  long  to 
hear  more,  imagination  promptly  sup- 
plying every  broken  link  in  the  chain 
of'^hj^gone  events. 

History  tells  us  that  the  maiden's 
name  was  Glycera,  that  she  was  a 
maker  of  garlands,  and  he  became 
enamoured  of  her  in  early  youth. 
Why  the  very  announcement  reads 
like  a  poem !  What  a  new  percep- 
tion of  the  beautiful  broke  over  the 
mind  of  Fausias  about  this  period, 
refining  and  idealising  it  in  a  stnuige 
manner  I  One  mieht  have  detected 
it  in  every  thing  Be  set  about ;  the 
harsh  outline,  and  rude,  unfinished 
conception  which  characterised  some 
of  his  first  productions,  rapidly  dis- 
appeared, and  were  succeeded  by  a 
delicacy  and  polish  unrivalled  at  that 
period.  About  this  time  he  first  be- 
gan to  paint  flowers. 

How  Glycera  laughed,  and  clapped 
her  little  white  hands  joyfully  toge- 
ther, when  Fausias  attempted  to  copy 
a  wreath  of  roses  which  she  was 
twining  for  a  festival,  laying  the  ori^ 
^inal  down  beside  it,  and  smellmg 
first  to  one  and  then  to  the  other,  as 
though  she  would  fain  have  the 
young  artist  believe  that  she  could 
not  tell  them  apart  I  But  though 
Fausias  laughed  with  her— who  comd 
help  itf— he  felt  that  they  might 


1846.] 


The  First  Flower-Painter. 


73 


have  been  better  done,  while  with 
the  feeling  came  the  determination 
that  they  should  be. 

Meanwhile  Glycera  took  away  the 
wreath  to  sdl — for  it  was  thus  she 
earned  her  simple  livelihood — asking 
leave  to  keep  the  copy ;  and,  as  he 
never  refused  her  any  thing,  it  was 
set  up  in  her  little  studio,  for  that 
ffarland-maker  was  an  artist,  too,  in 
her  way — at  least,  no  one  could  dis- 
pute her  rare  taste  in  the  blending 
together  of  those  glowing  colours 
which  formed  her  picturesque  em- 
ployment. When  rausias  came  to 
see  his  picture  surrounded  by  the 
real  flowers  themselves,  in  all  their 
beauty  and  freshness,  he  grew  pain- 
fully alive  to  its  many  faults ;  but  as 
Glycera,  with  a  pretty  wilfulness, 
absolutely  refused  to  have  it  removed 
until  he  painted  her  another  to  put 
in  its  place,  he  was  forced  to  comply 
with  her  request.  Certain  it  is  toat 
the  second  was  a  wonderful  imprpve- 
ment,  although  the  artist  himself  was 
still  far  from  satisfied,  resting  not 
until  he  gradually  arrived  at  the 
highest  perfection  in  that  new  art,  of 
which  he  may  truly  be  said  to  be  the 
inventor — the  first  flower-painter ! 

Glvcera  was,  most  likeiy,  only  a 
simple  garland-wreather,  and  with- 
out much  mind  to  comprehend  the 
more  ambitious  aspirings  of  her  gifted 
lover.  But  what  did  that  matter,  so 
she  had  the  heart  to  love  and  re- 
verence him  as  she  must  needs  have 
done?  But  in  this  new  pursuit, 
which  he  had  learned  of  her,  or  to 
please  her,  the  maiden  dearly  loved 
to  play  the  connoisseur.  First  of  all, 
it  was  ten  to  one  she  would  own  that 
there  was  any  fault  in  her  eyes ;  but 
when  Pausias  was  urgent  that  she 
should  try  and  find  some — for  well 
he  knew  that,  fh>m  constant  asso- 
ciation with  the  original,  her  taste 
for  the  picturesque  and  beftutif^l  was 
pure  and  judicious,  and  liking,  per- 
haps, to  be  taught  of  her,  if  it  was 
only  for  the  very  novelty  of  the  thing 
— Ulycera  would  draw  up  her  little 
graceful  figure  to  its  utmost  height, 
and  fixing  her  dark  eyes,  half  playnil- 
ly ,  half deprecatiiigly,on  his,  as  thou£[h 
wondering  at  her  own  temerity  m 
schooling  nim,  and  looking  ever  gen- 
tlest when  she  chided,  begin  criticising 
with  the  softest  voice  and  the  sweetest 
smile  imufinable.   And  when  Pausias 

^xctoim^a  tb«t  she  was  right,  and  he 


had  not  noticed  the  defect  before, 
would  look  so  proud  for  a  little  mo- 
ment, and  then  be  quite  angry  at  his 
fancying  she  meant  to  odl  it  a  defect, 
when  it  was  nothing,  positively  no- 
thing, or  only  what  the  least  shade 
of  colour  would  rectify  in  an  in- 
stant. The  alteration  was  made,  and 
Pausias  even  thanked  her  for  the 
su^estion ;  but  Glycera,  like  a  true 
woman,  took  care  that  this  should 
not  happen  very  often.  After  all,  it 
is  so  much  pleasanter  to  admire  than 
criticise ;  so  difiicult  to  find  any  fault 
in  the  compositions  of  those  we  love. 

'^  How  strange  V*  said  Glycera,  one 
evening,  as  she  sat  among  her  flowers ; 
**  these  roses  fiide  even  before  I  can 
well  make  use  of  them,  while  yours 
will  live  for  ever !" 

^  Not  quite,"  answered  the  artist, 
with  a  smile.  ^  I  wish  it  conld  be 
so." 

^  And  what  is  there  to  hinder  it  ?** 

**  Nothing,'*  replied  her  lover,  with 
a  wild  enthusiasm  that  seemed  to  defy 
all  earthly  obstacles.  *^  There  is  no 
barrier  between  genius  and  immor- 
tality; not  even  death  itself,  so  it 
allow  us  time  only  to  achieve  great- 
ness 1" 

Glycera  looked  up  wonderingly  in 
her  lover's  face,  without  venturing 
to  speak  again,  and  it  seemel  to  her 
like  the  countenance  of  a  god. 

^  Have  I  frightened  you,  dear 
one  P"  asked  he  at  length. 

^^  No,  I  love  to  hear  you  talk  thus. 
I,  too,  should  like  to  be  immortal." 

"  You,  Glycera?"  And  there  was 
something  of  pity  in  the  fond  smile 
of  the  young  artist  as  he  bent  to- 
wards her. 

'^  Yes,  indeed,  and  it  is  in  your 
power  to  make  me  so,  if  you  will ! " 

» If_but  vou  are  talking  idly  now, 
my  Glycera!" 

»  why,  what  should  liinder  you 
drawing  me,  as  well  as  yonder  wreath  ? 
and  then  I,  too,  should  live  for  ever 
through  your  genius  I" 

The  artist  was  struck  with  the  idea ; 
and  the  girPs  perfect  and  trusting 
reliance  on  his  skill  and  power  to 
bring  it  to  pass,  seemed  to  gift  him 
with  superhuman  strength.  After 
all,  even  if  he  failed,  there  wonld  be 
no  great  harm  done ;  and  should  he 
suooeMi,  and  something  whiflpered 
that  it  would  be  so,  how  glorious  a 
triumph  would  be  his !  Yes,  Glycera 
Bbottld  have  her  wi«h  **  immorMity 


74 


The  Pint  Flower-Painter. 


[Jaauarr^ 


throagfa  hiniv  and  their  names  be 
blended  together  throughout  all 
agesl 

"  Faufitas,  speak  to  me  !*'  exclaimed 
his  companion,  startled  by  the  pale 
cheek  and  burning  eyes  of  her  en- 
thusiastic lover.  "  X  ou  arc  not  angry, 
surely?  But,  perhaps,  you  tmnk 
me  too  presumptuous  r' 

"  Not  a  whit — it  shall  be  done! 
You  beUeve  that  I  can  do  this,  Gly- 
eera?" 

"  I  believe  that  you  can  do  any 
thing!" 

''  And  yet  it  is  a  difficult  task," 
observed  the  painter,  as  his  flashing 
glance  rested  on  that  young  and 
beautiful  face. 

"  Nay,  I  will  sit  so  still  and  quiet 
—only  try." 

"  We  will  begin  to-morrow,  then." 

^*  So  soon !  on,  what  happiness ! " 

Such  was  the  origin  of  the  fa- 
mous "  Stephaneplocos,"  or  garland- 
wreather,  as  it  was  afterwar£  called. 

The  following  day  Pauslas  com- 
menced his  labour  of  love ;  nor  had 
all  Glycera*s  little  coquettish  arts  in 
the  interim  been  entirely  thrown 
away,  for  never  did  she  look  more 
baiutiful ;  and  the  artist  resolved  to 
paint  her  as  she  was  then,  sitting 
amonff  her  flowers,  and  holding  a 
wreath  of  them  carelessly  in  her 
hand,  as  though  she  had  just  finished 
twining  it.  Truth  to  say,  the  original 
of  that  celebrated  picture  was  charm- 
ing enough  to  have  inspired  one  even 
less  gifted  than  the  young  Greek. 
The  attitude,  the  timid  consdousness 
of  her  ovm  loveliness,  beaming  forth 
in  that  half-playful,  half- bashful 
glance,  although  perfectly  natural 
and  unstudied,  appeared  the  very 
perfection  of  artistic  grace ;  and  Fau- 
nas had  onljjr  to  suggest  to  his  fkir 
sitter — and  it  was  a  needless  caution 
—  the  necessity  of  her  keeping  her 
attention  fixed  upon  him. 

Weeks  paroed  on,  and  the  picture 
grew  in  beauty  beneath  his  master- 
touch.  Glycera,  in  her  wild  delight, 
knew  not  which  to  admire  most,  her- 
self or  the  flowers,  and  would  persist 
in  maintaining  that  the  former  was 
flattered — for  the  pleasure,  perhaps, 
of  being  contradicted  by  her  lover, 
as  a  matter  of  course ;  and  told,  for 
the  hundredth  time,  how  utterly  im- 
possible it  was  for  any  human  artist 
ever  even  to  hope  to  delineate  the 
ohangefol  beauty  of  that  radiant  face* 


But  Fausiafl  had  many  other  thiD^ 
to  engage  his  attention,  and,  man- 
like, began  to  tire  a  little  of  benig  00 
constantly  chained  to  one  sabjeet; 
and  although  he  always  hoped  that 
the  ''  Step&neplocos"  would  be  his 
chef'd'cenvre,  and  bestowed  more 
pams  upon  it  than  upon  all  the  rest 
of  his  works  put  together,  he  did  not 
seem  in  any  great  hurry  to  get  it 
fijiished,  but  lingered  over  the  subject 
in  a  sort  of  pla}%il  dalliance,  witlMut 
makmg  much  visible  progresa. 

Fausias  has  been  acciued  by  faia 
contemporaries,  and  not  wkhoat 
some  shadow  of  truth,  of  being  a 
slow  painter ;  and  although  the  cen- 
sure was  effectually  silenced  at  the 
time  by  his  famous  **  Hemereaiofi,'* 
or  work  of  a  day,  that  being  the 
brief  period  in  which  he  completed 
the  picture  of  a  boy,  execntea  with 
wonaerful  taste  and  delicacy,  taking 
into  consideration  the  shortness  of 
the  time  allotted  to  his  self-imposed 
task,  the  satire  was,  nevertheless,  not 
entirely  without  foundation.  And 
what  if  it  was  so  ?  The  rivals  who 
criticised  him  have  paraed  into  ob- 
livion, while  the  artist  is  remembered 
still.  All  great  things  are  Imntu  of 
time,  and  matured  by  study  and  re- 
flection. But  for  that  very  slowness 
he  might  never  have  arrived  at  the 
eminence  he  afterwards  attained  in 
the  skilful  management  of  lights  and 
shadows,  for  which  the  works  of  this 
great  painter  are  peculiarly  distin- 
guished. 

Glycera  evinced,  at  length,  so  much 
impatience  that  the  picture  ^lonld 
be  gone  on  with,  that  Fausias  could 
not  help  inquiring  with  a  smile,  whe- 
ther she  was  afraid  all  the  flowers 
would  fade  awav  P 

"  It  is  not  the  flowers  only  that 
are  mortal,  my  Fausias!"  replied  the 
girl,  turning  aside  her  head. 

Struck  by  the  sad  tones  of  her 
voice,  he  gazed  upon  her  more  at- 
tcntivelv.  Surely  she  wan  much 
changed  I  Could  it  be  the  l^ht 
which  fell  upon  her  ?  Or  the  crim- 
son flowers  wreathed  amid  her  dark 
hair?  Thc^  were  enough  to  make 
any  one  look  pale, — but  not  so  thin, 
BO  strangely  attenuated. 

^You  are  ill!"  said  Fausias.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  noticed  it ; 
but  we  often  find  it  thus :  those  who 
love  us  best  and  truest  toe  frequently 
the  last  to  observe  a  change,  long 


1846.] 


The  Pint  Fhwer^Painier. 


75 


ago  pereeptible^  the  glance  of  othen 
leas  interested.  61ycera*s  jonxkg  com-* 
panions  bad  often  mentioned  it  of 
late ;  but  she  only  laughed  and  shook 
her  head,  saying,  and  perhaps  be- 
lieving then,  that  it  was  nothing, 
and  she  should  soon  be  well  ^;ain. 

^'  You  are  ill !'"  repeated  Iniusias, 
once  more ;  while  she  yet  meditated 
how  to  answer,  and  whether  to  at- 
tempt any  longer  to  conceal  it  from 
him. 

*'  No ;  but  I  fear  to  be.  It  is  this 
feeling  that  makes  me  impatient 
sometimes.  Pausias,  you  promised 
me  immortality  !'* 

What  mockery  there  was  for  him 
who  loved  her  in  those  wild  words  I 
in  the  meek«  trusting  look  with 
which  she  clung  to  him  I  How  pow- 
erless, after  al^  is  our  vain,  human 
worship ! — Our  purest  affection !  Is 
there  nothing  that  we  can  do?  If 
we  were  to  lay  down  our  very  lives 
for  them,  of  wnat  avail  would  it  be  ? 
None !  In  our  strongest  love  we 
are  as  weak  as  little  children  to  save 
the  olyject  of  it  from  one  corporeal 
pang.  We  can  but  pray  for  them. 
The  young  Greek  repeated  the  word 
immortality  with  white  lip. 

'*  Let  me  owe  it  to  you !  whispered 
Glycera,  again ;  and  she  pressed 
cIcMier  to  him,  and  rested  her  droop- 
ing head  upon  his  shoulder.  "  It  was 
too  much  nappiness  to  be  with  you 
here  on  earth;  but  to  live  in  the 
memory  of  your  future  fame  is  life 
enough  for  me.'* 

Pausias  interrupted  her  with  pas- 
sioottte  lamentations.  It  was  a  sad 
triumph  for  her  to  learn  in  them 
how  dear  she  was  to  him,  and  how 
well  content  he  would  be  to  give  up 
all  other  ties  of  hope  and  ambition 
which  the  world  held  for  him,  to 
preserve  the  young  life  rapidly  ebbing 
away.  To  ne  sure,  these  were  mere 
wiurds;  taken  from  his  art,  Pausias 
would  have  been  the  most  miserable 
man  alive,  and  even  Glycera's  love 
have  utterly  failed  to  satisfy  or  console. 
But  he  did  not  think  so  then ;  and 
she-— oh,  it  was  so  natural! — believed 
every  syllable  he  told  her,  feeling 
stransely  happy  in  consequence.  And 
yet  there  was  no  selfishness  in  the 
neart  of  the  young  garland-wreather. 
She  would  not  for  worlds  have  pur- 
chased life  itself,  precious  as  it  seemed 
to  her  now,  at  such  a  sacrifice;  but 


it  was  sweet  to  die  so  loved  and 
mourned. 

After  this,  Pausias  devoted  himself 
almost  entirel^r  to  the  **Steplume- 
plocos.**  And  it  b  said  that  Glycera 
not  only  attired  herself  with  the 
most  studied  care,  but  even  painted 
ber  face,  in  order  the  more  effect- 
ually to  conceal  the  fearful  ravages 
of  disease,  lest  the  original  freshness 
of  the  picture  should  be  destroyed  ; 
or,  perhaps,  with  the  feminine  desire 
of  looking  better  in  her  lover's  eyes, 
not  only  at  the  present  moment,  but 
when  ne  should  have  nothing  but 
that  portrait  left  to  remind  him  of 
the  past.  While  deceived  by  this 
womanly  device,  Pausias  continued 
to  indulge  a  wild,  vain  hope,  destined 
never  to  be  realised.  Sometimes  he 
would  advise  the  picture's  being  put 
aside  for  a  few  weeks,  until  she  was 
better;  looking  into  her  dark  eyes 
while  he  spoke  with  such  earnest 
scrutiny,  that  Glycera,  controlling 
the  sudden  impulse  which  she  felt  to 
fling  herself  upon  his  bosom,  and 
tell  him  that  would  never  be,  an- 
swered only  by  light,  playful  words. 

"  Nay,  idler !  no  excuse,  or  I  shall 
think  you  have  some  other  work  on 
hand.  And  it  is  so  nearly  fimahetl 
now,  and  so  beautiful ! — the  flowers, 
I  mean" — added  the  girl,  with  a 
smile  and  a  blush. 

^Not  half  beautiful  enough;  and 
I  do  not  mean  the  flowers,  my  Gly- 
cera !  But  you  must  have  your  way, 
I  suppose? 

*^  K>  be  sure ;"  and  she  went  and 
sat  down  in  her  usual  place.  It  was 
a  strange  notion ;  but  Pausias  could 
not  hdp  thinking  as  he  worked,  how 
many  flower- wreaths  had  faded  awa^ 
since  the  picture  was  first  began. 

It  was  a  bright  summer  evening 
when  the  masterpiece  of  the  young 
artist  received  its  fim'shing  touch; 
and  he  called  to  Grlycera  to  ccmie  and 
play  the  critic  as  she  used.-  But  if 
there  were  any  faults,  she  could  not 
see  them  now  for  tears ;  while  her 
grateftil  thanks,  blended  with  sweet 
praise,  fell  soothingly  on  his  ear. 
And  yet  she  seemed  strangely  sad, 
as  though  her  mission  were  at  an  end. 

It  was  a  wild  supposition ;  but  the 
Greek  girl,  looking  back  upon  the 
past,  felt  that  she  had  been  bom 
only  for  this  purpose — to  instil  into 
the  mind  of  her  artist-lover  agentler 


76 


The  First  Flower-Painter. 


[Janaary, 


and  more  refined  conception  of  the 
beautiful— to  win  him  mto  a  new 
and  hitherto  untrodden  pathway  to 
the  temple  of  Fame— to  be  the  poetry 
of  his  youth— the  ascnt,  the  mcen- 
tive,  the  day-star  of  future  immor- 
tality! a  portion  of  which  would  be 
reflected  back  upon  herself.  A  ro- 
mantic dream,  passing  earl^  away, 
and  idealising,  rather  than  mterfer- 
ing  with  the  sterner  duties  of  an 
active  and  glorious  manhood.  What 
happiness! — what  a  privilege  for  Glv- 
cera,  to  live  and  die  for  him  she 
loved!  How  many  would  fain  do 
likewise,  if  they  might !  And  who 
knows,  thought  the  young  dreamer, 
but  what  I  may  be  yet  permitted, 
invisible  to  mortal  eves,  to  be  his 
ministering  spirit  still!  A  bright 
smile  settled  like  a  g;leam  of  sunlight 
upon  the  brow  of  the  maiden  as  she 
mused  thus ;  so  bright,  that  Pausias 
felt  awe-stricken  as  he  gazed,  for 
there  was  a  glor^  in  it  not  of  earth. 

"Glycera,  said  he,  very  softly, 
•*  of  whom  are  you  thinking  ?" 

"  Need  you  ask  ?" 

'*  But  you  smiled  so  strangely,  and 
yet  so  happily." 

"Did  I?  Ah,  it  was  a  glad 
thought !" 

"  May  I  not  know  it  ?" 

"  Not  now ;  wait  until  it  is  realised, 
and  then  I  will  whisper  it  to  you — ^it 
msiy  be  when  you  least  expect  it.** 

Fausias  was  pleased  to  hear  her 
allude  to  the  future,  little  dreaming 
how  vague  and  uncertain  a  thing  it 
MTBB — how  rayless,  for  the  most  part, 
wanting  the  Christian's  hope  of  a  re- 
union with  the  beloved  m  heaven, 
or  that  it  was  the  unknown  future  to 
which  she  referred. 

That  night  Glycera  contrived  by 
a  thousand  innocent  and  gentle  wiles 
to  detain  her  lover  long  after  his 
usual  time,  and  yet  it  only  needed 
for  her  to  have  told  him  how  ill  she 
really  was  and  he  would  never  have 
quitted  her  again;  but  the  girl  had 
no  heart  to  grieve  him  thus.  Even 
after  he  was  gone  she  called  him 
back,  and  held  up  her  sweet  face 
again,  that  he  might  kiss  her  for  the 
last  time;  and  still  Fausias  never 
guessed  the  truth.  How  should  he, 
when  she  looked  so  bright  and  beau- 
tiful ?  But  as  he  walked  homeward 
in  the  quiet  moonlight,  he  began  to 
^^'-^k  that,  after  all,  Qlycera  did  not 


seem  so  very  ill ;  and  it  might  have 
been  a  mere  womanly  devise  to  coax 
him  into  finishing  the  picture,  upon 
tlie  completion  of  which  she  seemed 
to  have  set  her  whole  heart,  and  to 
laugh  gladly  within  himself  for  bav- 
ing  been  so' easily  duped.  Certainly 
she  was  much  changed,  but  it  miglit 
be  only  a  trifling  iflness  that  ivould 
soon  pass  away  again.  How  rat  we 
are  in  believmg  what  we  nope! 
Even  while  he  dreamed  thus,  Gly- 
cera was  no  more,  and  the  poetry  of 
his  life  died  with  her. 

It  is  probable  that  the  voun^  gar- 
land-maker fell  a  sacrinoe  to  the 
same  fatal  and  cureless  disease,  which 
still  continues,  even  in  our  own 
time,  to  mark  out  for  its  victims  the 
gentlest  and  best-beloved  of  earth, 
gifting  them  with  a  treacheroo^ 
beauty  that  mocks  and  deceives  the 
fondest  and  most  watchM  affection, 
and,  brightening  ever  towards  its 
close,  lures  on  the  star  of  hope  imd 
joy  only  for  it  to  set  in  tears  and 
darkness  over  the  grave ! 

Henceforth  Fausias  belonged  solely 
to  his  country  and  his  art,  whose  re- 
cords speak  of  him  from  time  to 
time,  it  is  from  them  we  trace  the 
onward  progress  of  this  great  artist. 
Fausanias  mentions,  in  particular, 
two  pictures  of  his  at  Epidaunis,  of 
singular  merit :  one  a  Cupid  with  a 
lyre  in  his  hand,  his  bow  and  arrows 
lying  by  his  side;  the  other  being 
the  famous  '^Methe,**  or  drunken > 
ness.  Subsequently,  however,  the 
debts  of  the  state  having  obliged  the 
Sicyonians  to  sell  their  pictures,  those 
of  Fausias  were  brought  to  Rome 
during  the  edileship  of  Scaurus, 
where,  as  we  learn  from  a  line  in  the 
Satires  of  Horace,  they  were  a  great 
object  of  veneration  to  the  connois- 
seurs. Some  idea  of  the  value  at- 
tached to  the  **  Stephaneplocos,**  may 
be  gathered  from  the  fact  of  a  mere 
cony  of  it  being  purchased  by  L.  Lu- 
cullus  at  Athens,  at  the  enonnoua 

Srice  of  two  talents  (about  four  hun- 
red  and  thirtv-two  guineas). 
Pausias  undertook  the  restoration 
of  the  paintings  of  Polygnotus  at 
Thespias,  which  had  fallen  greatly  to 
decay.  He  was  also  the  first  who 
introduced  the  custom  of  painting  the 
ceilings  and  walls  of  private  apart- 
ments with  historical  and  dramatic 
subjects,  although  the  practice  of  de- 


J  846.] 


Contemporary  Orators. 


7T 


corating  roofs  and  ceilings  with  stars 
or  arabesque  figures  (particularly 
those  of  temples^  was  of  vcr^  old 
date.  To  his  skill  in  encaustic,  in 
which  he  was  the  first  who  ever  ac« 
quired  much  celebrity,  we  have  al- 
ready alluded;  but,  more  than  all, 
he  was  the  first  flower-painter!  a 
branch  of  art  which,  under  the  magic 
touch  bf  the  great  flower- painter  of 
our  own  day,  Mr.  Valentine  Bartho- 
lomew, has  now  attained  to  the  high- 
est state  of  perfection,  almost  ceasmg 
to  become  one  in  its  exquisite  truth- 
fulness to  nature. 

One  historian  only  of  that  ancient 
period,  the  veracity  of  whose  state- 
ments are  not  always  to  be  relied 
upon,  and  whose  smgle  testimony 
we  should  be  venr  careful  in  admit- 
ting, has  ventured  to  hint  that  after 
Glycera*s  death,  Fausias,  manlike, 
was  well  content  to  solace  himself 
with  a  new  affection.  Poor  Glycera ! 
And  yet  if  it  was  so,  and  she  could 


have  known  it,  her  woman's  heart 
must  have  joyed  with  an  unselfish 
rejoicing  in  what  made  him  happy 
too.  But  we  will  not  believe  it  I  In 
the  romantic  annals  of  Greece  her 
name  alone  blends  with  that  of  her 
gifted  lover.  Fame  points  to  the 
'^  Stephaneplocos,'*  and  will  know  no 
other!  Reason  whispers  with  her 
cold,  mocking  smile,  that  it  might 
have  been  so,  bringing  a  whole  host 
of  past  and  present  experiences  to 
corroborate  her  words ;  but  they  are 
scarcely  heard  amidst  opposing  mul- 
titudes of  young  voices,  strong  in 
their  sweet  and  loving  faith.  Whe- 
ther it  be  wiser  we  know  not,  but  it 
is  certainly  far  pleasanter  to  listen  to 
the  latter  and  believe,  in  spite  of  the 
sceptical  historian  before  mentioned, 
that  Glycera  had  no  rival  in  the 
affections  of  Fausias  save  his  art, 
which  her  presence,  her  love,  and,  it 
may  be,  even  her  early  death,  assisted 
to  perfect  and  refine. 


CONTEMPOUARY    0RAT0R9* 

No.  VL 


THB  BIGHT  HON.  T.  B.  UACAVLAT, 


Ths  popular  voice  places  "Mr,  Ma- 
caulay  in  the  very  first  rank  of  con- 
temporary speakers.  Those  who  are 
prepared  to  admit  a  distinction  be- 
tween the  most  distinguished  and 
successful  of  untrained  speakers  and 
the  confessed  orators,  include  him, 
without  hesitation,  in  the  latter  class. 
If  they  form  their  judgment  merely 
from  reading  his  speeches  as  reported 
in  the  papers,  certainly  they  have  am- 
ple ground  for  presummg  that  he  must 
be  a  man  of  no  ordinary  eloquence, 
for  he  scarcely  ever  rises  but  to  pour 
a  flood  of  L^ht  upon  the  subject 
under  discussion,  wnich  he  handles 
with  a  masterly  skill  that  brings  out 
all  the  available  points,  and  sets  them 
off  with  such  a  grace  of  illustration, 
such  a  depth  and  readiness  of  histo- 
rical knowledge,  as  are  equalled  by 
no  other  living  orator.  His  speeches, 
indeed,  looked  at  apart  from  all  im- 
mediate political  considerations,  are 
admirable  compositions,  which  may 
be  read  and  read  again  with  plea- 
sure and  profit,  long  after  the  party 


feelings  of  the  moment  have  sub* 
sided ;  and  in  this  point  of  view  Ihey 
seem  to  be  regarded  by  the  general 
public.  An  equal  interest  and  ad-^ 
miration  are  felt  by  that  compara- 
tively small  and  exclusive  section 
who  form  the  audience  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  When  it  gets  whis* 
pered  about  that  Mr.  Macaulay  is 
likely  to  speak  on  a  particular  ques- 
tion, the  intelhgence  acts  like  a  talis- 
man on  the  members.  Those  who 
may  not  take  sufiicicnt  interest  in 
the  current  business  to  be  present  in 
the  house,  may  be  seen  hovering  in 
its  precincts,  m  the  lobbies,  in  the 
library,  or  at  Bellamy's,  lest  they 
should  be  out  of  the  way  at  the  right 
moment,  and  so  lose  a  great  intellect- 
ual treat ;  and  it  is  no  sooner  known 
that  the  cause  of  all  this  interest  has  ac- 
tually begun  to  speak,  than  the  house 
becomes,  as  if  by  magic,  as  much 
crowded  as  when  the  leader  for  the 
time  being  is  on  his  legs.  So  general  an 
interest  in  one  who  has  not  rendered 
himself  important  or  conspicuous  by 


t8 


Contemporary  Orators, 


[January, 


any  of  the  more  ordinary  or  vulgar 
means  of  obtaining  political  distinc- 
tion, or  of  exciting  the  popular  mind, 
IS  of  itself  proof  enough  tnat  he  must 
possess  Tery  extraordinary  claims, 
ta  this  interest  and  admifation  ve 
most  cordially  concur.  We  are  not 
going  to  question  the  accuracy  of 
that  verdict  of  the  public  which 
places  Mr.  Macaulav  among  the  very 
first  orators  of  the  day ;  though,  per- 
haps, we  may  be  able  to  suggest 
grounds  for  a  more  discriminatmg 
criticism  and  judgment  than  he  is 
generally  subjected  to;  but,  before 
proceeding  to  do  so,  it  may  be  de- 
sirable to  notice  some  peculiarities  in 
Mr.  Macaulay*s  political  position, 
and  of  the  means  by  which  he  has 
arrived  at  it,  which  illustrate  in  a 
very  remarkable  manner  the  work- 
ing of  the  constitution,  and  exem- 
plify the  real  freedom  of  our  institu- 
tions. 

The  theory  of  the  representative 
system  in  this  country  assumes  that 
members  of  the  House  of  Commons 
are  elected  by  the  free  choice  of  the 
people,  because  of  their  peculiar  fit- 
ness for  the  business  of  legislation. 
As  a  large  and  important  portion  of 
those  who  form  the  government  arc 
chosen  from  the  representative  body, 
the  same  theory,  if  followed  out, 
would  further  assume  that  they  were 
so  selected  because  they  were  more 
distinguished  than  their  compeers 
for  the  possession  of  those  qualities 
of  mind,  and  that  general  knowledge 
of  the  condition  of  the  country, 
which  would  make  them  good  ad- 
ministrative officers.  This  is  the 
theory ;  but  the  practice  is  far  differ- 
ent. It  seems  almost  absurd  to  re- 
capitulate what  every  politician  as- 
sumes as  the  basis  of  nis  calculations, 
and  every  newspaper  and  annual 
rej^stcr  records,  ret  this  familiarity 
with  the  facts  blinds  us  to  their  im- 
portance; and  we  are  not  a  little 
startled  when  told,  that  under  our 
representative  system,  which  wc  arc 
so  ready  to  hold  up  to  the  world  as 
faultless,  intelligence,  knowledge  of 
the  affairs  of  the  country,  and  gene- 
ral fitness  for  the  business  of  the  go- 
vernment, are  the  very  last  things 
thought  of  in  a  candidate  for  the 
suffrages  of  the  people. 

Without  pushing  this  view  to  the 

extreme  conclusions  which    it  will 

l^y  bear,  it  may  be  observed 


that  in  ^metioe  the  rank  or  pTopertr, 
or  local  influence,  of  a  candidate,  ob- 
tains  more  influence  than  is  exactly 
consistent  with  the  perfection  of  the 
abstract    theory    of   representatioD. 
County  members  are  more  often  re- 
turned by  this  kind  of  influence  thu 
any  other.    The   son   of  the  great 
local  peer,  or  the  head  of  the  pre- 
ponderating family   in  the  county, 
IS  naturally  looked   to  vrben  a  va- 
cancy occurs;  and  he  would  be  re- 
garded as  next  door  to  a  madman, 
who  proposed  a   candidate,  becaiuc 
he  bebeved  his  intelligence,  his  ex- 
perience, his  talents  in  the  Honse  of 
Commons,  qualified  him  for  the  post 
of  member,  unsupported  by  any  par- 
ticular local  influence.     In  the  bo- 
roughs,   rules  not    very    dissinular 
prevail.     In  many   cases,   notwith- 
standing the  Reform-bill,  the  nomi- 
nation system  still  exists ;  and  here, 
as  under  the  old  system,  the  young 
man  of  talent  who  has  his  political 
fortune  to  carve  out,  may  hnd  the 
door  open  which  is  to  lead  hini  into 
parliament.  Where  the  boroughs  are 
m  this  respect  "  open,*'  the  influence 
of  property,  direct    or   indirect,  is 
very  nearly  as  strong  as  in  the  coun- 
ties. The  leading  banker,  or  brewer, 
or  manufacturer  here,  stands  in  * 
position  not  very  dissimilar  to  that 
of  the  man  of  family  in  the  more  ex- 
tended electoral  sphere.  He  is  return- 
ed, either  on  account  of  his  personal 
and  local  influence,  or  because  he  is 
the  blind  representative  of  some  "  in- 
terest ;"  but  general  legislatorial  qn«- 
liflcations  are  here,  as  elsewhere,  w* 
most  the  last  things  required  from 
him.    It  is  true  that  the  borough 
representation  opens  the  door  of  jHU"* 
liament  to  commercial  men  of  high 
standing,  who  come  forward  on  their 
general  reputation,  and  not  on  any 
local  influence,  and  that  it  also  ushers 
into  parliament  that  very  important 
body,  the  lawyers  ;  but  these  are 
only  a  minority  of  the  whole.  There 
are  also   accidents   of  the   system, 
where  men  like  Mr.  Waklcjr  or  Mr. 
Duncombe  obtain  the  suft rages  of 
large   constituencies   democratically 
disposed,  by  the  usual  arts  and  prac- 
tices of  mob-orators. 

The  selections  made  by  the  arw 
tocratic,  or  governing  body,  whether 
Whig  or  Tory,  of  members  to  re- 
cruit  from  time  to  time  the  ranks  ol 
the  administration,  would  appear  to 


1846.] 


The  Right  Hon,  T.  fi.  Macaulay. 


t« 


be  inflnenced  by  principles  or  habits 
not  wholly  different  iVom  those  which 
guide  the  constituencies.    The  man 
of  talent,  bnt  without  an  alliance  with 
nobility,  or   ostensible  wealth,  has 
scarcely  a  fair  chance  against  those 
who  may  combine  those  advantages 
with  even  far  inferior  abilities.  Whe- 
ther this  be  a  good  or  a  bad  tnrstem 
is  not  in  question,  though  that  it 
should  so  universally  prevail  in  the 
face  of  a  watchful  public  is  prima 
facie  evidence  in  its  favour.    It  does 
exist,  however.    A  Sir  Robert  Peel 
or  a  Lord  John  Russell,  forming  a 
government,  does  not  first  look  out 
for  friendless  and  landless  men,  even 
though  their  lack  of  wealth  might 
only  obscure  the  genius  of  a  Can- 
ning.   No,  they  rather  are  disposed 
to  patronise  the  Charles  Woods  or 
the  Sidney  Herberts — very  clever 
men   and   excellent    administrative 
of{icers,lno  doubt,  but  whose  merits 
have  the  additional  weight  of  their 
near  relationship  to  two  several  earl- 
doms.   The  heads  of  the  aristocratic 
parties  are  accustomed  to  look  to 
their  own  ranks  for  their  pupils  in 
the  science  of  government  and  their 
successors  as  the  inheritors  of  power, 
unless  in   those  offices,   limited  in 
number,  which  are  filled  by  prac- 
tising barristers,  whose  professional 
position   and  success  in  the  house 
nave  long  since,  in  the  r^es  of  the 
initiated,  desij^ated  their  future  po- 
sition as  solicitor  or  attomey-ffeneral. 
For  all  these  reasons,  it  is  seldom  in- 
deed that  one  sees  in  the  higher  offi- 
ces of  government  men  wno  have 
not  some  relationship  with  the  lead- 
ing nobility,  some  hereditary  politi- 
cal claim,  or  who  are  not  great  city 
or  money  lords,  or  barristers  with  an 
acknowledged  standing  and  reputa- 
tion, and  who  have  already  exhibited 
proofs  of  parliamentary  ability. 

Mr.  Macaulay  is  an  exception  to 
all  these  rules.  Although  he  is  a 
barrister,  he  does  not  practise  as  one, 
— at  least,  his  parliamentary  standing 
in  no  wav  depends  on  his  profession. 
Althougn  indebted  to  the  nomination 
system  for  his  first  admission  to  par- 
liament, having  first  sat  for  the  Mar- 
quess of  Lansdowne's  borough  of 
Calne  before  the  Reform-bill,  yet  he 
is  in  no  way  indebted  to  any  Whi^ 
family  connexion  for  the  start  this 
gave  him  at  the  very  outset  of  the 
race.     Still  less  is  ne,  or  has  he 


ever  been,  in  that  state  of  political 
servitude  which  might  otherwise  ac- 
count for  his  rapid  advance  to  the 
highest  offices  in  the  gift  of  an  ex- 
clusive aristocratic  party.     He  has 
boldly  asserted  the  most  ultra-liberal^ 
almost  democratic  opinions,  always 
tempered   by  the   refinement  of  a 
highly  cultivated   and   well-consli- 
tuted  mind,  but  still  independent  and 
uncompromising.    It  is  to  his  parlia- 
mentary talents  that  he  is  almost 
exclusively  indebted  for  his  advance- 
ment, and  in  this  respect  he  stands 
almost  alone  among  his  contempora- 
ries.   It  is  because  he  is  a  distin- 
guished orator — an  orator  developing, 
perhaps,  into  a  statesman — that  he 
has  attained  the  rank  of  privy-coun- 
cillor and  cabinet  minister.   To  other 
great  men  of  the  day — to  such  men 
as  I^rd  Stanley,  I^rd  Lyndhurst, 
Lord  Brougham,  or  Sir  Robert  Peel, 
the  ability  to  address  assemblies  of 
their    fellow -men   vrith    skill   and 
effect  has  been  a  powerful  agent  of 
their  political  success ;  but  in  thdr 
cases  It  has  been  auxiliary  only,  not, 
as  in  the  instance  of  Mr.  Macaulay, 
the .  sole  means  of  coping  with  esta- 
blished reputations.    They  each  and 
all  had  either  birth,  social  position, 
or  the  advantage  derived  from  pro- 
fessional triumphs  at  the  bar,  as  an 
introduction  to  the  notice  of  those 
who  from  time  to  time  have  been 
the  dispensers  of  honour  and  the 
nominators  to  office. 
'    The  high  political  rank  held  by 
Mr.  Macaulay,  then, — secured  as  it 
has  been  by  no  subserviency  to  the 
aristocracy  on  the  one  hand  nor  any 
attempts  to  build  power  on  demo- 
cratic influence  on  the  other — is  a 
singular  instance  of  the  elasticity  of 
our  institutions,  and  of  the  opportu- 
nity afforded  in  the  practical  working 
of  the  constitution  to  men  of  talent 
and  conduct  of  raising  themselves  to 
the  highest  positions  in  the  state. 
Looked  at  witii  reference  to  the  rela- 
tive constitution  of  society  in  Eng- 
land and  France,  the  elevation   of 
Mr.  Macaulay,  by  means  so  le^ti- 
mate,  is  to  be  regarded  as  an  mfi- 
nitely  greater  triumph  of  mind  over 
aristocratic  cxclusiveness   than   the 
prime-ministership  of  M.  Thiers  or 
of  M.  Guizot,  however  dazzling  or 
flattering  to  literary  pride,  achieved 
as  each  was,  in  a  grater  or  less  de- 
gree, amidst  the  disoiganisation  of 


80 


Contemporary  Orators. 


[January, 


society  following;  a  revolutioa.  Mr. 
Macaulay*s  position,  too,  is  of  im- 
portance, not  merely  as  regards  the 
past,  but  also  with  a  view  to  the  fu- 
ture. Events  seem  pointing  to  a 
period  when  the  aristocratic  influence 
will  be  exercised  less  directly  and 
generally  over  the  representative 
system  and  in  the  legislature.  If  it 
is  ever  destined  to  be  superseded  by 
the  commercial  or  even  the  popular 
influence,  howliesirable  it  is  that  con- 
stituencies so  tending  should  choose 
for  their  representatives  not  the  mere 
pledged  advocates  of  rival  '^inter- 
ests, or  those  coarser  demagogues 
who  live  by  pampering  the  worst  ap- 
petites of  tne  partially  instructed, 
but  men  of  welT-trained  minds,  ini- 
tiated in  the  business  of  government, 
and  far  surpassing  their  accidental 
competitors  in  those  external  arts 
and  graces  of  the  political  adventurer, 
for  which,  strange  to  say,  the  least 
educated  audiences  display  the 
keenest  relish,  while,  by  so  doing, 
they  mark  their  own  just  appre- 
ciation. The  success  achieved  by  Air. 
Macaulay — more  remarkable  and  sig- 
nificant tnat  it  was  in  opposition  to  the 
prejudices  and  remonstrances  of  some 
of  the  older  members  of  the  Whig 
party,  opens  the  door  to  a  new  and 
an  mcreasing  class  of  public  men, 
who  would  devote  themselves  to 
politics  as  the  business  of  their  lives, 
as  others  give  themselves  up  to  science 
or  to  the  regular  professions,  who, 
from  the  very  nature  and  origin  of 
their  influence  would  find  lavour 
with  popular  constituencies,  anxious 
as  were  the  aristocrats  under  the  old 
system  to  secure  talented  and  well- 
trained  exponents  of  their  wishes  and 
opinions,  so  that  they  might  become 
a  real  and  active  power  in  the  state, 
and  not  merely  puppets  in  the  hands 
of  intriguing  and  ambitious  states- 
men. It  is  a  si^iflcant  fact,  as  con- 
nected with  this  theory,  that  Mr. 
JMacaulay  should  be  the  representa- 
tive of  the  second  metropolitan  con- 
stituency in  the  empire. 

The  character  of  JVIr.  Macaulay's 
mind,  as  developed  in  his  various 
speeches  and  acknowledged  writings, 
eminently  qualified  him  for  the  part 
he  has  already  taken  in  the  political 
history  of  his  time,  and  that  which 
he  seems  destined  still  to  act.  It  is 
obvious  that  a  man  whom,  speaking 
mc  mayi  without  offence, 


call  an  adventurer  —  a  title  which  it 
will  be  seen  is  not  in  his  case  meant 
as  a  reproach,  but  rather  as  by  com- 
parison an  honour — it  is  obvioas  that 
such  a  man  must  have  some  T-ery 
peculiar  qualities  of  mind,  so  to  have 
overcome  or  disarmed  the  most  jea- 
lous aristocratic  prejudices,   at    the 
same  time  that  ne  has   made    his 
country,  and  at  least  the   literary 
world  in  general,  ring  with  his  name ; 
while  his  conduct  as  a  politician  has 
by  no  means  been  characterised  by 
that  caution  and  dissimulation  which 
sometimes  carry  a  man  safely  through 
the  difiiculties  of  political  warfiire, 
till  the  hour  has  come  when  he  con- 
ceives he  may  safely  declare  his  real 
sentiments,  and  stand  forth  to  the 
world  the  true  man  he  is.    Mr.  l^ia- 
caulay  has,  almost  from  the  outset  of 
his  public  life,  boldly  avowed  the 
most  extreme  opinions  ever  counte- 
nanced even  in  the  mosl^  desperate 
manoeuvres  of  faction,  by  the  heads 
of  his  party.    By  the  side  of  land- 
holders and  men  whose  standing  de- 
pends on  elective  influence,  he  has 
declared  himself  the  open  advocate 
of  the  ballot.    He  was  always  a-head 
of  his  party  on  the  Corn-laws ;  on 
all  the  other  great  popular  questions 
with  which,  from  time  to  time,  they 
have  tampered.    Yet,  be  it  ever  rc- 
membereo,  as  his  political  poaition 
was  not  created  by,  or  dependent  on, 
mob  influence,  but  rather  on    the 
favour  of  those  who  were  socially, 
though  not  intellectually,  his  supe- 
riors, he  risked  every  thing  by  this 
frankness.    He  might  have  played  a 
safer,  but  not  so  bold  or  glorious  a 
game,  if  he  were  not  far  above  the 
political  meanness  of  disguising  his 
opinions. 

There  is  a  fine  spirit  of  philosophi- 
cal statesmanship  animating  all  the 
political  thinking  of  Mr.  Macaulay, 
which  guides  him  safely  in  those 
dangerous  tracks  to  which  he  is  led 
by  his  intellectual  propensities.  His 
mind  has  been  trained  in  the  old 
forms,  and  in  its  full  strength  it  does 
not  repudiate  them.  In  this  respect 
he  is  more  to  be  relied  on  as  a  poli- 
tician by  the  cautious,  than  even  the 
most  oMtinate  adherent  of  the  statug 
quo;  who,  in  most  cases,  gives  a 
strength  to  the  opinions  he  affects  to 
shun,  and  stings  to  fresh  energy  op- 

Snents  he  pretends  to  despise.    Mr. 
acaulay  neither  shuns  nor  despises, 


.^ — \ 


1 846.] 


The  Right  Hon.  T.  B.  Macaulay. 


81 


He  is  not  to  be  deterred  by  warnings 
derived  from  the  past,  orpredictions 
of  evil  in  the  fature.  He  grapples 
ynih  every  proportion  that  comes  in 
his  wav,  meeting  it  fairly  on  its  own 
ffround.  No  fear  of  explosion  with- 
nolds  him  from  applying  his  intel- 
lectual test  to  the  new  element,  or 
from  appropriating  it  to  the  purposes 
of  political  science,  if  its  properties 
or  its  facility  of  combination  make  it 
a  desirable  ally.  A  new  opinion,  or 
a  new  movement  originating  in 
opinion,  is  either  discarded,  cruiuied, 
disposed  of  at  once,  or  it  is  now  and 
for  ever  incorporated  in  the  system 
he  has  raised  K)r  himself,  and  which 
he  is  always  adding  to,  cementing, 
strengthenmg,  never  weakening  or 
undermining.  He  looks  at  the  pre- 
sent and  the  future  with  the  light  of 
the  past.  However  prospective  his 
purposes  may  be,  his  mind  is  retro- 
spective in  its  oiganisation,  and  in 
the  intellectual  anment  on  which  it 
has  fed  with  the  most  appropriating 
avidity.  However  new  may  benis  pro- 
positions or  his  views,  they  are  never 
crude.  If  he  sometimes  appears  to 
Question,  and,  by  questioning,  to  un- 
dermine and  destroy  the  most 
cherished  and  universally  admitted 
principles,  the  chances  are  that  he 
does  it  only  to  divorce  them  from 
fallacies  which  tend  to  weaken  their 
efficacy.  He  separates  the  sound 
from  the  unsound,  in  order  to  unite 
it  again  to  fresh  and  undecayed  ma- 
terials. He  is  a  great  reconciler  of 
the  new  with  the  old.  It  is  his  de- 
light to  give  new  interpretations  to 
oM  laws  and  forms  of  thought;  and, 
hy  so  doing,  to  restore  their  original 
integrity.  With  all  his  brilliancy, 
although  it  is  one  of  his  distingpiish- 
ing  traits  to  touch  the  most  grave 
and  important  topics  in  that  light  and 
graceful  spirit  which  has  made  him 
the  most  popular  essaj^t  of  his  time ; 
notwithstanding  that  in  his  writing, 
and  even  in  his  speeches  on  congenial 
themes,  he  seems  led  captive  by  his 
imagination  to  an  extent  that  might 
make  Uie  common  dull  herd  fear  to 
yield  themselves  to  his  ^idance, 
there  is  not  among  the  politicians  of 
the  day  a  more  thoroughly  practical 
man  than  Mr.  Macaulay.  Although 
he  may  adorn  a  subject  with  the 
lights  afforded  by  his  rare  genius, 
he  never  trifles  with  it.  The  grace- 
ful flowers  have  strong  props  and 
yoL,  zzxxu.  2fOt  czcm. 


stems  beneath,  to  bear  them  up 
against  rough  weather.  His  historical 
research  renders  him  a  living  link 
with  the  old  and  uncormpted  con- 
stitution of  the  country.  He  can 
bring,  most  unexpectedly,  old  sanc- 
tions to  the  newest  ideas.  Thus  to 
ally  the  present  with  the  past,  is  the 
valuable  instinct  of  his  mind.  It 
operates  insensibly  as  a  great  {guaran- 
tee with  others  not  so  quick  and 
capable.  It  is  also  a  living  and  ac« 
tive  principle,  the  operation  of  which 
may  be  most  beneficial  in  contem- 
porary politics.  By  it  antiquity  con- 
quers and  absorbs  novelty,  which 
again  reanimates  the  old.  1£  the 
spirit  of  inquiry,  or  of  innovation,  or 
of  change,  or  of  indomitable  Englii^ 
common-sense,  suddenly  breaks  away 
the  legislative  barriers  behind  vrhim 
an  established  system  of  political 
things  has  entrenched  itselff  it  is  a 
great  source  of  confidence  to  those 
alarmed  at  defeat  as  well  as  those 
perhaps  equally  alarmed  at  success,  to 
know  that  the  invading  is  in  reality 
older  than  the  invaded ;  that  what  is 
supposed  to  be  a  revolution  is,  ia 
trutn,  a  restoration  of  something  bet- 
ter than  that  which  was  swept  away. 
Mr.  Macaulay  looks  at  political  ques- 
tions in  this  reconstructive  spirit,  and 
hence  the  f&YOwc  with  which  he  is 
regarded  by  his  aristoeratie  allies. 
He  has  all  the  boldness,  v^ur,  and 
originality  which  democratic  opinions 
inspire,  without  that  levelling  spirit 
which  makes  them  odious  and  dan- 
gerous. 

It  is  this  philosophic  and  statesman- 
like tone  wnich  gives  the  speeches  of 
Mr.  Macaulay  their  real  interest  and 
value.  The  more  grave  and  im- 
portant consideraticms  which  it  educes 
from  the  political  events  of  the  hour 
are  admirablv  intermingled  and  in- 
terwoven with  them,  so  as  to  do  away 
altogether  with  the  appearance  A 
pedantry  and  dry  historical  disquisi- 
tion on  the  one  hand,  or  of  vague  and 
useless  political  theory  on  the  other. 
There  is  no  speaker  now  before  the 
public  who  so  readily  and  usefully, 
and  with  so  little  appearance  of  ef- 
fort, infuses  the  results  of  very  ex- 
tensive reading  and  very  deep  research 
into  the  common,  every-day  business 
of  parliament*  But  his  learning 
never  tyrannises  over  his  common 
sense.  If  he  has  a  parallel  ready  for 
almost  erery  great  diaracter  or  great 


82 


Contemporary  Orators. 


[Janaary, 


event,  or  an  instance  or  a  dictum 
from  some  acknowledged  authority, 
his  own  reason  does  not,  therefore, 
bow  with  implicit  deference,  making 
the  one  case  a  rule  for  all  time.  His 
speeches  on  the  Reform -bill,  more 
especially  that  on  the  third  reading, 
were  remarkable  evidences  of  the 
skill  and  readiness  with  which  he 
could  bring  historical  instances  to 
bear  upon  immediate  political  events, 
without  being  at  all  embarrassed  by 
the  precedents.  His  mind  appears 
so  aamirably  organised,  his  stores  of 
memory  so  well  filled  and  so  instan- 
taneously at  hand,  that  the  ri^ht 
idea  or  the  most  happy  illustration 
seems  to  spring  up  at  exactly  the 
ri^ht  moment;  and  the  train  of 
thmkin^  thus  aroused  is  dismissed 
tmin  with  equal  ease,  leaving  him  at 
liberty  to  pursue  the  general  tenor 
of  his  argument.  There  is  very 
great  sjrmmetry  in  his  speeches.  The 
subject  is  admirably  handled  for  the 
purpose  of  instructing,  delighting,  or 
arousing;  and  learning,  illustration, 
invective,  or  declamation,  are  used 
with  such  a  happy  art,  and  with  so 
eoually  happy  an  abstinence,  that, 
when  the  speech  is  concluded,  you 
are  left  imder  the  impression  that 
every  thing  material  to  a  just  judg- 
ment has.  been  said,  and  the  whole 
theme  exhausted.  His  speeches  read 
like  essays,  as  his  essays  read  like 
speeches.  It  is  impossible  to  doubt 
tnat  they  are  prepared  with  the  ut- 
most  care,  and  committed  to  memojy 
before  delivery.  They  bear  internal 
evidences  of  this,  and  the  mode  of 
delivery  confirms  the  susbicion. 

The  speeches  made  by  Mr.  Macau- 
lay  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  when 
the  subject  nas  suddenly  arisen,  and 
preparation  is  impossible,  confirm,  by 
contrast,  the  belief  that  his  great 
displays  are  carefully  conned  before- 
hand. There  is  almost  a  total  ab- 
sence of  that  historical  allusion,  that 
happy  illustration,  those  antithetical 
sentences  and  paradoxical  arguments, 
which  characterise  his  formal  ora- 
tions. They  are  generally,  when 
thus  the  spontaneous  product  of  the 
moment,  most  able  and  vigorous  ar- 
guments on  tbe  subject  under  dis- 
cussion, which  is,  in  most  cases,  placed 
in  an  entirely  new  light  After  he 
has  spoken  on  such  occasions  as  Uiese, 
the  debate  usually  takps  a  new  turn. 
Members  on  both  sides  of  the  house 


and  of  all  ranks  are  to  be  found 
shaping  their  remarks,  either  in  oon- 
firmation  or  refutation  of  what  Mr. 
Macaulay  has  said :  so  influential  is 
his  bold,  vigorous,  uncompnnnising 
mode   of  handling  a  question  ;    so 
acute  his  analysis,  so  fiim  his  grasp. 
So  that  we  must  not  merely  look  at 
Mr.  Macaulay,  in  the  common  point 
of  view,  as  a  **  brilliant*'  speaker  and 
accomplished  orator,  delivering  e^nvs 
on  a  given  subject  adorned  b^  all  the 
^aces  of  style,  and  in  wmch   the 
imagination  preponderates  over   all 
else ;  we  must  also  regard  him  as  a 
practical  politician,  rc^y  at  every 
emer^ntEy,  and  exercising   by  the 
supenori^  of  his  mind  an  ascendancy 
over  the  councils  of  the  nation.    He 
mingles  in  a  remarkable  manner  the 
persuasiveness  of  the  advocate  with 
the  impartiality  of  the  judge.     If  a 
judge  were  to  us^  eloquence  to  in- 
sinuate on  the  minds  of  his  hearers 
the  justice  of  his  decision,  he  might 
treat  his  subject  in  much  the  same 
style  as  that  adopted  by  Mr.  Macau- 
lay.   His  art  in  concealing  the  ma- 
chinery with  which  he  worn  on  his 
hearers  is  perfect.    There  is  no  ap- 
pearance of  a  plan,  yet  a  careful 
study  of  his  speeches  vdll  shew  that 
thcrjr  are  constructed,  and  the  subj^ts 
and  trains  of  thought  disposed,  with 
the  utmost  skill.    There  is  no  ap- 
parent straining  after  graces  of  atyte 
or  peculiarities  of  diction,  as  in  the 
case  of  Mr.  Sheil,    You  arc  thrown 
off  your  guard  by  the  simplicity  of 
the  language,  and  the  albsence  of  all 
ambitious  effort     He  seems  rather 
to  trust  to  the  clearness  of  his  case, 
and  the  impetuosity  and  perseverance 
of  his  advocacy.    Yet  no  opportu- 
nity for  working  up  a  ^^ point**  is 
neglected.      Exquisite  passages  are 
here  and  there  scattered  through  a 
speech,  yet  they  seem  to  fall  natu- 
rally into  the  argument,  although 
really  the  result  of  the  most  careuil 
preparation.      His  perorations,  too, 
are  remarkable,  in  general,  for  their 
declamatory  energy,  their  sustained 
eloquence,  and  the  manner  in  which 
they  stamp,  as  it  were,  the  argument 
or  theme  of  the  whole  speech  on  the 
mind  of  the   audience   at  parting. 
Grace  of  diction  is  throughout  made 
secondary    to    vigour   of  thought. 
But  Mr.  Macaulay  argues  much  in 
metaphor,  though  never  for  the  me- 
taphor*8  sake.    He  mU  put  the  whole 


i 


1 846.] 


The  Right  Bon.  T.  6.  Macautay. 


63 


force  of  a  position  into  an  apt  and 
simple  illustration  with  a  suddenness 
quite  startling.  These,  and  an  occa- 
sional antithesis  of  the  simplest  kind, 
are  almost  his  only  departures  from  the 
style  of  ordinary  level  speaking.  His 
language,  at  the  same  time,  is  always 
remarkably  pure ;  and  for  elegance, 
it  is  unsurpassed.  There  are,  how- 
ever, faults  in  his  speaking.  For 
instance,  he  will  sometimes  spoil  the 
effect  of  an  eloquent  passage  by  a 
sudden  antithetical  allusion,  involv- 
ing some  vulgar  idea,  which  catches 
him  because  of  the  opportunity  it 
affords  for  alliteration  or  contrast, 
and  which  he  thinks  humorous. 
This  is  in  bad  taste,  and  is  so  far  an 
evidence  of  his  want  of  a  keen  sense 
of  wit  and  humour.  Yet  it  is  seldom 
that  there  is  even  this  slight  and 
trivial  drawback  to  the  symmetry  of 
Lis  speeches. 

Admirable  as  Mr.  Macaulay's 
speeches  are  on  paper,  hia  delivery  of 
them  altoffeiher  belies  that  reputa- 
tion whicn  they  are  calculated  to 
obtain  for  him.  It  is,  perhaps^ 
heightened  expectation  which  causes 
the  deep  disappointment  one  feels  on 
hearing  him  the  first  time  ;  or  it  may 
be  that  his  defects  of  manner  and 
style  would  not  be  observed  were  the 
matter  he  utters  of  an  inferior  order. 
Whatever  the  cause,  the  spell  is  in  a 
great  measure  broken.  Nature  has 
not  gifled  him,  either  in  voice  or  in 
person,  with  those  attributes  of  the 
orator  which  help  to  fascinate  and 
kindle  a  popular,  assembly.  With 
such  a  voice  and  aspect  as  Lord 
Denman,  how  infinitely  greater  would 
be  the  effect  on  his  audience  of  his 
undoubted  intellectual  pow^er !  Mr, 
Macaulay,  in  his  personal  appear- 
ance, and  in  the  material  or  physical 
part  of  his  oratory,  contradicts  alto- 
gether the  ideal  portrait  one  has 
formed  on  reading  his  speeches. 
Every  man  would,  of  course,  have 
his  own  especial  hallucination ;  but 
the  chances  are  ten  to  one  that  the 
majority  would  have  associated  with 
liis  subject  every  physical  attribute 
of  the  intellectual — investing  him  in 
imagination  with  a  noble  and  dig- 
nified presence,  and  especially  with  a 
voice  nt  to  give  utterance  to  those 
fine  passages  of  declamation  with 
which  his  speeches  abound.  The 
contrast  of  the  reality  is,  in  many 
respects,  strikiog.  Nature  hasgrudged 


Mr.  Macaulay  height  and  fine  pro- 
portion, and  his  voice  is  one  of  the 
most  monotonous  and  least  agreeable 
of  those  which  usually  belong  to  our 
countrymen  north  of  the  Tweed — a 
voice  well  adapted  to  give  utterance 
with  precision  to  the  conclusions  of 
the  intellect,  but  in  no  way  naturally 
formed  to  express  feeling  or  passion. 
Mr.  Macaulay  is  short  in  stature, 
round,  and  with  a  growing  tendency 
to  aldcrmanic  disproportions.  His 
head  has  the  same  rotundity  as  his 
body,  and  seems  stuck  on  it  as  firmly 
as  a  pin-head.  This  is  nearlv  the 
sum  of  his  personal  defects ;  all  else, 
except  the  voice,  is  certainly  in  his 
favour.  His  face  seems  literally  in- 
stinct with  expression ;  the  eye,  above 
all,  full  of  deep  thought  and  meaning. 
As  he  walks,  or  rather  straggles, 
along  the  street,  he  seems  as  if  m  a 
state  of  total  abstraction,  unmindful 
of  all  that  is  going  on  around  hini^ 
and  solely  occupied  with  his  own 
working  mind.  You  cannot  help 
thinking  that  literature  with  him  is 
hot  a  mere  profession  or  pursuit,  but 
that  it  has  almost  grown  a  part  of 
himself,  as  though  historical  pro- 
blems or  analytical  criticism  were  a 
part  of  his  duly  and  regular  intel- 
lectual food- 

In  the  House  of  Commons,  the 
same  abstraction  is  still  his  chief 
characteristic.  He  enters  the  house 
with  a  certain  pole-star  to  guide  him 
— his  seat ;  how  he  reaches  it  seems 
as  if  it  were  a  process  unknown  to 
him.  Seated,  he  folds  his  arms  and 
sits  in  silence,  seldom  speaking  to  his 
colleagues,  or  appearing  to  notice 
what  is  ffoing  forward.    If  he  has 

Prepared  nimself  for  a  speech,  it  will 
e  remarked  that  he  comes  down 
much  earlier  than  usual,  being  very 
much  addicted  to  speaking  before  the 
dinner-hour,  when,  of  course,  his 
memory  would  be  more  likely  to 
serve  him  than  at  a  later  hour  in  the 
night,  after  having  endured  for  hours 
the  hot  atmosphere  of  the  house,  and 
the  disturbing  influences  of  an  ani- 
mated debate.  It  is  observable,  too^ 
that,  on  such  occasions,  a  greater 
number  of  members  than  usual  may 
he  seen  loitering  about  the  house. 
An  opening  is  made  in  the  discus- 
sion, and  he  rises,  or  rather  darts  Up 
from  his  seat,  plunging  at  once  into 
the  very  heart  of  his  subject,  without 
exordium  or  apologetic  pruface.    Ki 


84 


Contemporary  Orators* 


[January, 


fact,  you  have  for  a  few  seconds 
heard  a  voice,  pitched  in  alto, 
monotonous,  and  rather  shrill,  pour- 
inff  forth  words  with  inconceiv- 
able velocity  ere  you  have  become 
aware  that  a  new  speaker,  and  one 
of  no  common  order,  has  broken  in 
upon  the  debate.  A  few  seconds 
more,  and  cheers,  perhaps  from  all 
parts  of  the  house,  rouse  you  com- 
pletely from  your  apathy,  compelling 
you  to  follow  that  extremely  voluble 
and  not  very  enticing  voice  in  its 
rapid  course  through  the  subject  on 
which  the  speaker  is  entering  with  a 
resolute  determination,  as  it  seems, 
never  to  pause.  You  think  of  an 
express  train  which  does  not  stop 
even  at  the  chief  stations.  On,  on 
he  speeds,  in  full  reliance  on  his  own 
momentum,  never  stopping  for 
words,  never  stopping  for  thoughts, 
never  halting  for  an  instant,  even  to 
take  breath,  his  intellect  gathering 
new  vigour  as  it  proceeds,  hauling 
the  subject  after  him,  and  all  its  pos- 
sible attributes  and  illustrations,  with 
the  strength  of  a  giant,  leaving  a  line 
of  light  on  the  pathway  his  mmd  has 
trod,  till,  unexhausted,  and  apparently 
inexhaustible,  he  brings  this  remark- 
able effort  to  a  close  by  a  perora- 
tion so  highly  sustained  in  its  de- 
clamatory power,  so  abounding  in 
illustration,  so  admirably  fram^  to 
crown  and  clench  the  whole  oration, 
that  surprise,  if  it  has  even  begun  to 
wear  on,  kindles  anew,  and  the 
hearer  is  left  utterly  prostrate  and 
powerless  by  the  whirlwind  of  ideas 
and  emotions  that  has  swept  over 
him. 

Yet,  although  you  have  been 
astonished,  stimulated  to  intellectual 
exertion,  thoroughly  roused,  and 
possibly  even  convinced,  no  impres- 
sion whatever  has  been  made  by  the 
orator  upon  your  feelings;  nor  has 
he  created  any  confidence  in  himself 
apart  from  the  argument  he  has 
used.  And  yet,  strange  to  say,  per- 
haps it  is  because  his  oration  has  been 
too  faultless.  He  exhibits  none  of 
the  common  weakness  of  even  the 
greatest  speakers.  He  never  entices 
you,  as  it  were,  to  help  him  by  the 
confession  of  any  difficulty.  The  in- 
tellectual preponderates  too  much. 
More  heart  and  less  mind  would 
serve  his  turn  better.  How  different 
is  Lord  John  Russell  I  Though 
with  a  r^ponsibility  so  much  greater, 


how  often  he  appears  to  be  in  vant 
of  a  thought,  a  word,  or  an  illiistra- 
tion !     He,  as  it  were,  lets  you  into 
the  secret  of  his  difficulties,  and  90  a 
sort  of  friendship  grows  up.      ITou 
see  him  making  up  for  his  part ;  he 
does  not  keep  you  before  the  curtain 
and  then  try  to  dazzle  yon  with  hb 
spangles  and  fine  feathers ; — so  you 
acquire  a  confidence  in  him.     Not  80 
Mr.  Macaulay.    He  astonishes  you, 
quells  ^our  faculties ;  but  he,  at  the 
same  time,  keeps  you  at  a  distance. 
Always  powerful  and  influential  as 
he  must  be  in  the  coundls  of  his 
part^,  he  would  never  have  a  follow- 
ing in  the  country.     He  is  too  di- 
dactic.   He  never  thoroughly  warms 
up  his  audience.     It  is  not  lus  de- 
fective voice,  for  Mr.  Sheil  is  as  hadly, 
if  not  worse  off  in  this  respect;  yet 
what  a  flame  he  can  kindle !     The 
cause  lies  in  his  inveterate  habit  of 
preparing  his  speeches,  even  to  the 
very^  words  and  phrases,  and  com- 
mitting them  to  memory  lon^  before 
the  hour  of  delivery.    Partial  pre- 
paration is  allowable  in  the  greatest 
orators.     Exordiums,   and   perora- 
tions, and  the  general  sketch  of  the 
speech  mav  well  be  arranged  and 
snaped  beforehand;    but   let  some 
scope  be  left  for  the  impulse  of  the 
moment.    The  greatest  thoughts  are 
often  those  struck  out  by  the  mind 
when  at  heat:  in  debate  they  are 
caught  up  by  minds  in  a  congenial 
state.    Even  a  lower  order  of  excel- 
lence will  at  such  times  produce  a 
greater  effect.    It  is  wonderful,  how- 
ever, how  well  Mr.  Macaulay  con- 
trives to  adapt  these  cool  productions 
of  the  closet  to  temperaments  ex- 
erted  by  party.     If  a  counterfeit 
could  ever  stand  competition  with 
the  reality,  these  mock-heroics  of  Mr. 
Macaulay  certainly  would  not  have 
the  worst  chance.   When  he  is  called 
up  suddenly,  under    circumstances 
forbidding     all     preparation,     his 
speeches  produce   a  much   greater 
immediate  effect.     As  compositions 
they  may  be  inferior,  but  for  practi- 
cal purposes  they  are  much  oetter. 
On  such  occasions  he  has  sometimes 
reached  the  height  of  real  eloauence 
—not  the  eloquence  of  words  and 
brilliant  images,  but  that  fervour  and 
inspiring  sincerity  which  comes  di- 
rect from  the  heart  and  finds  at  once 
a  kindred  response. 


1846.] 


TUmarsKi  Tour  through  Turkeydom, 


P5 


titmarbh's  tour  through  turkeydom.* 


The  year  just  expired  will  be  ever 
memorable  for  its  outburst  of  zeal  in 
favour  of  locomotion;  a  wild  and 
grand  enthusiasm  in  the  noble  cause 
of  cause-ways,  was  kindled  in  the 
general  European  bosom,  and  all  our 
energetic  spirits  ''  took  to  the  road.** 
To  bring  out  a  new  line  was  the  fa- 
vourite occupation  of  genius,  as  with 
the  painter  of  old,  nuUa  dies  sine 
Uned.  Most  of  these  projected  itine- 
raries have  their  plans  and  sections 
sfliely  lodged  behind  the  scaffolding 
in  Whitehidl ;  and  there,  when  duly 
sifted,  will  perhaps  be  found  excel- 
lent materials  for  a  complete  illus- 
trated ''hand-book**  of  Great  Britain 
and  the  adjacent  islands.  As  to  those 

g&rties  who,  less  fortunate,  have  bro- 
en  down  in  their  attempt  to  effect  a 
lodgement  for  their  contemplated 
roads,  either  at  the  Board  of  Trade 
or  (sadder  still)  at  the  office  of  the 
Accountant-general,  we  would  re- 
commend them  to  write  (if  they 
have  the  genius  to  do  it)  a  book  like 
the  present,  descriptive  of  the  coun- 
try traversed,  with  all  its  engineer- 
ing facilities  and  other  attractions, 
adding  anecdotes  of  levelling,  active 
and  passive,  and  of  hospitaHties  en- 
joyea  along  the  line.  If  they  do,  we 
shall  peruse  their  narrative  with  cu- 
rious mterest :  if  they  do  not,  why, 

"  Down  amoDg  the  dead  men, 
Down  amoog  the  deed  men,  let  them 
lie." 

We  come  to  the  subject  before  us. 
Projects  of  eastern  itmeraries  have 
been  pretty  rife.     Mr.  Kin^lake*s 

great  jEdthen  line  was  earlyr  m  the 
eld,  and  a  decided  favourite  with 
the  public.  They  paid  up  freely 
upon  it  a  third,  and  even  a  fourth 
oJl,  which  has  just  been  made,  is  in 
the  act  of  being  responded  to.  Sti- 
mulated by  honourable  rivalry,  Mr. 
£uoT  Wabburton  put  forth  early 
in  the  year  a  competing  route  from 
England  eastwards;  we  alludej  of 
course,  to  the ''  Cboss  and  Cbbscent" 
junction,  which  ^t  its  deposits  readily 
enough,  and  still  holds  its  ground. 


A  Mr.  Hill  subsequently  submit- 
ted his  scheme,  the  ''Tubbai9  and 
TiABA ;"  but,  in  spite  of  that  designa- 
tion, it  made  but  little  head-way 
with  capitalists.  For  this  we  could 
assign  many  reasons,  were  we  in- 
clined still  farther  to  depreciate  a 
concern  already  ven'  low  in  the 
market,  but  we  forbear;  nor  shall 
we  notice  harshly  a  meditated  un- 
dertaking by  a  projector  of  our  own 
metropolis,  to  be  called  "the  Cut- 
LETT  and  EI.  Kabob,*'  provisionally 
registered,  which,  while  yet  in  em- 
bryo, had  to  be  abandoned  on  the 
crash  occasioned  by  The  Times. 

It  would,  in  fact,  seem  madness  to 
advertise  a  new  project  in  the  pre- 
sent state  of  a  market  deluged  with 
Oriental  serin ;  but  the  very  circum- 
stance of  the  promoters,  Messrs. 
Chajjman  and  IlaU,  coming  out  at 
this  juncture,  seems  to  us  a  proof  of 
their  confidence  in  the  sounaness  of 
the  plan,  and  its  perfect  readiness  to 
meet  the  eye  of  scrutiny.  We  have 
accordingly  examined  this  route  from 
^'Comhill  to  Cairo;"  and  we  find, 
that  though  the  termini  are  the  same 
as  with  other  undertakings  in  this 
direction,  the  average  level  is  con- 
siderably higher.  We  farther  disco- 
ver, that  it  is  a  strictly  atmospheric 
line,  laughing  gas  beiuff  the  athmos 
by  which  the  train  of  thought  is 
hurried  forwards;  some  of  the  gra- 
dients being  gracefully  borrowed 
from  the  Gradus  ad  Pamassvan,  the 
curves  approximating  generally  to 
HooABTH*8  *4ine  of  beauty;"  and 
the  gauge  of  the  raillery  being 
throughout  of  the  broadest  charac- 
ter. 

But  who  is  TiTMABSH  ?  Such  is 
the  ejaculatory  formula  in  which 
public  curiosity  gives  vent  to  its  igno- 
rant impatience  of  pseudononymous 
renown.  Who  is  Michabl  Angelo 
TiTMABSH  ?  Such  is  the  note  of  in- 
terrogation which  has  been  heard  at 
intervals  these  several  seasons  back, 
among  groups  of  elderly  loungers  in 
that  row  of  clubs,  Fajll  Mall  ;  from 
fairy  lips,  as  the  light  wheels  whirled 


*  A  Tour  from  Combill  to  Cairo,    By  M.  A.  TUmarali.    l.ondon,  1845.    Cliap- 
man  and  Hall. 


86 


Tihnarsh  s  Jour  through  I urfifyaom* 


|^jaj[iuary. 


along  the  row  called  "  Rotten  :'*  and 
oft  amid  keen-eyed  men  in  that 
grand  Father  of  rows  which  the 
children  of  literature   call   Fatsu 

KOSTEB. 

The  inquiry  is  not  irrelevant.  Is 
he  a  man  or  a  myth  ?  a  human  or  a 
hoax  ?  Liveth  he  in  the  flesh  among 
us  afi^w  ^trcift,  taking  his  chop  H 
the  Gasbick,  his  omelette  soufflce  or 
vol-au-vent  at  the  Reform  ? 

*'  Superstae  ac  vescitur  aur& 
^^therea  V*  JEneld,  lib.  ir. 

Or  like  Isaac  Bickerstaff,  Junius, 
and  Geoffry  Crayon,  setting  habeas 
corpits  at  defiance,  is  he  but  an  um- 
hratile,  incorporeal  sham,  '*  a  mock- 
ery, a  delusion,  and  a  snare  ?** 

This  problem  has  been  variously 
and  connictingly  solved,  as  in  the  par- 
allel case  of  the  ^rim  old  $tat  nominis 
umbra.  There  is  a  hint  in  both  in- 
stances of  some  mysterious  connex- 
ion with  the  remote  re^ons  of  Ben- 
gal, and  an  erect  old  pistail  of  the 
E.I.C.S.  boasts  in  the  "norizontal" 
jungle  off  Hanover  Square,  of  hav- 
ing had  the  dubious  advantage  of 
his  personal  acquaintanceship  in 
upper  India,  where  his  LO.U.'s  were 
signed  Majob  Goliau  Gahagan  ; 
and  several  specimens  of  that  docu- 
mentary character,  in  good  preserv- 
ation, ne  offers  at  a  low  figure  to 
amateurs. 

This  statement  of  old  Mulliga- 
tawny must  still,  we  apprehend,  be 
taketi  with  a  grain  of  salt ;  for  one  of 
our  own  set  swears  to  having  met  this 
writer,  not  long  since,  at  Stutgard,  in 
that  rather  slow  gasthof,  the  ICoenig 
von  Wirtemberg,  whence  he  hailed  as 
the  Hon.  Augustus  Fxtz-Boodlb, 
and  went  through  a  series  of  adven- 
tures of  a  purely  sssthetic  class.  To 
have  fascinated  as  he  did  the  lovely  and 
lively  Fraulein  von  GobbledUcK,  he 
must  ^adopting  the  previous  theory) 
not  only  have  nad  two  heads  to  his 
individual  shoulders,  like  the  black 
eagle  of  Austria,  but  also  renewed 
his  youth  like  the  eagle  of  the 
Psalmist.  Indeed,  on  this  latter 
point  his  longevity  would  seem  to 
rival  that  of  1  rederic  Barbarossa,  in 
Victor  Hugo's  Trilogie,  if  we  are  to 
credit  a  statement  from  the  drunken 
old  gatekeeper  of  the  late  venerable 
and  recently  demoliNhed  prison  of  her 
^  -"icious  majesty,  the  Fleet. 


In  that  locale  this  deponent  aajeth 
that  his  own  father  and  predeocBsor 
in  office  "  had  knowed  his  honour," 
and  Q^n  had  him  in  that  establish- 
ment, his  name  on  the  books  being 
entered  Babbt  Ltndon,  Es^uke.     It 
appears  his  luck  was  vanous,    but 
Mr.  Justice  Fieldins  frequently  came 
to  his  assistance,  from  whom  (and 
with  whom)  he  imbibed  much.     The 
XX.  ex-doorkeeper,  who  still  hovers 
about  the  "dear  ruin,''  and  roams 
among  the  cabbages  (^  Farringdon 
Market,  "  verdanfly  still,"  thinks  he 
"  seed  his  honor  of  late,  bj^  moon- 
light, a  standing  close  by,  quite  seedy 
and  sorrowful-fike."    Most  probable 
tale  1  for  was  not  the  Fi^eet  one  of 
our  ancient  institutions  ?  and  so  few 
are  allow^  to  remMn,that  it  must 
go  to  the  heart  of  a  true  Briton  to 
witness  their  successive  and  precon- 
certed downfall.    Where  is  all  Urn 
to  end  ?    Go,  reader,  to  Farringdon 
Street,  and  there  ponder  on  the  pe- 
rishability of  what  bur  forefathers 
thought  indestructible!    There,  on 
that  waste  ground,  there  was  the 
Finest  !     Ctassibus  hie  locus  !    Drop 
a  tear  (una  fyrtiva  lagrima)  on  the 
truly  classic  spot!    It  helps  one  to 
go  and  see  where  the  Ureeks  en- 
camped for  so  many  generations, — 

"  Javat  ire  et  Dorica  castn 
Desertosque  videre  locos  liUusque  relic- 
tum." 

Yet,  somehow,  tl^e  place  is  sacred  to 
its  aboriginal  traiditions.  Hence! 
avaunt!  *tis  holy  ground!  The 
Greeks  will  stick  by  it  still.  The 
"  DiBBCT  Manchester  (Remmghns 
line)"  have  pounced  upon  it  for  the 
terminus  of  their  "  Bailwat." 

Let  us  back  to  nos  moutons.  But 
which  mutton?  Cujiim  pectts?  to 
speak  with  the  shepherd  of  Mantoa. 
For,  as  if  to  thwart  all  efforts  at 
establishing  our  au thorns  individual- 
ity, lol  another  deponent  flings  ad- 
ditional confusion  on  the  inquiry. 
Ay,  a  liveried  flunkey,  at  the  l)owa- 
ger  Lady  "Winterbottom's,  in  Berke- 
ley Square,  is  seen  to  give  a  knowing 
wmk  as  he  reads  the  announcement 
of  this  book  in  The  Times,  Can  it 
all  be  true  what  is  freely  asserted  in 
that  neighbourhood  concerning  a 
footman  of  the  regulation  stature, 
with  a  literary  turn  and  keen  habits 
of  observation,  a  quondam  corre- 
spondent of  our  owu — fVTHOB,  in 


1846.] 


Titmavnli$  Tour  through  Turkey dom* 


87 


fact,  of  two  epistolary  volnmes,*  of 
which  the  publisher  admits  that^ 
notwithstanding  the  vast  demand  for 
them  at  the  fair  of  Leipsic,  some  few 
copies  remain  unsold  r  With  these 
dim  recollections,  to  which  the  prism 
of  memory  gives  a  yellowish  tinge,  is 
there  not  associated  the  phenomenon 
of  the  same  author's  recent  appear- 
ance, in  a  fragmentary  form,  to  wit, 
in  a  certun  diabt  reoordmg  the 
astounding  fortunes  of  James  bs  la 
Fluchs,  £».,  a  personage  who,  in 
the  recent  ferment  about  railways, 
appears  to  have  risen  to  the  top,  like 
the  froth  on  a  pot  of  porter  P  Here 
be  abundant  materials  for  bewilder- 
ment, and  we  are  dumbfoundered 
accordingly. 

With  all  the  "  aids  to  reflection  ** 
supplied  to  a  pensive  public  in  the 
foregoine  statements,  is  there  not 
**  much  that  may  give  us  pause  if  non- 
dered  fittingly  ?  Does  not  the  wnole 
subject  of  nseudononj^mous  author- 
ship rise  beioreonein  its  awful  phan- 
tasmagory  ?  Fain  would  we  here  talk 
of  Tom  Moore's  veiled  Pbophst, 
and  denounce  with  the  philanthro- 
pist Buckingham,  and  the  poet  Bunk, 
t^iose  **  hollow  hearts  that  wear  a 
Tnaik^  if  our  present  and  proper 
business  were  not  just  now  to  eluci- 
date the  mysteries  of  Michael  Angelo 
Titmarsh.  Have  we  not  met  this 
literary  malefactor  before,  even  under 
his  present  difljguise  P 

We  stoutly  assert,  that  of  a  Pa* 
rUian  Sketch-Book^  by  this  author, 
the  uflual  number  of  copies  were  en- 
tered at  Stationers'  Hall  as  far  back 
as  1839,  when  it  was  generally  found 
to  contain  so  many  mischievous  as- 
sertions and  dangerous  hints,  that 
Mr.  Gbant  was  compelled  to  rectify 
all  these  fallacies  and  misstatements 
in  a  subsequent  wor^  of  his  own, 
Paris  and  Us  People,  To  have  sug- 
gested the  subject  to  so  eminent  a 
pen  was  in  itself  some  compensation 
for  the  malice  of  that  book, — 

"  Dright  things  have  their  foil, 
'Tis  to  a  Beatley  that  we  owe  a  Boyle.*' 

In  further  illustration  of  which,  when 
this  »;Titmar9li"  went,  in  1842,  to 
the  sister  island,  and  published  an 
Tbish  Sketch-Book^Y^xA  of  the  most 
alarming  views  ai^d  startling  para- 


doxes, the  indefatkable  Mr.  Grant 
doggedly  pursued  nim  thither  with 
fits  Impreseiofu  of  Ireland  (1844),— 

*'  Raid  aateccdentem  scelestoin, 
Deseniit  pede  poena  clatido  ;'* 

that  is  to  say,  there  is  a  prosaical  as 
well  as  poetical  justice ;  an  evening 
of  devilled  turkey-legs  and  cham- 
pagne is  soberly  followed  by  next 
moming^s  red  herring  and  soda 
water. 

Wild  and  reckless  as  Tit  shewed 
himself  In  Ireland,  yet,  in  one  re- 
spect, his  caution  was  exhibited.  He 
did  not  fall  into  the  fatal  mistake  as 
to  the  facial  angle  of  the  Celtic 
Indies,  since  then  become  so  awfhl  a 
matter  with  The  Times'^  Commis- 
sioner, for  whom  the  fate  of  Orpheus 
at  the  hands  of  the  spreta  matres  of 
Cunnemara  would  not  \>e  too  much 
retributive  reven^.  Very  different 
was  his  appreciation  of  Irish  lasses. 
Bx.  gr. : — 

'*  Beauty  is  not  rare 

In  the  laod  of  Paddy, 
Fair  beyond  compare 

Is  Peg  of  linmaTaddy  ; 
Had  I  Hombr's  fire. 

Or  that  of  Serjeant  Taddy, 
'Xia  then  I'd  striVe  the  lyre. 

For  Peg  of  Limnavaddy ! " 

Nor  was  it  in  vain  that  he  de- 
picted and  deplored  the  unutterable 
squalor  of  Maynooth.  Spring  Bice 
quoted  him  in  the  House  of  Lords  in 
opposition  to  Mr.  Granfs  account 
read  by  Fox  Maule  in  the  Commons. 

So  mr  we  have  traced  our  author, 
but  here  another  transformation  oc- 
curs. The  attendance  on  agricul- 
tural dinners,  and  the  fattening  effect 
of  Irish  provisions  generally,  with 
p£TER  PuBCELL*s  particular  hospi- 
talities, seem  to  have  combined  to 
swell  him  into  unusual  dimensions; 
for,  no  loneer  recognisable  as  Tit- 
marsh  on  his  return,  he  burst  upon 
the  town  as  the  ''Fat  Contributor" 
to  Punchy  in  which  capacity,  when 
we  last  heard  of  him,  he  had  deter- 
mined to  travel  in  the  East,  had  ^*  let 
liis  mustachios  grow,**  and  embarked 
on  the  Oriental  Steam  Company's 
vessel,  the  Bubbompooteb. 

Here  a  feeling  of  incredulity  will 
naturally   come   upon  the   reader. 


*  The  Yellowplash  Correspondence.    9  ?ol3.     Conoingham  and  Mortimer, 
f  The  Irish  Sketch-Book.     By  M.  A.  Tftmarsh.    9  vols.    Chapman  and  Hall. 


88 


TitmanKi  Tour  through  Turkeydom, 


[January, 


Must  he  admit  all  this  multiformity 
in  single-banded  authorshiD,  and  do 
not  80  many  irreconciieable  phafles 
stagger  belief  in  one  persisting  indi- 
Yi^alityP  We  refer  the  doubtful 
on  this  point  to  that  celebrated  work 
^e  Ve^es  of  Creation^  in  which 
the  grand  doctrine  of  pbogrbssiys 
nBvsLOPSMS5T,  loug  knowu  to  the 
initiated,  is  put  in  a  popular  shape. 
The  famous  '*  nebular  theoiy**  is  there 
mroduoed  and  expoundeo,  and,  as 
with  the  planet  we  inhabit,  so  various 
stages  of  pre-existence  may  be  presum- 
ed to  have  been  gone  through  by  our 
author.  That  the  fat  contributor 
to  AfirA,  now  revolving  in  his  full 
rotundity,  may  have  previously  ex- 
isted in  an  attenuated  and  otherwise 
diluted  form,  is  but  a  simple  hypo- 
thesis, iamiliar  in  its  process  to  the 
student  of  geodesical  transmutation. 
The  early  rarefied  and  scatter-brain 
period  has  been  only  condensed  into 
cohesion  and  comparative  solidity. 
The  primitive  or  Barry  Lyndonian 
epoch,  recognisable  by  traces  of 
quartz,  is  succeeded  by  the  Fitz- 
Boodle  formation,  amid  broken  strata 
and  detritus.  Major  Groliah  Gaha- 
gan  is  but  a  sort  of  mastodon  or  me- 
gadierium,  dug  up  to  bear  evidence 
of  a  former  intellectual  organisation, 
while  that  peculiar  stage,  viz.  the 
Yellowplush  period,  corresponds  to 
the  ichthosaurian  or  lizara  era  of 
animal  life  on  our  globe. 

If  this  theory  is  not  deemed  con- 
clusive, then  must  we  take  refuge  iu 
the  books  of  Hindoo  theology,  and 
(as,  in  point  of  fact,  our  author  is  an 
•wx^Mv  of  Calcutta)  refer  to  the  va- 
rious incarnations  of  Vismou,  in  imi- 
tation of  whom  this  wayward  genius 
may  be  supposed  to  incorporate  him- 
self in  a  variety  of  manifestations. 

Punch  himself,  in  whom  he  is  now 
embodied  as  a  most  pinguidinous 
contributor,  was  not  always  Punch. 

"  Dear  Tom,  this  brown  lug  which  now 

foams  with  mild  ale 
Was  once  Toby  Philpot,  a  merry  old 

soul." 

He  was  once  a  Greek  deity,  and 
called  Pax.  Then,  as  now,  he  played 
on  the  pandean  pipe,  and  wielded  a 
truncheon,  though  as  yet  he  had 
neither  dog  nor  Judy ;  the  essential 
feature,  however,  i,e,  the  aboriginal 
noae,  was  already  developed.  £ong 
flourished  he  in  early  Greece,  when 


Music,  heavenly  old  maid!  nov  pxe- 
siding  at  the  Ancient  C<Mioerts,  was 
yet  in  her  teens, — he,  no  doubt,  was 
among  the  ^  passions**  who 

**  Thronged  aroand  her  magic  cell.'* 

Of  course,  before  his  marriage  with 
the  present  Mrs.  P. 

Suddenly,  after   many  y^ears   of 

grosperous  existence,  a  voice  was 
card  among  the  Ovclades,  to  the 
effect  that  Pan  was  dead, — mw-mxttu  # 
'n«»  (vide  Plutarch)  ;  but  was  H  so  ? 
The  undying  one,  not  he !  *Twis 
only  a  sham  to  cover  his  retreat 
from  a  numerous  body  of  rathlen 
creditors.  He  simply  changed  his 
name  and  address,  appearing  at  the 
imperial  court  of  Rome  under  a  ^ti- 
riety  oi  aliases — Plautus,  Publina  Sy- 
rus,  Flaccus,  nay,  occasionally  Naso: 
and  how  his  influence  was  suddenly 
felt — how  he  himself  improved  on 
the  transfer,  is  attested  by  the  lace- 
tious  Tally,  a  good  judge.  ^  Eomam 
sales  sdUiores  sunt  qtutm  tOi  Attica^ 
rum"  The  manner  of  his  dis- 
appearance in  the  wreck  of  the 
Roman  eminre  is  probably  ex- 
plained in  some  of  the  Hyzan- 
tine  histories,  though  the  circum- 
stance is  pretermitted  by  Mr.  Gibbon. 
He  turned  up,  however  (we  knew 
he  would),  at  the  revival  of  letters, 
in  the  shape  of  a  distorted  old  statue 
in  the  Piazza  Navona,  and  assumed 
the  name  of  Pasquin. 

To  Rome  he  stuck  as  long  as  that 
capital  continued  to  be  the  brains- 
box  as  well  as  cash-box  of  Europe ; 
but  having  his  own  misgivings  of  an 
approaching  diminution  in  both  re- 
spects, he  crossed  the  Alps  with  Ra- 
belais. Awhile  was  he  uncertain 
whether  to  fix  in  France  or  Spain, 
till  the  latter  preponderating  in  the 
balance  of  power,  we  find  bun  esta- 
blished on  the  other  side  of  the 
Pyrenees,  donkey-borne  through  the 
pleasant  towns  of  Andalusia,  under 
the  form  of  Sancho  Panza.  In  that 
character  he  is  (wrongfully)  accused 
of  having 

**  Laughed  Spain*s  chivalry  awaj." 

The  secret  causes  of  Spanish  down- 
fall, and  the  melancholy  lesson  to  be 
thence  learned,  being  far  removed 
from  a  laughing  matter,  most  as- 
suredly. Be  that  as  it  may,  when 
the  grand  monarque  came  to  rule  the 


1846.] 


TitmarsVs  Tour  through  Turheydom* 


89 


roast,  we  find  our  friend  Punch  still 
at  head-quarters,  this  time  in  the 
shape  of  Scajibon.  As  such,  he  kept 
the  court  alive  till  that  old  king  be- 
came (as  his  wift  Judy  said)  no  longer 
amiuMe;  whereupon  he  cast  about 
ibr  a  change,  altematinff  between 
England,  Imand,  and  Fiance.  In 
the  son  of  a  hatter,  mechant  camme 
un  (liable,  and  crooked  as  a  note  of 
interrelation,  he  found  a  fitting  ta- 
bemacto,  and  out  came  the  Dunglu> 
of  the  day.  In  Swift  he  tenanted 
«' the  deanery**  of  St.  Patrick's  awhile, 
then  after  grinning  for  nearly  a  cen- 
tury from  the  grotesque  lantern- 
jaws  of  Voltaire,  was  snuffed  out  at 
the  French  Revolution,  as  it  was 
thought,  but  erroneouslv,  for  in  the 
dub-footed  diplomatist  1  alubtbahd, 
with  grave  buffoonery,  he  continued 
to  emei^  now  and  then,  through 
each  successive  roar  of  that  terrmc 
mahlstrom,  down  to  the  quiet  days 
of  the  umbelliferous  Louis  Phi- 
lippe. Some  thought  he  had  died 
in  blessed  odour  of  Whiggery,  a 
canon  of  St.  Paul's,  and  pointed 
to  the  burial  register  of  the  Bev. 
Sidney  Smith ;  but  just  then,  at  the 
bottom  of  Ludgate  Hill,  he  flung 
aside  the  long -worn  trammels  of 
alias  and  inci^nito,  and  in  his  own 
proper  character, — as  Punch — il  vera 
pulcinello,  re-asserting  his  ancient  do- 
minion, indisputable  monarch  of  all 
JoKEDOM,  burst  upon  the  world. 

Of  this  Potentate  or  of  his  stoff  it 
won't  do  to  say  aught  in  disparage- 
ment. Here,  in  sooth,  is  a  brother- 
hood of  writers  whose  tremendous 
power  is  only  now  beginning  to  be 
recognised.  The  wits  and  sages  of 
Port  Royal  had  no  such  influence  in 
their  daj^,  nor  had  the  provincial 
pleasantries  of  Pascal  half  such  cir- 
culation. 

To  the  East,  then,  let  us  off  with 
TrrMARsn!  To  the  dull,  dreary, 
desolate  East,  land  of  the  cypress, 
marriage-portion  of  the  owl,  where 
in  our  time  holyday  walks  used  to  be 
taken  in  cemeteries,  women  glided 
hj  in  winding-sheets,  banded  hounds 
disputed  the  broken  causeway  with 
men,  and  the  tall  minaret  lifted  its 
crescent  against  the  blue  sky  above 
a  landscape  strevm  with  dunghills 
and  dead  dogs,  with  here  and  there 
a  donkey,  a  howling  Dervish,  a  dro- 
medary, and  if  aught  else  there  be 
that  18  dismal. 


And  shall  we  have  our  laugh  in 
the  midst  of  all  this  desolation  ?  Ay 
shall  ye  I  and  all  the  more  brilliant, 
because  of  the  surrounding  gloom, 
shall  be  the  flash  of  wit  and  the 
slitter  of  fancy ;  not  unlike  (pity  'tis 
tis  true!)  the  bright  silver  plaque 
on  the  black  velvet  coffin.  Even 
such  is  the  curious  temperament  of 
our  tourist,  such  the  buoyancy  of  his 
indomitable  hilarity,  that  though  full 
often  durinff  the  progress  of  this 
journey  dotn  his  bosom  swell  with 
mdignant  emotions,  and  the  big  tear 
gather  in  his  manly  eye,  at  the  sight 
of  misery  and  wrong,  though  the 
truest  and  tenderest  human  sym- 
pathies hallow  many  an  eloquent  page 
m  his  book,  yet  somehow  the  ever- 
lurking  laugh  brings  a  line  (turned 
topfly-turvy)  of  Lucretius  to  one's 
memory : — 

"  Medio  de  fonte  dolorum 
£ccd  jocosmn  aliquid  vel  in  iptis  fletibus 
afflat! 

But  what  of  that,  if  the  result  be  a 
delightful  compound  of  mirth  and 
melancholy,  an  agro  dolce  of  saga- 
city and  fun,  never  lagging  for 
one  moment,  yielding  to  no  ad- 
verse influence  of  time  or  place,  land 
or  sea,  finding  utterance  at  every 
emergency  for  some  pleasant  sally  in 
a  continued  series ;  beginning  off  the 
Needles  of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and 
endinff  with  that  of  Cleopatra  ? 

As  Stcme,  in  the  outset  of  Aw  jour- 
ney, fell  in  with  a  poor  monk  at 
Calais,  Titmarsh,  not  to  be  outdone, 
picks  up  a  bishop  off  Vigo  Bay. 
The  gentle  bearing  of  the  holy  man 
is  given  with  particular  unction,  quite 
a  contrast  is  he  to  our  episcopal 
"lions  of  the  fold"  of  Tuam  or 
Exeter.    The  parting  scene  thus  :-^ 

**  Then  came  the  bishop's  turn ;  but 
be  could n*t  do  it  for  a  long  while.  He 
went  from  ooe  passenger  to  another, 
sadly  shaking  them  by  the  hand,  oAen 
taking  leave,  and  seeming  loth  (o  depart, 
until  Captain  Cooper,  in  a  stem  but  re- 
spectful tone,  touched  him  on  the  shoul- 
der, and  said,  I  know  not  with  what  cor- 
rectness, being  ignorant  of  the  Spanish 
language,  '  Senor  Bispo !  Senor  Bispo !' 
on  which  summons  the  poor  old  man, 
looking  ruefully  round  him  once  more, 
put  his  square  cap  under  his  arm,  tucked 
up  his  long  hlsck  petticoats,  so  as  to 
anew  his  purple  stockings  and  jolly  fat 
calvesj  and  weat  tiembling  down  the 


90 


Titmarsh's  Tour  through  Turkeydom,  [^January. 


4teps  towards  the  boat.  The  goo4  old 
man  1  I  wish  I  had  had  a  shake  of  Chat 
trembling,  podgy  hand,  somehow,  before 
he  went  upon  bis  sea  martyrdom.  I  felt 
a  love  for  that  soft-hearted  old  Christian. 
Ah !  let  us  hope  his  gOTernante  tucked 
him  comfortably  in  bed  when  he  got  to 
Faro  that  night;  and  made  him  warm 
gruel,  and  put  his  feet  in  warm  water. 
The  men  clung  around  him,  and  almost 
kissed  him  as  they  popped  him  into  the 
boat,  but  he  did  not  heed  their  caresses. 
Away  went  the  boat  scudding  madly 
before  the  winds.  Bang  !  another  lateen- 
sailed  boat  in  the  distance  fired  a  gun  in 
his  honour ;  but  the  wind  was  blowing 
away  from  the  shore,  and  who  knows 
when  that  meek  bishop  got  home  to  his 
gruel  r 

Thou  art  a  sad  dog,  O  Trrl  a 
bishop  in  a  boat  ought  to  have  sug- 
gested more  reverent  fancies  to  a 
palmer  about  to  visit  the  shores  of 
Palestine.  Not  only  is  that  rude 
bark  of  a  fisherman  with  its  lateen- 
sail  a  picturesque  object  in  itself, 
and  as  such  fit  to  figure  in  a  cartoon 
of  Raphael ;  but  the  worthy  man 
on  board  should  not  be  made  to 
look  so  very  much  out  of  his  ele- 
ment, he  having,  by  succession,  a 
clear  right  to  be  there.  A  barge  is 
not  exactly  a  pulpit,  *tis  true,  though 
we  might  refer  to  our  Chrysostom, 
in  allusion  to  a  memorable  scene  on 
the  lake  of  Gennesareth,  for  a  plea- 
sant conceit  which  we  never  saw 
noticed  by  any  patriotic  student — 

Xurrn  xtu  r»Vf  iiiacxtfitftuf  ^ra^et  re  uty- 
iXXi«y,  \t90f  ^^ayfut,  91  tx,^vit  tvi  rn*  y»jy 
xmt  0  mkitvf  fv  iaXarrif  (deNov.et  Vet 

Test,). 

But  we  soon  fomvethe  thoughtless 
levit  jr  with  which  he  dismisses  the  poor 
old  bispo,  when  we  read  his  touching 
account  of  the  veteran  lieutenant 
R.N.  in  charge  of  her  majesty*s  pe- 
ninsular mail.  *Tis  a  sad  tale,  and  as 
well  told,  if  not  better  than  (Sterne 
again)  the  story  of  Captain  Lefebvre. 
Such  is  the  geniality  of  our  travel- 
ler's soul,  that  he  cannot  help  taking 
a  personal  interest  in  every  passenger 
in  the  steamer,  a  feeling  which  he 
curiously  insists  on  representing  as 
quite  reciprocal,  for  he  thus  puts  his 
infatuation  on  record,  when  about  to 
be  transhipped  at  the  Rook : — 

•*  I  have  a  regard  for  every  man  on 
board  that  ship,  from  the  captain  down 
to  the  crew—down  even  to  the   cook. 


with  tattooed  arms,  sweating  among  tie 
saucepans  in  the  galley,  who  used  (vn''. 
a  touching  affection)  to  send  me  locks  c; 
his  hair  in  the  soup." — P.  41. 

Of  course  he  has  his  gibe  at  Gib- 
raltar.   With  a  few  dashes    of  hi" 
random  pencil,  out  he  brings  the  tdg< 
vivid  and  grotesque  image    of  th&' 
fortress  and  its  denizens;    such,  in 
fact,  as  to  make  it  appear  in  its  pe- 
culiar geographical  position,  as  an  ap- 
penda^  to  the  rest  of  Europe  wha: 
the  merrythought  is  to  the  remainder 
of  the  turkey.     The  "  bock"  caa 
bear  it  all;   A««f  «v«m^,   its   stoDj 
cheek  has  no  blush  in  it:  in  good 
sooUi,  it  has  had  little  reason  to  Uush 
in  its  present  custody.     Onward5! 
on  the  next  great  stepping-stone  ai 
Malta  forth  steps  Titmarsh,  putting 
his  best  foot  foremost,  with  gracefm 
and  chivalric  bearing.     He  feels  at 
home  in  a  city  built  by  and  for  gen- 
tlemen.   Great  is  he  at  the  mess- 
table,  and  deep  in  scientific  gunner}*. 
But  we  are  pressed  for  time. 

Of  Gbeece  we  are  pained  to  find 
Tit  spcalc  in  terms  of  disappointment 
which  he  accounts  for  by  we  old  and 
often- refuted  theory  of  school  recol- 
lections—  the  birch  and  the  ferula. 
He  pretends  that  he  was  flogged  as  s 
dunce  at  college,  and  affects  to  re- 
member Greek  onlv  as  he  recalls  the 
flavour  of  castor-oil.    This  is  all  pal- 
pable sham,  and  sheer  ingratitude 
to  boot;  but  of  some  visitors  and 
tourists  ^*  who  think  proper  to  be 
enthusiastic  about  a  country  of  which 
they  know  nothing,  the  mere  phy$d- 
cal  beauty  of  which  they  cannot  for 
the  most  part  comprehend,"  and  who 
come  here  "  all  because  certain  cha- 
racters lived  in  it  2400  vears  ago," 
thus  reasons  shrewdly  in  his  way  onr 
autlior : — 

"  What  have  these  people  in  common 
with  Pericles  7  what  have  these  ladies  in 
common  with  Asposial  (Oh,  fie!)  Of 
the  race  of  Englishmen  who  come  won- 
dering ahout  the  tomh  of  Socrates,  io 
you  think  the  majority  would  not  have 
voted  10  hemlock  him  ?  Yes ;  for  the 
very  same  superstition  which  leads  men 
by  the  nose  now,  drove  them  onward  in 
tlie  days  when  the  lowly  husband  of 
Xantippe  died  for  daring  to  think  simply 
and  speak  the  truth.  I  know  ofno  qaality 
more  magnificent  in  fools  than  their  faith ; 
that  perfect  consciousness  they  bave  that 
they  are  doing  virtuous  and  meritorious 
actions,  when  they  are  performing  acts 


1846.] 


Titmar$h*s  Tour  through  Turhe^don^. 


91 


of  folly,  marderiDg  Socrates,  or  pelting 
Aristiaes  with  holy  oyster-shelis,  all  for 
Virtue's  sake ;  and  a  History  of  DuUrua 
in  all  Aget  of  thi  World,  is  a  book  which 
a  philosopher  would  surely  be  hanged, 
but  as  certainly  blessed,  for  writing." 

Such  bcioff  his  theory  of  ancient 
Greece,  equafly  distinct  and  positive 
is  the  opinion  lie  enterUdns  concern- 
ing the  modern  kingdom : — 

**  Behold  we  are  in  the  capital  of  king 
Otho.  I  swear  solemnly  that  I  would 
rather  have  tyro  hundred  a-year  in  Fleet 
Street,  than  be  king  of  the  Greeks,  with 
Basileus  written  before  my  name  round 
their  beggarly  coin ;  with  the  bother  of 
perpetual  revolutions  in  my  huge  plaster 
of  Paris  palace,  with  no  amusement  but 
a  drive  in  the  afternoon  orer  a  wretched 
arid  country,  where  roads  are  not  made, 
with  ambassadors  (the  deuce  knows  why, 
for  what  good  can  the  English,  or  the 
French,  or  the  Russian  party  get  out  of 
such  a  bankrupt  alliance  as  this?)  per- 
petually pulling  and  tugging  at  me, 
away  from  honest  Germany,  where  there 
is  beer  and  esthetic  conversation,  and 
operas  at  a  small  cost.  The  shabbiness 
of  this  place  actually  beats  Ireland,  and 
that  is  a  strong  word.  How  could  peo- 
ple who  knew  Leopold  fancy  he  would 
be  to  'jolly  green,'  as  to  take  such  a 
berth  1  It  was  only  a  gobemouch  of  a 
Bavarian  that  could  ever  have  been  in- 
duced to  accept  it. 

"  I  beseech  you  to  believe  that  it  was 
not  the  bill  and  the  bugs  at  the  inn 
which  induced  the  writer  hereof  to  speak 
so  slightingly  of  the  residence  of  llnsi- 
leus.  Those  evils  are  now  cured  and 
forgotten.  This  is  written  off  the  leaden 
flats  and  mounds  which  thev  call  the 
Troad.     It  is  stem  justice  alone  which 

Pronounces  this  excruciating  sentence, 
t  was  a  farce  to  make  this  place  into  a 
kingly  capital ;  and  I  make  no  manner  of 
doubt  that  King  Otho,  the  very  day  he 
can  get  away  unperceived,  and  get  to- 
gether  tht  pauagt^moneut  will  be  off  for 
dear  old  Deutschland,  Fatherland,  Beer- 
land!" 

The  Italics  are  our  own.  In  that 
passage  consists,  we  trust,  sufficient 
guarantee  for  the  stahility  of  the 
Hellenic  constitution.  And  yet,  con- 
cerning this  same  tiimhle-down  place 
and  its  hopeless  prospects,  as  set 
forth  in  these  pages,  how  came  it  Xo 
pass  that  when  some  enthusiastic 
philhcllenes,  two  months  ago  here 
m  London,  set  on  foot  a  project  of 
railway  hetween  Athens  and  the 
Piraeus,  encouraged  thereunto  hv  the 
luminous  (not  htmorousy  as  wickedly 


misprinted  in  the  Morning  Chronicle) 
speech  of  the  president  of  the  Areo- 
pagus Masson,  among  the  iipplicants 
for  shares  was  one  Michaa  Angelo 
Titmarsh  ? 

Oh!  was  it  well  to  sneer  after 
that  at  their  broken -down  cabs, 
and  rude  attempt  at  an  omnibus? 
Why  talk  lightly  of  their  humble 
industry  displaying  itself,  not  indeed 
in  the  tall  Birmingham  steam-chim- 
ney, but,  as  he  truly  says,  in  the 
form  of  "  dumpy  little  windmills 
whirling  |-ound  on  the  sunburnt 
heights  ?**  Ought  he  not  rather  ap- 
provingly sing  thereupon, — 

'*  La  coUine  qui  vers  le  pole 
Borne  nos  modestea  guerets, 
Occnpe  les  anfans  d'EoLs 
A  broyer  les  dons  de  C&res  V* 

But  thus  far  we  have  busied  our- 
selves with  mere  preliminaries.  Ail 
up  to  this  point  has  been  but  a  sort  of 
overture  to  the  CTand  eastern  opera 
buffa  of  Titmarsn.  We  are  now  on 
the  threshold  of  that  Orient  which  he 
has  come  out  to  explore.  At  Smtsna 
he  espies  the  first  camel,  hails  the 
man  up  in  the  minaret,  eats  his  first 
kabob;  from  that  moment,  at  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  Crescent  oifVour- 
lah  bay,  the  curtain  may  be  said  to 
rise  in  earnest,  and  the  comedy  be- 
gins. 

Did  we  say  comedy  ?  Let  there  be 
no  hallucination  here.  The  thought- 
less reader  must  not  mistake  our 
author  for  an  ordinary  farqeur :  to 
the  intelligent  mind  the  true  charac- 
ter of  his  performance  in  all  its  re- 
fined subtlety  will  be  obvious  at  a 
glance;  and  it  will  quickly  appear 
that  not  even  the  Drvina  Cammedta 
of  the  Florentine  unfolds  a  deeper  in- 
sight into  the  business  and  bosoms 
01  mankind. 

We  repeat  it.  His  book,  though 
apparently  jocular,  is  in  truth  pro- 
foundly suggestive ;  nor  has  it  been 
the  first  time  in  our  experience,  as 
reviewers,  that  the  solemnity  of 
the  impression  made  on  our  minds 
was  in  inverse  ratio  to  the  assumed 
gravity  of  the  work  placed  before  us. 
The  late  Tom  Hood  (blessed  be  his 
memory  1)  has  affected  our  soul,  many 
a  time  and  oft,  more  deeply  and  du- 
rably than  the  collected  mass  of 
Bridgewater  Treatises;  and  shall  we 
be  ashamed  to  own  that  we  have 
derived  more  moral  benefit,  as  well 


ey-bennied  signor.' 
*"  8  altar  SDwte, 

,,./''""  «"dding  I 
;,'.,;    '','° '"""■' 

■jfiiX-'i'""-''. 

""  conimoiiiu. 


1846.] 


TitmarMs  Tour  through  Turkeydom, 


93 


Tbeo  the  wind  set  up  a  howling, 
^od  the  poodle-dog  a  jowliog, 
J^nd  the  cocks  began  a  crowing, 
And  the  old  cow  raised  a  lowing, 
As  she  heard  the  tempest  blowing  ; 
And  fowls  and  geewB  did  cackle. 
And  the  cordage  and  the  tackle 
Began  to  shriek  and  crackle ; 
And  the  spray  dash'd  o'er  the  funnels. 
And  down  the  deck  in  runnels  ; 
And  the  rushing  water  soaks  all. 
From  the  seaman  in  the  fo'ksal. 
To  the  stokers,  whose  black  fiices 
Peer  out  of  their  bed-places ; 
And  the  captain  he  was  bawling, 
And  the  sailors,  pulling,  hauling ; 
And  the  quarter-deck  tarpauling 
Was  shiver'd  in  the  squalling ; 
And  tlie  passengers  awaken, 
Aloat  pitifully  shaken ; 
And  the  steward  jumps  up,  and  hastens 
For  the  necessary  basins. 

'J'hen  the  Greeks  they  groan'd  and 
quiyer'd. 
And  they  knelt,  and  moan'd,  and  ahiver*d. 
As  the  plunging  waters  met  them. 
And  splaafa'd  and  OYerset  them  ; 
And  they  call  in  their  emei^nce 
Upon  countlesa  saints  and  virgins  ; 
And  their  marrowbones  are  bended. 
And  they  think  the  world  is  ended. 

And  the  Turkish  people  for'ard 
Were  frighten'd  and  behorror*d ; 
And,  shrieking  and  bewildering, 
The  mothers  clutch 'd  their  children ; 
The  men  sung, '  Allah  !  Jllah ! 
Maahallah  and  BismiUah  ! ' 


Then  all  the  fleas  in  Jewry 
JumpM  up  and  bit  like  fury  ; 
And  the  progeny  of  Jacob 
Did  on  the  main  deck  wake  up 
(I  wot  those  greasy  Rabbins 
Would  never  pay  for  cabins)  ; 
And  each  man  moan'd  and  jabber'd  in 
His  filthy  Jewish  gaberdine. 
In  woe  and  lamentation, 
A  howling  consternation. 
And  the  splashing  water  drenches 
Their  dirty  brats  and  wenches ; 
And  they  crawl'd  from  bales  and  benches 
In  a  hundred  thousand  stenches. 


This  was  the  White  Squall  famous, 
Which  then  and  there  o'ercame  us. 
But  we  look'd  at  Captain  Lewis, 
Who  calmly  stood  and  blew  his 
Cigar  in  all  the  bustle. 
And  Bcom'd  the  tempest's  tussle. 
And  oft  we've  thought  hereafter. 
How  be  beat  the  storm  to  laughter ; 
For  well  he  knew  his  vessel 
With  that  vtin  wind  could  wrestle; 


And  when  a  wreck  we  thought  her. 

And  doom'd  ourselves  to  slaughter, 

How  gallantly  he  fought  her. 

And  through'the  hubbub  brought  her. 

And,  as  the  tempest  caught  her. 

Cried, '  Georoe,  some  brandy  and  wa- 


ter!' 


And  when,  its  force  expended. 
The  harmless  storm  was  ended. 
And,  as  the  sunrise  splendid 

Came  blushing  o'er  the  sea, 
I  thought,  as  day  was  breaking. 
My  litUe  girls  were  waking. 
And  smiling  then  and  making 

A  prayer  at  home  for  me." 

Li  the  simple  and  tender  pathos 
of  the  ooncluding  lines  outspoke 
the  true  heart  of  the  man.  Of 
him  may  be  rightly  predicated,  as 
of  Archdeacon  Paley  by  his  bio- 
grapher, that 

"An  enemy  to  all  kinds  of  roorosenesa 
or  austerity  in  every  relation  of  life,  either 
as  a  father,  a  husband,  or  a  friend,  he  was 
as  remarkable  for  a  generous  warmth  of 
feeling,  as  for  a  liveliness  of  disposition. 
It  was  one  of  his  apophthegms  that  a  man 
toko  it  not  tonutimet  a  fool,  it  alwayt  en«. 
This  reminds  us  of  Rocbefoucault's 
maxim,  that  gravity  is  a  mysterious  car- 
riage of  the  body,  invented  to  cover  the 
defects  of  the  mind.  The  grave  man  may, 
therefore,  choose  the  description  of  bis 
character  from  the  English  or  from  the 
French  philosopher,  raley  accuses  him 
of  stupidity,  Rochefoncault  of  knavery* 
Faley  was  never  grave,  but  on  grave  oc* 
casions;  in  company  his  vivacity  ex- 
hilarated all  around  him." — See  Lift  of 
Paley  prefixed  to  the  Horn  Paulinm, 

If  ever  there  was  a  ^ve  occasion^ 
it  would  he  that  of  a  visit  to  the  Holy 
Land :  and  we  do  solemnly  declare 
that  the  impression  which  these  pages 
have  made  on  us  concerning  Jerusa- 
lem and  its  awful  memories,  is  one 
of  the  finest  triumphs  of  heartfelt 
eloquence  we  can  recall.  Other 
travellers  seem  somehow  to  be  pla;^- 
ing  a  part :  this  writer  is  terribly  in 
earnest.    We  say  no  more. 

Tet  have  the  people  about  this 
hallowed  spot  conussedly  done  all  in 
Uieir  poor  power  to  degrade  and  bring 
down  the  tone  of  the  pilgrim's  feel- 
ings to  the  level  of  their  own;  and 
what  that  level  is  (ahi  me!)^  must  it 
he  told  in  Gath  ? 

"  Jarred  and  distracted  by  these  strange 
rites  and  ceremonies,  that  slmost  con- 
fessed iDpo8Ciire«  the  Chnxeh  of  the  Holy 


'"•'di.b.l,"     ■"""""no"      '""""I  .■•?„"   "  '•"J   w""".. 

"^.-ai-f  .tfef ta™;^"» '""^"S."'; 

■  AlicfaMi.,.-    •"« 


1846.] 


Titmarsh^s  Tour  through  Turkeydom, 


95 


0  b  ristroas  table,  and  there  to  be  discussed 
ior  half-an-faour — let  ua  Lope,  with  some 
relish.*' 

One  remark  of  his,  enpassattt,  we 
xiotice,  as  it  may  guide  the  geologist 
to    whom,  in  some  remote  age    of 

1  uturity,  will  fall  the  task  of  eluci- 
cLsLting  Egyptian  strata  from  the  oc- 


curring 


e-gypuan 
debris, — 


••  Wc  don't  know  the  luxury  of  thirst 
in  English  climei.  Sedentary  men  io 
cities,  at  least,  have  seldom  ascertained 
it  ;  but,  when  they  travel,  our  country- 
men guard  against  it  well.  The  road 
between  Cairo  and  Suez  isjonehc  with 
soda-water  corks.  Tom  Thumb  and  his 
brothers  might  track  their  way  across  the 
desert  by  those  land-marks." 

To  the  artist  world  of  London  the 
most  interesting  of  his  Egyptian  ren- 
contres will,  prohahly,  be  his  abocca- 
niento  with  a  well-known   brother 
craftsman,  an  aquarellist  of  distin- 
guished genius,  whose  strange  fancy 
it  is  to  lie  perdu  in  the  nnintellectual 
wilderness  of  Cairo.    Here  he  ap- 
X>ears  to  have  found  out  Uie  grand 
arcanum  of  human  happiness,  leading 
the  dreamy,  lazy,  hazy,  tobaccofied  life 
of  the  languid  lotus-eater.  In  not  un- 
attractive colours  does  his  London  vi- 
sitor depicture  the  dwelling-place  of 
the  self-exiled  anchorite;  there  is  a 
sort  of  fascination  at  work  on  him 
under  the  roof-tree  of  this  gifted 
recluse ;   he  is  almost  persuaded  to 
remain.    The  public,  who  bv  this 
time  justly  look  on  him  as  their  pro- 
perty, little  knew  what  risk  they  ran. 
lie  sat  for  his  portrait  to  this  mys- 
terious hermit :  it  will  be  found  at  a 
charming  page  of  the  book;  it  will  be 
valued  by  numerous  admirers  of  the 
artist,  as  well   as  of  the  subject; 
prized  with  all  the  jealous  care  of 
Othello  for  the  Eerchief  he  got  of  an 
Egyptian  woman. 

vVe  were  about  closing  the  vo- 
lume with  a  general  expression  of 
admiration  anoapproval  of  its  varied 
beauties,  and  of  tnat  wondrous  ver- 
satility (true  test  of  genius')  with 
which  the  author  leads  us  through 
the  mazy  paths  of  philosophy,  plea- 
santry, and  pathos,  equailv  enter- 
taining in  all,  when  tne  following 
patriotic  reflections  caught  our  eve 
concerning  "  Cleopatra's  needle,"  the 
property  of  the  British  public,  and 
which  w  unaccountable  nanchalaiice 


of  government  allow^s  to  remain  in  a 
most  unseemly  state.  Who  is  to 
blame  here?  Is  it  the  Board  of 
Trade,  or  the  Woods  and  Forests? 
We  pause  for  a  reply. 

"  Then  we  went  to  sec  the  famous 
obelisk  presented  to  the  British  govern, 
ment  by  Mehemet  Ali,  who  have  not 
shewn  a  particular  alacrity  to  accept  this 
ponderous  present.  The  huge  shaft  lies 
on  the  ground  prostrate,  and  desecrated 
bv  all  sorts  of  abominations.  Children 
were  sprawling  about,  attjacted  by  the 
dirt  there.  Arabs,  negroes, and  donkey- 
boys,  were  passing,  quite  indifferent,  by 
the  fallen  monster  of  a  stone, — as  indif- 
ferent as  the  British  government,  who 
don't  care  for  recording  the  glorious 
termination  of  their  Egyptian  campaign 
of  1801.    If  our  coimtry  takes  the  com- 

f)liment  so  coolly,  surely  it  would  be  dis- 
oyal  upon  our  parts  to  Se  so  enibusiastic. 
I  wish  they  would  offer  the  Trafalgar 
Square  Pillar  to  the  Egyptians  ;  and  that 
both  of  the  huge,  ugly  monsters  were 
lying  in  the  dirt  there,  side  by  side." 

England  appears,  from  her  ap- 
parent bewilderment  about  the  mat- 
ter, to  be  in  the  position  of  the 
elderly  lady  who  won  an  elephant  in 
a  lottciy. 

Ten  years  ago  there  was  spread  a 
rumour  that  some  wealthy  tourist — 
Lord  Frudhoe  or  Col.  Vyse — had 
ordered  the  shijpment  of  tms  monu- 
ment at  his  pnvate  expense,  with  a 
view  to  its  erection  at  tne  bottom  of 
Eegent  Street.  The  invoice  was  said 
to  be  in  town.  The  shareholders  of 
Waterloo  Bridge  were  on  the  alert, 
and  a  meeting  was  called  to  petition 
Lord  Melbourne  that  it  might  be 

E laced  on  the  centre  arch  of  that 
itherto  unprofitable  structure.  It 
was  soon  ascertained,  however,  that 
the  project  was  premature ;  the  whole 
affair  naving  originated  (we  were 
present)  in  a  noax  of  Charles  Philipps 
on  the  late  Tom  Ilill,  who  went,  not 
fool,  with  the  story  to  Dr.  Black  of 
the  Chronicle.  The  paragraph,  how- 
ever, duly  "went  the  rounds*'  not 
only  of  our  provincial  but  of  the 
continental  press.  As,  at  that  pe- 
riod, we  happened  to  be  in  frequent 
communication  with  J.  F.  Beranger, 
with  whom  Fraser^s  Magazine  has 
ever  since  been  a  favourite,  we  were 
both  surprised  and  flattered  to  receive 
from  him  some  comphmentary  verses 
thereupon,  which  our  modesty  en- 
gaged U6  to  Buppress  at  the  time;  but 


1846.] 


Of  HaitwayM. 


&7 


OF  RAILWAYS. 
BT  M&SLGAV  BATTLEB,  B8Q.  M.A.  AN  APFBBNTICB  OF  THB  LAW. 


]L«A8T  month,  my  old  friend,  Oliyeb 
YoRKis,  was  obliged  bv  the  pressure 
of  Time  and  Space — ot  Circumstance, 
the  unspiritual,  and  Expediency,  the 
shabby  divinity,  to  put  the  break 
upon  my  article  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence,  and  run  me  to  a  dead  stop. 
Sut  I  reclaim  the  printed  and  pub- 
lished portion  of  my  sentence ;  I  as- 
sert my  right  to  reduce  it  once  more 
to  manuscript,  and  amalgamate  it 
iivith  Uie  remaining  part.  The  pass- 
age will  then  run  thus : — 

Obviously  these  schemes  for  short 
railways,  which  are  not,  in  the  least, 
of  national  or  imperial  importance, 
tmght  to  be  carried  out,  and,  when 
brought  forward  horn  fide  and  wisely, 
wUl  be  carried  out  eventiudly  by 
local  proprietors,  who  iwoeii  their 
money ;  and  this  less  with  a  view  to 
the  interest  the  capital  may  yield, 
than  to  the  benefits  they  expect  to 
derive  from  the  work  when  con- 
structed, and  who  have  no  design  of 
f, ambling,  or  tttagpng^  or  bulUn^^  or 
earing^  or  practising  any  other  kind 
of  shabby  trickery  in  the  market. 
Such,  I  say,  will  be  found  to  be  the 
result,  whatever  the  swindling,  the 
letter-selling,  the  stock-jobbing,  or 
a^^iotage^  may  have  been  in  the  be- 
ginning. Every  railway  bill,  as 
Arago  has  justly  observed,  is,  at 
bottom,  a  financial  measure;*  but 
long  lines — ^main  trunk  lines — are 
the  afiair  of  the  empire,  which  cares 
comparatively  nothing  if  there  be  a 
loss  upon  them  as  commercial  specu- 
lations, so  mighty  and  so  multitudi- 
nous are  the  political  and  economic 
advantages  they  afford.  But  short 
lines,  except  in  some  very  rare  and 
peculiar  instance,  never,  at  the  best, 
can,  and  never  will,  be  more  than 
mere  commercial  speculations  for  the 
investment  of  money,  from  which, 
directly  or  indirectly,  an  adequate 


return  is  expected.  This  distincticm 
the  statesman  and  the  philosopher 
ought  always  to  keep  in  view.  The 
test  to  be  applied  to  the  value  of 
every  short  Ime  and  every  branch 
line,  at  bottom,  amounts  simply  to 
this,  "WiU  it  i»y?''  — an  abso- 
lute test  that  is  in  no  sort  to  be 
applied  to  a  main  trunk  line. 
The  short  line  may  be  swept 
off  the  surface  of  the  earth,  and  the 
removal  of  it  will  very  slightly  affect 
an^  portion  of  the  oountir,  save  that 
whicn  it  traversed ;  will  nardly  con- 
cern any  body,  save  the  inhabitants 
and  such  other  persons  as  may  have 
invested  their  money  in  it.  The 
traffic  is  never  stopped  or  impeded 
for  an  hour ;  the  transit  alone  is  made 
slower,  and  the  shorter  the  line  the 
less  material  and  delay.  Destroy  a 
main  trunk  line,  and  you,  on  uic 
contrary,  smite  the  internal  com- 
merce of  the  kingdom,  as  though  it 
were  with  a  stroke  of  paralysis.  The 
relative  importance  in  the  reticulated 
system  between  short  lines  and  long 
main  lines  is  precisely  similar  to  that 
which  exists  between  the  great  arte- 
ries and  the  smaller  veins  in  the 
human  body. 

But  to  resume  my  more  immediate 
subject,  which,  I  trust,  it  will  be  re* 
collected,  was  the  inverted  course 
pursued  in  Ireland  as  to  the  establish- 
ment and  formation  of  channels  of 
intercommunication.  England,  be- 
fore she  took  to  making  raUwaj^ 
had,  by  canals  and  navigable  rivers, 
4000  miles  of  inland  navigation. 
Ireland,  with  infinitely  greater  na- 
tural fiicilities,  has  only  400.  Yet 
Ireland  will  forthwith  have  a  re- 
ticulated system  of  railways!  So 
be  it  I  And,  undoubtedly,  what- 
ever may  be  the  result  as  regards 
the  payment  and  amount  of  interest 
on  the  capital  expended,  they  must 


*  Arago,  moreoTer,  in  his  sdmirable  Report,  as  chairman  of  the  committee  ap- 
pointed in  1838  by  ihe  Chamber  of  Deputies  to  consider  the  plan  for  a  reticulated 
system  of  railwnys  in  France  proposed  hj  the  goremment,  observes: — "  Laws  of 
finance— and  fundamentally  it  is  a  financial  law  we  are  about  to  discuss — should  be 
established  on  firm  grounds.  Enthusiasm  and  the  freaks  of  Imagination  hare,  no 
doubt,  their  bright  side;  but  let  ua  be  careful  that  they  seduce  us  not  into  fiscal 
measures,  finom  which  the  most  numerous  classes  of  societv,  already  smitten  by 
taxation  on  mere  necessaries,  may  have  to  snflTer."  There  is  ss  much  need  for  tbe 
caution  in  1845  as  in  1838.ia  Great  Britsia  as  in  Fnmoet 

VOL.  XXZJQI.  no*  CZCUX.  B 


98 


Of  Railwaxfi, 


[^Januarr. 


and  will  do  much  good  in  afl(brding 
employment  to  the  people,  and  intro- 
ducing a  knowledge  of  skilled  labour 
into  the  country.  And,  perhaps,  in 
this  land  of  anomalies,  railways,  the 
last  result  of  civilisation  in  a  small 
country,  may  lead  back  the  Irish  to 
the  use  and  enjoyment  of  some  of  its 
earlier  and  easier  means  and  blessT 
ings,* — if,  indeed,  the  Irish  should 
not  think  fit  to  follow  the  ad- 
vice of  the  blustering  organ  of 
Young  Ireland,  in  tearins  up  the 
rails  to  make  ^es,  snd  destroying 
tunnels  and  bndges,  in  the  attempt 
to  massacre  the  &kxon  soldiery.  A^, 
and  the  Highlands  of  Scotland  will 
have  their  railways;  in  short,  every 
region  and  every  district  will  have 
its  railway.  Eaxlj  copies  of  a  mag- 
nificent map,  in  four  large  sheets,  is 
now  spread  on  the  carpet  before  me : 
it  is  a  ^^  Railway  Map  of  England, 
Wales,  and  Scotland,  dravm  from 
the  Triangulatipn  of  tbe  Ordnance 
Survey,  the  Survev  of  the  Railway 
Companies,  and  other  information; 
shewmg  the  Lines  of  Railways,  with 
their  Stations,  and  Sections  of  Rail- 
ways,  the  Inland  Navi^tion,  Great 
and  Cross  Roads,  Cities,  Market- 
towns,  and  Villages.  By  James 
Wyld,  Geographer  to  the  Queen  and 
Pnnce  Albert,  Charing  Cross  East, 
London."  This  is  the  title  of  a  noble 
piece  of  work.  As  I  look  down  upon 
It,  one  is  amazed  to  see  what  ample 
nrovisiom  there  already  is  in  the 
United  Kingdom  for  intercourse  and 
intercommunication.  I  turn  to  a 
smaller  map,  on  which  the  projected 
lines  are  laid  down,  as  well  as  those 
actually  made,  or  in  progress,  and  I 
find  the  reticulated  svstem  thereon 
laid  down  as  contemplated  for  Great 
Britain,  startling  at  onee  in  its  mag- 


nitude and  its  minuteneaa.  And. 
then,  if  the  propulsion  of  carriage 
on  railways  upon  any  atmospherie 
principle  (I  say  any^^iecaase  I  un- 
derstand no  less  than  ten  new  patent? 
hare  been  lately  granted)  shcMild  be 
found  to  answer  prai^ically  and 
oommerciallv,  the  most  mountatniofi^ 
regions  will  be  scaled,  and  forced 
into  communication  with  the  existtng 
groups  of  railways.  But,  vast  as  thi> 
prospect  of  iron  roads  is,  a  still  moR 
extensive  vision  opens  before  tbe 
eyes  of  a  writer  in  the  last  number 
of  the  Wuimuuier  Review,  His  dck 
tion  is,  that  the  change  now  in  pro- 
gress is  that  of  8uper9edu^  sstane 
roads  by  iron  roads.    He  nya, — 

'*  Tbe  first  rood  was  a  track ;  tits 
second  one  made  with  rough  and  bvj 
materials,  sometimes  paved » nod  more  ire> 
quently  thrown  loose  upon  the  grooad ; 
the  third  a  macadamised  road  ;  and  tk 
aiimber  of  prirate  bills  applied  for  W- 
tween  1899  and  1833  for  roads  of  ths 
coDStructioa  was  340i.  I'hcra  SR 
27,000  miles  of  tarapikc  roads  in  GnM 
Britato  alone ;  and  tbe  puUic  roads  o< 
all  kinds,  including  both  cxoaa  roads  mA 
turnpika  roada,  in  Great  Britain  sb^ 
Ireland,  extend  to  a  length  of  aoaoc- 
where  about  150,000  miles!  We  hare 
now  to  convert  these  stone  roads,  or  tbe 
greater  part  of  them,  into  iron  roads,  as 
Speedily  as  may  be  practicable,  and  pos- 
sibly (as  the  dispositron  to  trarel  in- 
creases with  facilities  of  traTel)  fis4 
room  for  twice  the  nuaber.  This  is  lis 
work  Englishmen  have  sat  themaalves  to 
do,  and  in  this  generation  or  the  next 
they  will  do  it." 

Indeed  they  will  not,  my  fine  fel- 
low, either  in  this  generation,  or  tbe 
next  generation,  or  any  generatiaa 
yet  to  come.  Here  is  a  apeeimen  of 
the  wild  fancies  that  in  this  season  of 


^  Count  Lally-Tolendat,  in  his  essay  on  the  life  of  the  murdered  Strafibrd — mur- 
dered for  his  courage  and  genius — makes  an  observation  about  the  eondttion  of  dn 
Irish  which  is  in  great  part  true,  and  applieable  still :— "  La  liberty  politique  n'ast 
pour  les  homaes  qu'un  hesoin  secoadaire  at  relalif.  Le  premier,  Tabaolu  beeoia, 
c'est  la  liberty  personelle,  c'eat  la  security  de  son  repos,  de  son  toit,  de  sea  asoiasons : 
or  depuis  long  temps  les  habitana  de  Tlrlando  en  etaieut  priv^s."  That  a  vast  mul- 
titude of  them  are  still  deprived  of  these  primal  bleseiaga  is  well  known  to  all  who 
are  ac<}uainted  with  the  country,  and  dare  to  speak  the  truth.  In  fiiot,  the  histoiyof 
the  Irish  neople,  from  our  first  acquaintance  with  the  island  to  the  present  hour, 
ia  frightful  and  appalling.  It  is  the  history  of  the  only  populace  in  Europe  to 
which  the  practical  benefits  oi  civilisation  never  have  descended, —  to  which  a 
peaceful  enjoyment  of  any  thing  like  comfort  never  has  occurred,-*to  which  security 
of  life  and  property  have  been  most  rare,  brief,  and  transient  blessings,  to  which, 
in  a  word  (say  wnat  you  will  of  political,  civil,  and  religious  liberty),  paraoaal 
freedom  has  never  yet  been  known.  Ia  this  they  are  worse  ofif  than  tba  cogaate  Celt 
of  the  Peninsula. 


1846.] 


x'ailway  ftensy  haunt  the  brains  of 
even    clever  and   intelligent  men! 
Why,  it  is  as  monatrous  as  a  sick 
man^  dreaax, — the  ^tgroH  wmnium 
9?ammm.    Slone  roads,  high  and  bye, 
never  will  be  superseded  so  long  as 
there  are  stones  to  be  found  upon  the 
earth.    You  will  have  no  main  trunk 
stone  roads,  it  is  true, — no   roads 
scrying  the  purposes  Of  arteries  in 
the  inrstem  of  circulation  by  which 
travellers  throughout   the    United 
Kingdom  are  conveyed;  but  roads 
from  the  humble  pathway  to  the  ad« 
mirably  constructed   highway:    ay, 
and  canals,  too,  yon  always  will,  al- 
i^ays  must,  have.    Again  and  again 
be  it  enforced,  that  tne  questicm  of 
the  mere  conveyance  of  goods  and 
passengers  from   place  to  place  is 
purely   a   financial   question ;   and 
when  only  short,  or  comparatively 
short,  distances  have  to  be  performed, 
such  as  may  be  got  over  m  an  hour 
or  two,  or  a  few  hours,  or  half  a  day, 
or  a  whole  night,  the  cheapest  mode 
of  conveyance  for  the  vast  multitude 
of  the  people  always  will  be  the  best, 
and  that  which  they  will  never  ikil 
to  adopt.    Now,  it  is  utterly  and  ab- 
solutely  impossible   that    railroads 
ever  can,  by  any  device  or  ingenuity 
of  man,  compete  in  cheajmess  of  con- 
veyance with  rivers,  or  highroads, 
or  even  with  canals.     I  recollect, 
that  when  the  Edinburgh  and  Glas* 
gow  Railway-bill  passed,  the  live- 
liest apprehensions  were  entertained 
that  the  Forth  and  Clyde  and  Union 
Canals  would  be  ruined.    But  what 
was  the  result  P    The  speed  of  the 
fly-boats  was  increased,  and  the  fares 
diminished;  and  the  traffic,  instead  of 
dwindling  away,  haa  become  greater 
than  it  was  before  the  railway  vras 
constructed.     And  here,  be  it  re- 
membered, the  distance  traversed  be- 
tween the  two  termini  will  not  fairly 
come  under  the  denomination  of  a 
short  distance;   it   took   the  mail 
coach  upwards  of  four  hours  and  a 
half  to  accomj^h  it.    We  must  re- 
collect, too,  that  if  the  canal  be  un- 
afTected  in  its  passenger-traffic,  much 
more  must  it  necessarily  remain  un- 
injured in  the  traffic  in  goods,  and 
espcdally  heavy  goods.     The   fii- 
vourite  adage  of  the  Americans — ^that 
which  as  a  moral  sentence  is  in- 
scribed on  the  dials  of  their  clocks, 
and  inculcated  as  the  earliest  and 
most  impoftaat    ksson  upon  the 


Of  Railway  $.  ''^r:9^ 

minds  of  their  children-^is,  ''Tfiauft 
is  money.'*  But  Uus,  though  true, 
is  not  a  truth  of  universal  applica- 
tion. Ilundreds  in  our  own  country 
— the  fmges  cotmanere  nalM*- the 
lily-like  gentlemen,  ^  who  toil  not, 
neither  do  they  spin,"  so  fiur  from 
eonverting  time  into  money,  spend 
largely  in  their  efforts  to  klQ  the  old 
enemy.  When,  however,  the  indi- 
vidual has  remunerative  occupatioB 
for  the  whole  of  his  time  not  devoted 
to  sleep,  nourishment,  exerdse,  and 
whatever  else  may  be  essentially  ne- 
ceanry  for  the  health  of  body  and 
mind,  then  is  time  money  in  one 
sense  of  the  word,  because  it  may  be 
figuratively  said  to  be  convertible 
into  money.  But  then  it  is  monqr 
of  every  denomination  of  value,  and 
the  worth  of  this  time  decreases  ^- 
rectly  as  the  distance  for  the  travers- 
ing of  which  it  is  to  be  expended. 
Puring  the  parliamentary  session, 
Air.  Austin's  Uroe,  taking  the  whole 
of  the  twenty-four  hours,  is  probably 
worth  two  guineas  an  hour,  and  to 
him  very  speedy  transit,  when  he 
may  desire  it,  is  very  valuable ;  but 
the  Irish  peasant,  for  whom  you 
are  providing  steamroads,  earns 
sixpence,  eightpence,  tenpence,  uid, 
at  the  utmost,  one  shilling  a-day. 
Take  the  highest  figure,  and  then  tne 
value  of  his  time  will  be  one  half* 
penny  an  hour.  Say  he  works 
twelve  hours.  Allow  him  seven 
hours  for  sleep,  and  two  for  taking 
his  meals  and  smoking  his  pipe, — hia 
dhudeen,  or  hrulegeuie*  He  mis  three 
to  spare.  Now  is  it  not  dear  that  he 
cannot  afford  to  pay  and  ought  not  to 
pay  one  farthing  for  being  rapidly 
conveyed  over  any  distance  whica 
he  can  accomplish  m  three  hours  on 
a  cart,  or  horse,  or  on  foot,  or  in  an  v 
way  so  it  be  without  cost,  or,  at  au 
events,  with  no  greater  cost  than  the 
three-halfpence  which  represent  the 
value  of  lus  three  hours,  and  consti- 
tute one-eifffath  of  his  revenue  for 
the  day, — that  surplus  which,  after 
the  necessaries  of  the  day  are  pro- 
vided for,  the  soldier  has  to  sj^nd 
out  of  his  pay,  but  which  Faddy  is  not 
in  a  condition  to  afford  to  lay  out  for 
any  thing  save  an  absolute  want,  as  his 
military  friend  may,  who  is  housed 
and  clad  at  the  public  expense? 
Would  it  not  be  not  alone  foonsh  but 
sinful  for  him  to  pay  his  three- 
halfpence  a-ndk,  half,  or  his  penny 


-- —^'^ 


102 


Of  Railways, 


[Jasaanr, 


as  i^eediljr  ag  may  be  practicable, 
and  that,  in  this  {feneration  or  the 
next,  they  will  do  it. 

Railroads,  by  their  speed  of  tran- 
sit, will  effect  great  marvels,  and 
cause  wonderful  revolutions,  mo- 
ral, social,  uid  politico-economic ; 
but  they  never  will  cause  us  to  dis- 
pense with  all  or  any  of  the  other 
modes  of  conveyance  now  in  use,  nor 
will  they  be  forced  into  construction 
with  the  rapidity,  and  in  the  num- 
ber with  which  Spackman*s  list 
threatened  us.  Of  the  real  position 
and  prospects  of  railways,  and  inter- 
communication by  them,  I  propose 
to  say  something  nereafter.  Mean- 
time, let  me  obmsrve,  that,  as  I  pre- 
dicted last  month,  multitudes  of  pro- 
jects have  disappeared.  Of  these, 
some  perished  of  inanition,  some  of 
spontaneous  combustion,  some  of 
exhaustion.  Some  lost  their  sepuate 
locality  and  name  by  amalgamation ; 
many  were  too  late  with  their  plans 
and  sections ;  some  from  lack  of 
C(Hn  to  pay  engineers  and  surveyors, 
others  who,  as  they  allege,  paid  these 
functionaries  most  lavishly,  from  the 
fUsehood  and  treachery  (as  they 
state)  of  the  aforesaid  engineers  aim 
surveyors  who  sold  them  to  their 
rivals.  Very  many  of  the  later 
schemes  were  brought  to  a  dead 
stand-still,  from  the  circumstance  of 
not  more  than  three  or  four  of  those 
who  had  applied  for  shares  being 
found  just,  or  nlly  enough,  to  pay 
their  oeposits.  I  know  one  case  in 
which  only  60/.  altog^ether  were  j^id 
in  the  way  of  deposit,  on  a  project 
that  was  to  have  cost  700,000/. 
Lastly,  the  promoters  of  a  good  many 
homi  JSde  projects  have  relegated 
them  until  the  next,  or  some  sue* 
ceedii^  session  of  parliament;  and 
the  contrivers  of  a  multitude  of  plau- 
sible schemes,  whose  real  object  was 
to  rob  the  public,  have  been  com- 
pelled to  put  them  off  (alas!  the 
while,  for  all  concerned,  directly  or 


indirecUy)  to  the  Gredc  Kalends- 
the  to-morrow -come -never  oi  ibs 
ancients. 

"  Oh  !  many  a  stag  late  blithe  and  hnw^, 
Forloro  '  mounts  the  ocean  wave  ;*  * 
Aod  many  'a  letter'  haa  been  tom^f 
And  countleaa  scrip  to  traaks  been  borac ; 
And  many  an  antlered  head  lies  low4 
Which  whilom  made  a  gorgeous  sbow ! 
And  many  a  fast  coach  now  'enwb* 

slow! 
And  maov  a  gent  doth  limping  go, 
Who,  ruthlesa,  erst,  apniDg  on  bis  prej. 
A  proud  Gent,  One,  Kteetera.*^ 

In  the  last-mentioned  cases  the  in- 
dividuality which  few  would  be  dii- 
posed  to  envjT,  remains  in  the  recog- 
nised possession  of  these  foiled  and 
rapadous  sents,  one,  &c.,  so  does  the 
identity  which  metaphysically  (rai^ 
John  Locke,  ^ntleman,  ni  loco)  con- 
sists in  consciousness,  but  which,  io 
carrying  out  the  requirements  of  the 
law,  is  practicaUy  reduced  by  the 
8heriff*s  respectable  representatives 
to  certain  peculiarities  of  counte- 
nance, and  of  habiliments.  But  as 
to  the  Etceteras,  which  mainly  con- 
stitute the  attorney,  they  are  all, 
except  the  liabiliti^  pretty  nearly 
gone.  For  myself,  I  do  not  in  tl^ 
least  pity  them.  I  didike  equally 
fools  and  knaves,  but  I  hate  the  in- 
dividuals who  are  the  repreaentatives 
of  a  cross  between  both.  If  these 
vermin  are  forced  to  vanish  from 
society  with  their  baffled  -proje^ 
it- will  be  a  great  purification,  and  a 
ereat  blessing  for  straightforward  and 
nonest  men.  A  large  number  of 
them,  at  all  events,  have  been  sorely 
mauled,  maimed,  and  crippled  by 
the  blowing  up  of  their  rascally 
schemes ;  and  the  collapse  of  the 
once  terrific  list  haa  been  conse- 
quently most  satisfactory.  At  the 
worst,  though  the  thing  really  never 
was  one-hundredth  part  as  bad  ss  it 
was  represented  to  be  by  the  alarm- 
ists, there  was  no  reason  for  the  sor- 


»»» 


m 


*  *'  Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean  wave,  banish'd  forlorn. 
Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and  torn  V 

Campbrll's  Lochiti, 

t  "  And  many  a  banner  ahall  be  torn. 
And  many  a  knight  to  earth  be  home ; 
And  many  a  sheaf  of  arrows  spent, 
Ere  Scotland's  king  shall  pass  the  Trent." 

ScoiT*8  MarmioH, 

KiTn  ir«^«f  ;^«f;i»."— PAY.   X. 


1 846.}                                   Of  Railitays.  1 03 

did  fir%ht  tiiat  ms  displayed.     I  mnltttndei  of  projMts  that  dp,  in- 

have  before  me  a  curioas  "  history  of  deed,  venture  to  come  before  it,  but 

panics,**  published  in  the  Livemod  whose  surveys  were  made, — 

Journal.    In  this  I  find  a  fact  of  im-  ,.  «    ^^  »truggliiig  moonbeam's  misty 

portance  set  forth,  which  K  enhanced  ^    jj  jj^^  *•  ^*                          ^ 

by  the  consideration  that  Liverpool,  ^^^^  ^jj^  linteni  dimly  burning." 
ever  since  it  rose  to  commercial  emi- 

nence,  has  been  notoriously  one  of  The   work,   however,    under  all 
the    most   gambling  places  in  the  circumstances,  will  be  heavy  enough 
world.  to  be  onerous  and   irksome;   and 
The  writer  says, —  I  fear  much  of  it  will  be  done  in 
-  If  we  tale  tbe  Liverpool  list.  pub.  an  unwHlmg  Mid  dirtracted  spirit, 
lished    by    Hall    and    Co.,    we   find  »nd  m  a  superficial,  slap-dash,  la«y 
that  at  no  time  has  the  number  of  rail-  manner.  Vast  and  mighty,  however, 
way  companies  in  operation,  making  or  are  the  questions  this  parliament  will 
projected,  whose  shares  were  saleable  in  have  to  try  and  determine,  unless 
this,  the  largest  and  wildest  market  in  that   extremelv    improbable    event 
the  kingdom,  for  these  securities  nam-  should  take  place— a  summary  and 
bered  f09.  divided  thus :—  desperate  dissolution.    In  legislating 
Railwaj^s  in  ojwation 84  ^^^^  t^^  projects  which  will  other- 
New  raUways  in  progress. .. ...      8  ^j^^  assuredly  come  before  the  two 

Railwa,  b^pK'i/*^  ;. . .    39  ^o^^^.t^is  se«ion^nde^nden^^^^ 

Decision  deferred  on  5  the  ordmary  and  pr^nbed  inqumes 

Have  been  before  parliament  . .     14  ^hich  m  every  case  have  to  be  satw- 
New  railways  for  next  session . .  109  fied,  the  momentous  question  touch- 
Total  «09  ing  the  proposed  direct  railways  will 

Making  every  allowance  for  accidental  have  to  be  determined.    The  ques- 

omissions,  it  is  very  evident  that  bnying  tion,  too,  between   the  broad  and 

and  selling,  speculation  and  gambling,  narrow  gauge  will  have  to  be  decided, 

have  been  confined  to  little  more  than  j^^  acodents  upon  railways,  chiefly 

$00  lines,  34  of  which  were  in  operation ;  f^^  collisions,  have  been  during  the 

and  that,  J^owe^er   many  prospectuses  ^           ^  numerous,  and  so  fear- 

Ss'i  :^t«rt1;arbe"stSl^^^^^  ?^,tUitwmi^thedutyofp.r. 

that  number."  liament  to  see  whether  some  means 

cannot  be  devised  for  more  effectually . 

This  calculation,  of  course,  does  providinff  for  the  safety  of  travellers. 

not  include  the  stags  of  Capel  Court,  Lastly,  it  would  be  desirable   for 

and  the  other  offsconrin^  of  society,  committees  to  consider  whether  it 

who  gambled  in  letters,  m  inu^nary  would  not  be  advisable,  with  such  a 

shares,  and  occasionally  in   shares  multiplicity  of  costly  projects  brought 

themselves,  but  out  ofthe  money  mar-  forth,  strongly  to  encourage  in  all 

ket ;  and  it  is  not  necessary,  for  their  branches  and  short  lines,  the  most 

gains  and  losses  are  really  of  no  more  economical  form  of  construction.    In 

public  importance  than  if  they  took  the  old  lines  vast  expenses  were  in- 

plaoe  in  a  silver  or  copper  hell,  curred  for  the  sake   of  peculiarly 

We  may  conclude,  accordingly,  that  good  gradients,  to  avoid  curves,  witn 

the  pressure  though  great  next  ses-  a  radius  less  than  a  prescribed  length; 

sion  upon  committees,  with  respect  and  that,  as  expenenoe  has  shewn, 

to  new  railway  -  bills,  will  not  be  very  unneeessanly  long,  to  escape 

overwhelming;  and  the  events  of  the  the  necessity  of  crossing  tumpike- 

lost  fbw  days  will  tend  to  reduce  it.  roads  on  a  level,  and  so  on.    Then 

For  the  uncertainty  with  regard  to  bridges,  and  viaducts,  and  all  works  of 

the  promotion  of  railway  bills  in  art  were,  at  least,  three  times  as  costly 

the  next  session  is  fearfully  increased,  as  they  need  have  been ;  and  tunneis 

Xo  wise  man,  in  fact,  will  continue  were  made  wantonly,  it  would  seem, 

to  spend  money  in  preparinff  a  bill  where  none  were  required.    Look  at 

for  parliament,  which  he  has  not  the  Box  tunnel,  which  is  as  much  a 

good  reason  to  presume  is  in  a  posi-  monument  of  folly  as  it  is  of  tri- 

tion  to  be  brought  forward  this  ses*  umphant  art.    A  lady  assured  Dr.' 

sion  amongst  the  Ibremost,  after  the  Johnson  that  a  sonata  just  inflicted 

remaneU.      The    Standing    Orders  on  him  by  her  daughter  was  very 

Committee,    too,    will    Jaghernaut  diflicult.    **  I  wish  to  God,  madam," 


104 


Of  Railway i. 


[JanuaiTf 


quoth  the  Doctor,  **that  it  was  im- 
possible  r  Every  body  admits  the 
Box  tunnel  was  very  difficult — ^no- 
body ever  passed  through  it  that  did 
not  wish  it  had  been  impossible.  Yet 
idl  need  for  it  might  have  been  es- 
caped by  making  the  line  sweep 
three  or  four  mOes  round  on  the 
lower  ground.  Then  again,  the  whole 
of  the  costly  works  on  the  line  from 
Bristol  to  Bridgewater,  throughout 
the  long  round-about  course  on  which 
**  a  goat  would  break  his  neck  sooner 
than  his  fast,**  are  monstrous  absurd- 
ities. The  line  itself  is  an  absurdity. 
Extensive  utility,  economical  execu- 
tion, immediate  returns— these  are 
the  great  denderata  of  American  en- 
gineering. 

So  says  Mr.  Weale  in  his  useful 
and  excellent  work,  JEnsamples  of 
Railway  Making,  And  such,  say  I, 
ou^ht  also  to  be  the  desiderata  of  the 
Bntish  engineer.  One  of  the  greatest 
pieces  of  economy  Mr.  Weale  con- 
siders would  be  to  substitute  wooden 
bridges  for  stone  bridges  (the  cost 
being  only  one-third)  ;  and  again, 
in  crossing  valleys  or  marshy  CTOund, 
to  substitute  wooden  bridges  for  em- 
bankments, or  viaducts  of  stone. 
For  example,  say, — 

"  The  timber  bridge  cosU  lOOOi.,  lasts 
twenty  years,  and  requires  an  occasional 
coat  of  paint :  the  stone  wonld  costSOOOJ. 
Suppose  this  sum  of  3000/.  in  the  bands 
of  tbe  proprietor,  and  be  prefers  tbe  tim« 
ber  bridge  at  1000/.,  placing  tbe  remain- 
ing sum  of  2000/.  in  the  funds.  At  the 
end  of  twenty  years  be  finds  that  the 
accumulated  interest  has  not  only  doubled 
bis  capital  of  2000/.  and  made  it  4000/., 
but  bos  also  paid  for  tbe  painting  and 
slight  repoirn  of  bis  bridjre  ;  and  with  bis 
4000/.  be  may  now  build,  if  requisite,  a 
new  timber  bridge  at  an  expense  of 
1000/.,  and  replace  untouched  tbe  whole 
of  bis  original  capital.  In  like  manner 
it  will  follow  tbat  a  timber  bridge  costing 
only  half  of  a  stone  one,  and  lasting 
twenty  years,  will  be  cbeaper  in  tbe  end 
than  a  stone  bridee  lasting  for  ever,  be- 
cause tbe  other  half  of  the  capital  tbua 
saved  would,  iu  twenty  years,  more  than 
double  itself,  or  reproduce  tbe  whole 
sum  of  tbe  original  investment."  * 

Again  it  is  observed  :*- 

"  The  timber  bridges  of  America  are 


celebrated    for    tbeir    magnitnde    and 

atrengtb.  By  tbeir  means  tbe  nilwaja 
of  America  bave  spread  widely  and  ex- 
tended rapidly.  We  bave  no  doubt  tbat 
by  tbe  greater  introduction  of  tbe  same 
material  at  home,  tbe  benefits  of  raxlwar 
intercourse  may  receive  a  mocb  wider  ex- 
tension than  under  tbe  present  systen 
we  can  venture  to  hope." 

This  surely  is  worth  eonaderatitxi 
at  a  time  when  so  much  raon^  will 
be  needed  for  the  oonatructioii  of 
railwavs,  for  the  fortification  of  our 
ports,  for  harbours  of  refuge,  and  otba 
great  works.  Committees,  however^ 
will  be  greatly  pressed  for  time,  when 
they  get  theur  groups  from  A  to  X 
before  them,  and  infinitely  hare  in- 
creased their  work  by  a  r^nlatioa 
that  prevailed  last  session.  A  bill 
we  wul  say,  for  a  main  line  and  eigbt 
branches  was  brought  in ;  if  any  one 
branch  was  defeat^  or  thrown  oat, 
the  whole  project  was  lost.  TVeli, 
what  is  the  consequence?  AVby^ 
that  this  session  the  solicitor  to  su^ 
a  project  would  bring  in  eight  sepa- 
rate bills. 

It  is  nrobable,  then,  that  oonunit- 
tecs  will  have  neither  leisure  nor 
inclination,  if  they  had  the  ability, 
to  inquire  into  a  principle  which  does 
not  come  absolutely  and  inevitably 
before  them;  but  there  has  been 
talk  of  a  commission  of  inquiry  to 
smooth  the  way  on  certain  paths  for 
the  committees;  and  if  such  there 
should  be,  I  think  its  attention  migbt 
be  wisely  and  worthily  directed  to 
the  inquiry  as  to  whether  on  sdl  lines 
the  cost  of  earth- work  and  works  of 
art  might  not  be  materially  reduced ; 
and  upon  lines  where  the  traific  did 
not  happen  to  be  large  and  hea^, 
reduced  b  v  one-half,  or  perhaps  nearly 
by  two-thirds.  The  great  element 
of  expense  in  the  construction  of  the 
London  and  Birmingham  ilailway, 
tbe  potential  cause  of  the  enormous 
excess  of  the  actual  cost  above  the 
estimate,  was  the  miscalculation  in 
respect  of  the  expense  of  the  earth- 
work. Indeed,  upon  well-  nigh  every 
line  the  cost  of  the  earth- work  has 
been  much  greater  than  it  need  have 
been  ;  and  so  likewise  has  been,  and, 
to  a  lamentable  extent,  the  expense 
of  the  masonry,  and  of  the  works  of 


*  Ensaraplea  of  Railway  Making,  wbicb,  althougb  not  of  English  Practice,  are 
submitted  with  Practical  Illustrations  to  tbe  Civil  Engineer  and  tbe  British  and  Irish 
Pttblie.    London,  1843.    Jobn  Weale,  39  High  Holborn. 


1846.] 


Of  Railways. 


105 


art  genenlly.  The  ayenge  cost  per 
mile  of  the  railways  executed  in 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland  may  be 
taken  at  about  20,000/. ;  of  the  Bel- 
gian, 15,000/. ;  and  of  the  FruBsian, 
9000/;  these  last,  however,  being 
generally  laid  with  only  a  single 
track.  !now,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
total  aggregate  cost  of  the  American 
railways  was  estimated  in  1839  at 
4000/.  a  mile,  including  all  buildings 
and  apparatus.  The  Ime  from  Utica 
to  Syracuse  (of  the  grand,  simple,  and 
economic  works  of  art  on  which  a 
most  interesting  account  is  given  in 
Mr.  Weale*s  book  already  cited),  has 
been  constructed  and  appointed  at 
an  average  cost  of  3000/.  a  mile.* 
It  is  diffi^t  to  say  why,  if  a  cheap 
and  wise  mode  of  construction  were 
adopted,  single  lines  in  Iieland  (which, 
except  on  one  or  two  main  lines,  would 
for  many  years  to  come  be  sufficient 
for  the  traffic),  and  single  lines  in  the 
remoter  parts  of  Scotland  and  Wales, 
ay,  and  of  £ngland,  should  not  be  con« 
structed  and  appointed  for  a  sum  not 
exceeding  5000/.  a  mile.  Experience, 
even  in  our  own  country,  has  shewn 
how  much  cheaper  wooden  bridges 
are  than  bridges  of  stone,  and  how 
admirably  they  supply  the  place  of 
the  latter. 
Again,  timber  viaducts  raised  upon 

giles  in  marshy  or  boggy  land^  may 
e  used  with  perfect  efficiency  and 
great  economy;  and  still  more  in 
spanning  short  but  deep  and  abrupt 
valleys.  Here  the  land  below  migut 
continue  to  be  tilled  or  grazed  upon, 
or,  if  it  were  felt  desirabTe  during  the 
five-and-twen^  years  the  wmkIcu 
viaduct  would  continue  to  do   its 


work,  an  embankment  might  be 
gradually  and  cheaply  made  by  the 
use  of  ^' spoil,**  and  other  materials 
conveyed  bj^  spare  engines,  and  so 
prenared  ultimately  to  take  the  place 
of  tne  timber  structure.  Mr.  WoUe 
observes, — 

"  II  will  often  happen,  especially  in 
ragged  and  mountainous  distneta,  that  a 
favourable  line  mnat  be  aacrificed  on 
account  of  the  expense  of  crossing 
the  lateral  valleys;  or  that  miles  of 
deep  cutting  are  undertaken  for  the  pur- 
pose of  crossing  a  deep  valley  at  such  a 
level  as  will  render  the  construction  of  a 
viaduct  practicable  at  a  moderate  expense. 
The  small  cost  of  timber  constructions  as 
compared  with  those  of  stone,  and  the 
comparative  facility  with  which  viaducts 
on  the  American  system  can  be  carried 
across  the  steepest  ravines,  in  situations 
where  the  coet  of  stone  bridges  would 
totally  preclude  their  constnictioo,  offer 
a  ready  means  for  avoiding  in  future  Itnea 
the  enormous  outlay  which  has  attended 
the  execution  of  the  earth-works  on  the 
majority  of  the  English  railways."  f 

These  matters,  I  submit,  are  well 
worthy  of  consideration  by  a  com- 
mission (if  one  be  appointed) ;  and 
if  not,  by  the  government,  when  it  is 
remembered  that  that  which  is  of  the 
most  essential  importance,  national 
and  local,  public  and  private,  namely, 
the  cost  of  transport  on  a  railway 
does  (in  the  words  of  Navier)  mainly 
^  depend  upon  two  prindpid  points. 
lite  first  of  these  is  the  expense  of  con* 
structing  the  railway,  and  the  second 
is  the  expense  of  conveying  the  goods 
on  the  rtaboay  when  it  is  constructed,*^  | 

Now  the  expense  of  the  railway  is 
independent  of  the  quantity  of  mer- 


*  This  is,  for  the  most  part  of  the  way,  a  single  line. 

f  In  184S  Professor  Vignolles,  in  the  coarse  of  a  lecture,  estimated  the  cost  of 
brick  or  stone  viaducts,  averaging  about  100  feet  in  height,  to  he  from  60/.  to  70/. 
per  yard  forward,  or  about  53s.  per  foot  in  height ;  and  stated  the  coat  of  those  formed 
of  timber  arches  on  stone  piers,  oonatructed  by  him  on  the  Sheffield  and  Manchester 
and  other  railways,  which  avenged  from  70  to  ISO  feet  io  height,  to  have  been  from 
35/.  to  80/.  per  yard  forward ;  the  first-named  price  being  the  minimum  and  the  latter 
the  maximum  cost,  which  is  equal  to  an  average  of  about  1  It,  per  yard  forward,  per 
foot  in  height.  Now  viaducts  constructed  on  the  principle  of  a  trussed  beam,  and  in 
which  the  piers  have  no  thrust  to  sustain,  cost  mucn  less  than  those  formed  of  arches, 
and  the  former  could  and  have  been  executed  as  cheaply  in  Great  Britain  as  in  America, 
the  cheapness  of  timber  in  America  being  oounterbalaoced  by  the  high  price  of  labour. 
Sir  John  Macneill  has  constructed  several  of  these  timber  viaducts  on  his  lines  in 
Scotland ;  and  so  has  Mr.  Vignollea  in  the  north  of  England. 

t  On  the  Meaoa  of  Comparing  the  Respective  Advantages  of  Different  Lioea  of 
Bail  way,  and  on  the  Use  of  Looomotire  Engines.  Translated  from  the  French  of 
M.  Navier,  Ing^nieor  en  Chef  de  Fonts  et  Chauss^es,  Paris.  By  John  Macneill 
(now  Sir  John  Macneill,  LL.D.,  F.R.S.),  C.E.,  M.R.I.A.»  F.R.A.S.|  &c.  London, 
1836.    Roske  and  Varty,  31  Strand. 


106 


Of  Railwayt* 


[January. 


diandiee  or  of  passengers  that  will 
paw  over  it ;  and  this,  oonaeqnenthr, 
the  engineer  and  managing  boay 
have  altogether  in  their  own  hands. 
The  expense  of  transport,  on  the 
contrary  (the  road  onee  made),  de- 
pends upon  the  quantity  of  merchan* 
dise  and  of  passengers ;  "  that  is  to 
say,"  quoth  Navier,  "  of  the  tonnage ; 
im  other  thinp;8  heing  equal,  the  ex- 
pense will  evidently  be  proportional 
to  the  tonnaee." 

**  As  to  tne  secondanr  expenses, 
such  as  the  annuid  cost  of  repairs  and 
management,  it  may  be  said  they  are 
partly  in  proportion  to  the  expense 
of  the  construction,  and  partly  to  the 
amount  of  tonnage." 

**  We  may,  therefore,  admit,  withr 
out  &Uing  into  any  serious  error, 
that  the  annual  cost  of  transport  on 
a  railway  is  in  all  oases  formed  of 
two  parts,  —  the  one  proportional  to 
the  expense  of  the  construction  ofihe 
lotty,  and  the  other  proportional  to  the 
amount  of  tonnage.^ 

From  this  the  vital  importance  of 
the  primary  cost  of  construction  to 
the  prospenty  and  utility  of  a  line  is 
clear,  and  the  advantage  of  reducing 
it  as  much  as  in  sound  practical  wis- 
dom it  can  be  reduced,  apparent.  I 
now  pass  on,  however,  to  the  other 
questions  with  which  parliament  and 
its  committees  must  occupy  them- 
selves next  session. 

The  question  of  the  gauges  lies, 
really,  in  a  narrow  compass.  One 
might  determine  it  perhaps  not  im- 
properly by  saying,  the  broad  gau^e 
is  the  better  of  the  two  for  the  public, 
the  narrow  is  the  better  for  those 
companies  who  have  laid  it  down. 
For  the  present  I  turn  to  that  which 
is  the  most  transcendantly  important 
question  n^ardin^  the  railway  system 
in  Englano,  and  indeed  all  over  the 
world,  that  has  yet  been  raised,  and 
one,  for  commercial  and  other  rea- 
sons, exceedingly  difficult  of  solution ; 
but  which  indisputably  will  be  raised 
next  session,  and  must  be  determined. 
It  ^ill  be  raised  by  the  schemes  pro- 
moted for  direct  lines  of  railway  as 
the  main  trunk  lines  of  the  reticu- 
lated system  of  the  country.  There 
were  thirty-two  such  projects,  and  I 
know  not  how  many,  but  certainly  a 
very  large  majority  of  them,  are  in 


a  condition  to  go  before  parluunenf, 
and  will  do  it.    But  if  there  ^vrere  no 
more  than  three,  such  as  the  Hireet 
Western,  the  Direct  Narthem,  mnd 
the  Direct  Manchester,  st^tncJing  so 
decidedly  in  opposition  to  tbe   old 
companies  and  their  constructed  lines 
as  they  do,   parliament  would    be 
compeUed  to  pronounce  a  decisioii  in- 
volving a  great  prindple,  and  vir- 
tually declariiw  whether  benoelbrth 
the  superior  cuiims  of  the  new  lines 
or  the  vested  interests  of  the   old 
were  to  be  preferred;  or,  in  other 
words,  whether  in  the   retieolafed 
svstem  of  railways  for  Great  Britain 
the  main  trunk  lines  are  to  be  direct 
or  devious.   This  is  indeed  a  qneslion 
affecting  mighty  interests,  and   ap- 
pealing to  delicate  synnpathies  and 
lofty   considerations.      Millions     of 
money  have  been  expended, —  roads 
that  are  miracles  of  art  have  been 
constructed — ^roads  which    in    their 
new  and  nice  devices,  and  in  the 
subtle  science  of  their  structure  and 
arrangements,  transcend,  as  monu- 
ments of  human  ingenuity,  and  hu- 
man will,  and  human  power,  the  gi- 
gantic, the  sternly  majestic,  works  of 
the  Roman — roads  that  are  the  sym- 
bols of  the  genius,  the  feeling  the 
passions,  the  nopes,  the  aspirations  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  as  our  cathe- 
drals were  of  the  fourteenth — ^roads 
that  are  the  visible  and  substantial 
exposition  to  future  times  of  the  idea* 
of  an  Age,  and  that  a  grand  and  vic- 
torious Age,  in  the  earth^s  history. 

There  has  been,  in  the  promotion^ 
and  construction,  and  management  of 
these  works,  great,  and  not  unfre- 
qnently  generous,  enterprise,  and 
high  and  pure  enthusiasm ;  the  for- 
tunes of  thousands  of  our  fellow- 
countrymen,  the  very  means  of  ex- 
istence of  many,  are  dependent  upon 
the  continued  prosperity  of  these  nn- 
dertakings.  It  is,  no  doubt,  lament- 
able that  this  prosperity  should  be 
compromised, —  these  means  of  ex- 
istence emperilled, —  these  fortunes 
placed  in  present  jeopardy,  and 
threatened  with  imminent  decay.  It 
is  painful  to  think  that  the  full  flow 
of  the  vital  current  of  traffic  may  be- 
fore long  be  withdrawn  from  these 
grand  exemplifications  of  perseyering 
and  successful  enterprise.     Bnt,  aa 


*  Dtw  young  reader,  if  you  do  not  happen  to  know  the  real  meaniog  of ''idea/' 
you  will  find  it  lucidly  explained  in  Coleridge's  Treatise  on  Method, 


1 846*] 


Of  Railway  8i 


107 


the  motto  of  Lord  John  Boasell  said 
of  old,  while  it  curiously  euundates 
the  fact  of  his  present  position,  ^^  Che 
sarA,    sardr      The   ever-changing 
sea,  ever  destroying  and  ever  cre- 
ating, rejoiced  at  the  appearance  of 
Poaeidon,  and  rippled  in  sj^lding 
gladness  whilst   contemplating  "^  his 
onward  course, — the  solid  earth  shook 
beneath  his  tread.    So  it  is  with  im- 
proyement  home  huoyant   on   the 
waves  of  time,  and  directing  its  irre- 
sistihle  and  devastating  march  over 
tiiese  things  which  a  little  ago  we 
vain  mortals  regarded  as  fixed  and 
settled.    Hodie  nUhi^  eras  tibi.  All  is 
in  a  circle.   Infinite  imury  to  private 
interests  was  inflicted  by  the  revolu- 
tion in  the  mode  of  intercourse  and 
intercommunication  caused  by  the 
existing  railways ;  and  if  it  should  be 
their  fate  to  suffer  in  their  turn  by 
the  introduction  of  a  sound  and  po- 
tential modification  of  the  sr^rstem  on 
which  they  have  been  laid  down, 
why,  it  is  only  one  of  those  events 
**  which  has  been  and  must  be"  in 
this  world   of  ours,  where   every 
thing  physical  and  moral  is  in  a 
state  of  constant  transition.    The  ab- 
stract question   in  this  instance  is 
simple  and  easy  enough,  but  cer- 
tainly the  vast  and  manifold  interests 
involved  and  considerations  evoked 
make  the  determinate  enunciation  of 
its  solution  pitiful  and  embarrassing 
in  the  extreme.    It  cannot  be  con- 
cealed  for  one   moment  from  the 
mind    of  the    calm,    unprejudiced 
thinker,   that   in   the   approaching 
contest  the  direct  lines  (T  mean,  of 
course,  direct  lines   discreetly  and 
wisely  projected  as  main  trunk  lines, 
and  I  speak  not  at  all  of  secondary 
lines,  branches,  short  lines,  and  so 
forth,  which  are  governed  altogether 
by  the  conditions  of  different  laws) — 
toe  direct  lines,  as  I  say,  such  as  I 
understand  them  to  be,  start  with 
vsst  advantages  over  their  devious 
rivals,  whether   standing   forth   as 
competing  lines  projected  and  pro- 
moted, or  as  lines  actually  constructed 
Over  the  latter  they  have  clearly 
Uie  power  of  being  able  to  surpass 
them  in  the  one  and  most  essen- 
tial point  upon  which  the  cost  of 
transport  depends,  namely,  cheapness 
of  construction.    Thev  nave  to  the 
furtherance  of  this  end  the  aid  of  the 
experience    and    enlightenment   of 
years^  into  which  the  pith  oi'  cen- 


turies is  praotically  curdled,  as  it 
always  must  be  from  short  time  to 
short  time,  in  the  prog^ress  of  a  sci- 
entific art,  which  makes  its  advances 
by  the  results  of  isolated  and  often 
fortuitous  experiments,  without  the 
guidance  of  a  prescribed  system  of 
research,  and  without  the  aid  of  ma- 
thematical analysis.  The  advantages 
of  proposed  direct  lines  in  a  competi- 
tion with  devious  ones  yet  uncon- 
structed  I  shall  have  no  difficulty  in 
making  very  obvious,  when  I  come 
to  argue  the  point,  and  rest  upon 
grounds  of  scientific  results,  autno- 
rity,  and  experience.  But  I  be^n 
with  the  practical  and  popular  view 
of  the  question,  and  I  find  that  the 
universal  public,  from  Sir  Robert 
Feel  down  to  the  representatives  of 
the  multitude  through  the  press, 
have  jumped  to  a  conclusion  upon 
it.  Of  course  my  judicious  reader 
will  exclude  fh>m  the  sweep  and 
bearing  of  this  assertion  of  mine  in- 
dividuals who,  like  Mr.  Hudson,  are 
pecuniarily  or  personally  interested 
m  old  lines  or  rival  projects.  But 
Sir  Robert  Feel,  the  other  day,  on 
turning  up  the  first  sod  of  the  Trent 
Valley  line,  made  one  of  the  wisest 
and  most  genial  speeches  he  ever  ut- 
tered or  fever  read,  and  from  this 
I  make  the  following  extracts : — 

"  I  thought  that  the  public  welfare 
would  be  promoted  by  tlie  establishment 
of  a  more  direct  and  immediate  communi- 
cation between  the  metropolis,  on  the 
one  hand,  and  Dublin  and  a  great  part  of 
Ireland  on  the  other ;  between  the  me- 
tropolis,  too,  and  the  west  of  Scotland  ; 
between  tlie  metropolis  ond  that  great 
commeroial  and  manofaoturing  district, 
of  which  Liverpool  and  Manchester  are 
the  eopitsls.  It  is  probable  that,  on  the 
completion  of  this  railwav,  Dublin  will 
be  brought,  in  point  or  time,  within 
fourteen  or  fifteen  hours*  distance  of 
London  ;  that  a  letter  posted  in  London 
on  the  evening  of  one  day  may  be  an. 
awered  from  Dublin  on  the  morning  but 
one  afterwards, — that  is  to  say,  that  Dub. 
Ifn,  in  respect  to  post-office  communi- 
cation, will  be  exactly  in  the  same  posi- 
tion as  this  town  occupies  at  present.  I 
have  every  reason  to  believe,  too,  that 
Manchester  will  be  brought  within  six  or 
seven  hours  of  London.  I  said,  on  a 
former  occasion,  tbat  Manchester  might 
be  brought  within  eight  hours  of  London, 
and  I  remember  the  incredulity  with 
which  that  statement  was  received  ;  but 
I  am  sure  that  I  am  not  guilty  of  exagge. 
ration  when  I  state  that  Manchester  and 


108 


Of  Railway  i. 


[Janaftnr, 


LivMrpoolwill  toon  be  brought  withio  six 
houn  of  London.  It  wu  a  conviction, 
tberefore,  on  my  part,  that  ^;roat  public 
benefit  would  result  from  this  uodertak- 
ing  tbat  induced  me  to  giro  it  a  warm 
and  unremitting  support.  I  gave  it  mv 
support  on  account  of  my  coonezion  with 
this  borough,  and  I  supported  it  from  the 
belief  that  it  is  impossible  but  that  if  you 
place  a  town  on  tbe  immediate  Hoe  of 
communication  between  London  and  tbe 
most  important  parts  of  Great  Britain — 
tbe  most  important  in  point  of  wealth, 
population,  and  enterprise — you  must 
benefit  that  town.  I  know  it  is  said  that 
tbe  pastage  of  a  railroad  confers  no  im. 
medute  benefit  on  a  locality ;  indeed, 
tbat  the  passage  of  a  railroad  may  and 
does  produce,  and  in  this  1  cannot  but 
agree,  a  certain  amount  of  particular  and 
personal  disadvantage  ;  tnat  inns,  for 
example,  may  complain  of  a  diminution 
in  their  traffic,  some  retail  dealers  of  a 
falling  off  in  their  profits.  It  is,  I  admit, 
impossible  not  to  deny  this,  and  equally 
impossible  is  it  not  to  regret  it.  But  what 
does  all  that  amount  to  but  aaying,  that, 
for  the  great  body  of  tbe  community,  you 
have  substituted  a  cheaper  and  better 
mode  of  communication,  at  the  same 
time,  that  you  have  opened  to  them  a 
wider  market  1  So  far  as  the  great  body 
of  the  community  goes,  there  is  no  ques. 
tion  but  that  to  be  placed  in  the  direct  line 
of  communication  between  London  and 
Dublin,  Liverpool  and  Glasgow,  can  be 
other  than  conducive  to  the  prosperity  of 
the  place  so  circumstanced." 

After  some  high-souled  admoni- 
tion to  the  directors  respecting  the 
trust  and  confidence  reposed  in  them 
by  the  landowners  and  shareholders, 
and  an  expression  of  the  belief 
tiiat  the  present  project  was  not "  one 
of  Uie  ephemeral  schemes  proposed 
for  mere  gambling  speculation  or  cu* 
pidity  of  gain,**  he  went  on  to  say, — 

"  Now  the  promoters  of  this  scheme 
will  be  exposed  to  formidable  competi- 
tion.  If  this  be  not  the  best  railway  be* 
tween  London  and  Mancheater — if  this 
be  not  the  most  direct  communication — I 
fairly  aay ,  in  the  face  of  my  eonstituents, 
thst  no  consideration  of  local  benefit 
would  prevent  me  from  supporting  an- 
other line." 

There  is  no  mistaking  the  drift  of 
these  straightforward  obserrations 
put  forth  by  a  singularly  reserved 
and  cantious  man.  .^^in,  the 
Whigs  were  decidedly  in  favour  of 
direct  main  trunk  lines ;  and  everv 
body  who  remembers  I^rd  Morpeth  s 
speech  on  proposing  the  construction 


of  a  retienlated  system  of  railways  in 
Ireland  will  be  aware  that  the  party 
of  which  this  good-natured  noblenian 
is  an  ornament  are  pledged  to  tbe 
principle.    The  vast  majority  of  the 
people  are  for  it  on  the  ground  of 
common-sense,    while     those     who 
would  fain  support  existing  interests 
or  local  projects  cannot  shot   their 
eves  to  the  fact,  tbat  if  the  voice  of 
the  existing  parliament   be  against 
direct   main   trunk   lines,    nothing 
daunted,  their  projectors  will  bring 
them    on   again;   but   i(    on    the 
contrary,    the    decision   be    in    fa- 
vour of  direct  main  trunk  lines  as 
against   devious,   the   manifest   re- 
sult must  be,  that  there  will  be  no 
security  for  investment  except  in  di- 
rect lines.    With  the  devious  main 
trunk  lines  it  is  all  up.    Candamaium 
eit !    For,  see,  if  you  make  a  line  be- 
tween the  metropolis  and  any  other 
important  terminus,  and  it   be  the 
shortest  and  strai^htest  that  can  be 
made,  the  proposition  of  any  oom- 
petinjf  line  would  be  an  ebulution  of 
insanity  which  the  legislature  could 
never  aream  of  countenancing.    For 
instance,  there  is  the  railway  from 
London  to  Brighton;  it  was  nuule 
well  and  wisdv,  in  conformity  with 
the  recommendation  of  a  commission 
of  scientific  men.    It  is  consequently 
as  straight  and  short  as  may  be. 
There  are  thirty-two  projects  lor  di- 
rect lines  between  noint  and  point. 
But  Brighton  is  tabooed.     Nobody 
ever  had  the  vain  fancy  of  projecting 
another  line,  and  nobody  ever  wilC 
The  value  of  the  money,  therefore, 
invested  in  that  direct  line  never  can 
be  affected  by  any  rival  project.    If 
any  railways,  then,  afford  a  good  se- 
curity for  permanent  and  remunera- 
tive investment,  direct  main  trunk 
lines  must  afford  the  best.    This  is 
the    breeches-pocket   view  of  the 
question.    Let  us  contemplate  it  in 
another  light!     We  have  the  ex- 
ample of  tne  Romans  before  us,  the 
greatest  of  ancient  engineen  as  they 
were  the  wariest  and  wisest  of  con- 

auerors;  we  know  how  they  hud 
own  their  gigantic  main  trunk 
lines  of  intercommunication.  Gib- 
bon tells  us,  in  his  history — one  of  the 
very  noblest  monuments  of  human 
learning,  human  eenius,  and  human 
will  ever  yet  raised,  let  old  Brougham, 
homo  omnium  ingulsisiimiu^  say  what 

he  please— Gibbon  tells  us ;— 


1846.] 


Of  Railways. 


lOd 


"  The  public  roads  were  accurately 
divided  by  milestones,  and  ran  in  a  di- 
rect line  from  one  citr  to  another,  with 
Tery  little  respect  for  the  obstacles  either 
of  nature  or  of  private  property.  Moun- 
tains were  perforated,  and  bold  arches 
thrown  over  the  broadest  and  most  rapid 
streams." 

Enough  of  the  grand  routes  of  the 
Roman  remain  in  our  own  country 
to  point  out  to  the  engineer  upon 
what  eystem  the  lord  of  earth  ran  hia 
main  trunk  lines.     Again:  simple 
ohaeryation  of  the  plan  nature  has 
|>ursued  in  providing  for  the  drcnla- 
tion  of  the  blood  in  that  most  won- 
derful of  all  mechanical  structures 
the  human  hody,  might  have  served 
to  give  a  hint  to  a  capable  board  of 
persons    intrusted  witn  the  laying 
down   of  a   reticulated   svstem  of 
railways    in    these    kingdoms,    as 
to  the  stringent  expediency  of  having 
main  trunk  lines  as  straight  as  prac- 
ticabk,  and  branches  to  extend  from 
them  in  desirable  directions.    Here 
are  the  arteries,  the  rivers  of  our 
little  world,  that,  striking  out  into 
nnmberless  small  canals,  visit  every 
street,  yea  every  apartment  in  the 
vital  city,  says  an  old  physiologist. 
Kothing  in  nature  can  be  more  b«iu- 
tiiiil  t£m  the  system  by  which  the 
dreulation  of  the  blood  is  carried  on, 
or  in  m^  mind  more  suggestive  of 
lending  ideas  for  a  system  of  inter- 
communication in  a  country.     But 
the  fact  is,  that  heretofore  the  rail- 
ways of  Great  Britain  have  been  laid 
down  without   any  svstem  at   all. 
They  were  left  altogether  to  private 
ent^rise  and  commerdal  specula- 
tion.   They  were  made  accordingly 
by  isolated  efforts,  and  without  any 
oomlnned  plan  or  object.  In  America, 
on  the  contrary,  and  in  France  and 
other  European   countries,    it  was 
only  after  a  scheme  of  intercommu- 
nication had  been  well  wei{;hed  and 
determined  on  by  commissions  con- 
sisting  of  statesmen,  men  of  science, 
abstract  and  practical,  and  sdbolars 
{^enendly,  and  philosophers,  that  a 
single  sod  of  a  main  trunk  line  was 
turned  up.    But  a  strong  disposition 
appears  to  exist  now  in  all  patriotic 
and  enlightened  minds    to  redress, 
without  undue  or  even  any  embar- 
rassing amount  of  regard  to  private 
and  pirticular  interests,  this  error, 
as  far  and  as  speedily  as  it  fairly  and 
wisely  can  he  done. 


It  is  amusing  to  remember  that 
the  premier's  emphatic  declaration — 
**If  this  be  not  the  best  railway 
between  London  and  Manchester, 
and  the  most  direct  communication, 
I  fairly  say,  that  no  consideration  of 
local  benefit  would  prevent  me  from 
givine  my  supjMrtto  another  line** — 
was  delivered  in  the  presence  of  his 
guest  King  Hudson,  the  great  cham- 
pion and  exemplar,  moreover,  of  rail- 
way monopoly  and  circuitous  routes. 
Certainly,  this  statement  so  positive 
and  terse  must  have  conveyed  a  sig- 
nificant hint  to  the  modem  Mulct- 
her,  that  his  host  looked  with  no 
favourable  eye  upon  sundry  of  his 
gigantic  schemes,  for  devious,  nay, 
one  might  say,  erratic  main  trunk 
lines.  The  cnairman  of  the  Great 
Western  of  Canada  project,  which 
was  destroyed  by  the  spontaneous 
combustion  of  its  management,  could 
hardly  have  heard  the  following  re- 
marks without  having  his  equan- 
imity a  little  affected.  Sir  R.  Peel 
said  to  the  directors  of  the  Trent 
Valley  project, — 

"  1  assure  them  that  there  are  many 
persons  in  this  neighbourhood  who  have 
not  scrupled  to  sacrifice  prirate  feeling 
and  comfort,  by  consenting  to  tbeir  land 
being  appropriated  to  the  Trent  Valley 
Railway.  They  have  given  that  consent 
from  a  conrictioa  that  this  undertaking 
was  one  cond noire  to  the  public  benefit, 
and  that  consideration  of  private  interest 
should  not  obstruct  the  neat  one  of  the 
public  good.  But  they  have  given  their 
consent  also  in  the  confidence  that  this 
is  not  one  of  the  ephemeral  schemes  pro- 
posed for  mere  gambling  speculation,  or 
from  cupidity  of  gain,  fhey  have  given 
their  consent  in  the  confidence  sua  be* 
lief  that  the  directors  of  this  railroad  are 
men  influenced  by  the  honourable  ambi* 
tion  of  conferring  a  public  benefit  on  the 
district  with  which  they  are  immediately 
connected,  and  that  they  look  for  rewaru, 
not  so  much  to  immediate  pecuniary  gain 
as  to  tlie  grateful  acknowledgments  of 
their  fellow-citizens  for  a  service  ren- 
dered to  them.  On  these  grounds  there 
has  been  accorded  a  willing  consent  to 
the  passage  of  the  railway  through  this 
locality." 

If  Sir  Robert*s  obiect  had  been  to 
rebuke  the  colossal  speculator,  in 
districts  at  home,  and  abroad,  in 
many  countries  of  the  world,  he 
could  scarcely  have  used  words  more 
appropriate  or  more  stinging.  He 
is  to  my  eye  the  living  exemplar 
in  flesh  and  blood  of  toe  xailway 


no 


Of  Railways. 


[January, 


iiMiiia  of  1845 ;  and  I  coDsider,  that 
the  testimonial  about  to  be  presented 
to  him  will  pass  to  the  notice  of  pos- 
terity, not  as  a  token  of  his  worth 
and  merits,  but  as  a  monument  of 
the  cupidity  and  stupidity,  the  reck- 
less folly  and  wide -spread  insanity, 
which  prevailed  in  England  daring 
the  year  which  has  just  drawn  to  a 
close.  Nothing  can  be  more  gross 
and  palpable  to  the  informed  and  ca- 
pable mind,  than  the  fallacies  he  has 
most  industriously  put  forth,  by 
speech  and  letter,  and  through  tlie 
pens  of  his  adherents,  about  the 
Question  as  to  the  preferableness  of 
oirect  or  devious  main  truuk  lines. 
The  fact  is,  that  when  a  main  trunk 
line  has  to  be  made,  such  as  that  be- 
tween London  and  Exeter,  or  Lon- 
don and  Manchester,  or  London  and 
York,  the  whole  empire  has  an  in<» 
terest  in  it.  Now,  clearly  it  is  the 
interest  of  the  universal  public  that 
the  line  should  be  short  and  straight 
as  practicable.  But  to  argue,  as  Mr. 
Hudson  does,  that  because  such  ov 
such  a  town  lies  out  of 'the  direct 
line,  and  will  not  be  so  much  bene- 
fited by  hooking  on  with  a  branch 
as  it  would  b  v  a  main  line  approach- 
ing it  actualhr,  it  is,  therefore,  meet 
wSl  proper  that  the  line  should,  to 
accommodate  these  places,  meander 
some  five-and-twenty,  or  two-and- 
forty  miles  out  of  the  straight  road, 
leails  palpably  to  this  absurdity, 
namely,  that  the  interests  of  a  town 
or  two  are  to  be  preferred  to  the 
immediate  interests  of  Great  Britain, 
and  to  the  more  remote  interests  of 
all  persons  from  the  colonies  or  fo- 
reign parts,  who  want  to  use  the 
road.  For  example,  hf  one  of  Mr. 
Hud8on*8  schemes  for  communica- 
tion between  I^ndon  and  York  (and 
the  least  objectionable  of  the  two, 
for  the  other  is  preposterous),  in 
order  that  Cambridge  may  be  on  a 
main  line,  all  the  goods  and  pas- 
sengers passing  from  and  through 
the  metropolis  to  the  north  of  Eng- 
land are  to  be  carried  twenty-five 
miles  out  of  their  way ;  and,  on  the 
other  side,  the  whole  kingdom  of 
Scotland  and  north  of  England  is  to 
be  put  to  like  inconvenience,  expense, 
and  delay,  in  their  relations  with  the 
metropolis.  Another  absurdity,  more- 
over, 18  involved  in  this  proposition. 
It  is  tha^  you  are  to  look  onl^  al 
the  state  of  the  country,  the  position 


B 


and  importance  of  the  various  towns 
that  may  lie  between  terminus  and 
terminus  at  the  actual  moment  when 

ou  trace  the  line  on  your  map. 

ut  it  is  not  so.  If  it  were,  how 
manv  miles  of  main  trunk  lines 
would  there  be  in  America?  No, 
according  to  cvcrjr  dictate  of  sound 
poliey  and  of  science,  select  good 
temuni  for  your  project  in  the  first 
instance,  ana  then  run  vour  line  be- 
tween them  as  straigntforvrard  aa 
you  can.  It  is  not  even  neeenary  (in 
America,  for  obvious  reasons)  thai 
there  should  be  a  single  house  upon 
the  route,  or  at  the  terminus  to  whkh 
^ou  push  forth  your  line,  provided 
It  omy,  in  site  and  other  circum- 
stances, be  well  chosen.  Open  your 
line,  and  it  will  stand  mucn  in  the 
position  of  the  primal  highway  lor 
travellers — a  long  river.  Inhabit- 
ants will  flock  to  its  banks,  and  com** 
munications  from  all  sides  will  be 
op^aed  with  it ;  houses  will,  as  if  by 
magic,  spring  up  in  the  wildemeaa 
and  swell  into  villages,  while  at  your 
remote  terminus,  an  important,  rich, 
and  flourishing,  and  increasmg  town, 
like  Buffalo,  will,  in  the  course  oi 
some  ten  ;^earB,  have  burst  and  grown 
into  a  vigorous  existence.  The 
drowsy,  dreamy,  purblind  optimisi 
will  then  be  in  a  condition  to  speak 
of  the  railroad  in  the  same  pious  and 
philosophic  spurit  he  is  reported  to 
have  spoken  of  the  river:  '^How 
admirable  is  Providence!  Behold 
He  has  caused  all  the  rivers  to  run  by 
the  great  towns  T*  To  a  smaller 
extent,  certainly,  but  still  to  an 
extent  which  must  have  effeei 
upon  the  state  and  relati<ms  of  the 
country,  this  must  take  place  in  the 
most  thickly  populated  and  settled 
countries — England,  Belgium,  Hol- 
land. Wherever  you  make  a  long 
main  trunk  line  O^^S  ^  itself,  or  aa 
joining  on  to  other  long  lines),  towns 
and  vulages  will  spring  up,  and  that 
before  the  lapse  of  many  years.  And 
thus,  before  the  end  of  such  a  period 
of  time,  the  direct  line,  in  which  there 
is  no  original  error  to  correct,  will 
pass  through  a  large  and  rich  popu- 
lation which  it  has  itself  attracted; 
will  have  feeders  by  branches  to  all 
those  towns  that  stood  out  of  its 
route  when  projected ;  and  there  will 
be  no  more  notion  of  a  competing 
line  to  it  than  there  would  have  been 
in  former  times  to  the  Appaan  Way* 


1846.] 


Of  Railways. 


Ill 


I  will  next  approach  the  &llacy 
vhkh  Mr.  Hudson  makes  hia  great 
cheval  de  baiaiUe — his  destrier.  But 
first  it  is  necessary  to  remind  the 
reader,  that  the  quesUoo  respecting 
direct  or  devious  lines  will  he  tried, 
amongst  the  earliest  next  session,  in 
deciding  on  the  relative  merits  of  the 
competmg  lines  from  London  to 
Yonc;  anid  this,  whether  one  of  those 
schemes  has  to  go  again  before  a 
committee  of  the  Commons,  or,  as  the 
chairman  affects  to  imaffine,  will  at 
once  get  to  the  Lords.  The  decision 
will  assuredly  make  a  leading  case, 
and  exercise  vast  inftuoice  on  all  the 
other  cases  to  be  tried.  There  are 
three  schemes ;  the  London  and 
York,  Eastern  Counties  Extension 
(Hudson's),  and  the  Direct  Northern. 
The  last-mentioned  goes  as  straight 
as  possible  from  point  to  point ;  the 
London  and  York  sig-zaga  to  ac- 
commodate towns  and  villages ;  and 
Hudson's  sweeps  round  fiur  a^field  to 
carry  out  a  project  for  the  benefit  of 
an  exiBtiuff  railway  and  its  directors, 
of  whom  ne  is  the  chosen  chairman 
and  champion.  The  distance  from 
London  to  York  by  his  line  would 
be  200  nules;  by  the  London  and 
York,  186  miles;  and  by  the  Direct 
Northern,  176.  The  first  has  the 
best  gradients ;  the  second  the  worst, 
and  the  most  embankment,  cutting, 
and  tunoelliuff*  Mr.  Hudson  is  la-* 
bouring  to  in&Ge  the  sharehdders  of 
the  Lcmdon  and  York  to  repudiate 
the  directors  (who  are  only  M.P.8 
and  gentlemen  of  property  on  their 
line,  and  not  professio^  speculators 
in  railways])^  and  to  take  shares,  on 
amalgamation,  in  his  scheme.  The 
papers  arc  full  of  correspondence  on 
the  subject,  and  no  art  is  neglected  to 
seduce  or  intimidate  those  same  share- 
holders. Their  ehaiiman,  Mr.  Astell, 
writes  to  him,  saying, — 

"  To  the  public  you  propose  a  sobsme 
repudiated  by  a  select  committee  in  1845, 
a  scheme  avoiding  nearly  every  town 
that  ours  would  serve,  and  longer  than 
ours  from  twelve  to  fifteen  miles,  Ieavin« 
the  district  bordering  on  the  great  north 
road  from  London  to  York  without  railway 
socomraodation.*' 

And  then,  after  characterinng  his 
project  as  merely  a  daring  attempt  to 
raise  the  value  of  Eastern  Counties 
stock  and  rid  the  Midlands  of  a  rivaU 
hcsajw;— 


*'  Agaia,  Wt  me  a»k  you  why,  io  your 
new  position  of  cbairmaa  to  the  Eastern 
('ounties,  you  should  he  so  jealous  of  a 
line  passing  through  Hertfordshire  and 
Bedfordshire,  while  you  proclaim  that 
the  Eastern  Counties  Railway,  with  its 
present  lines  and  hranches,  may  be  made 
to  pay  ten  per  cent—that  portion  of  the 
kingdom  lying  upon  and  east  of  the  Lon- 
don and  CamlMriago  line,  forming  a  dis- 
trict quite  as  extensive  as  the  one  pro- 
posed for  the  London  and  York  t 

'*  Why  should  you  wish  to  compel 
passengers  to  go  even  twelve  miles  round 
by  Cambridge,  while  tliat  town  will  cer- 
tainly have  its  railway  to  the  east,  west, 
north,  and  south  ?  Why,  then,  endea- 
vour to  prevent  Bedfordshire  and  Hert- 
fordshire from  similar  advantages  ?  " 

Yet  though  it  might  not  be  easy 
to  answer  tnoee  questions,  yet  Mr. 
H.  has  his  objections.  At  a  meeting 
at  Cambridge,  he  said, — 

*'  I  tell  the  parties  promoting  the  Lon- 
don and  York  line  that  it  will  be  as 
great  a  blunder  as  ever  disgraced  a  rail- 
wey  management.  The  bonourablo  gen- 
tleman tells  you  his  line  will  effect  m 
saving  of  ten  miles ;  but  he  ought  to  have 
measured  that  too  miles  by  time,  and  not 
by  distance.  A  railway  ought  not  to  be 
measured  by  distanoe,  but  by  the  time  it 
takes  in  accomplishing  that  distance. 
Any  one  knowing  any  thing  of  what 
railway  travelling  is,  must  be  rally  aware 
of  what  it  is  to  get  bad  gradients  and  a 
quantity  of  tunnels.  There  may  be  a  large 
parallel  case  (hut  I  hope  there  are  nut 
any)  in  which  there  is  a  tunnel  baring 
gradients  of  one  in  a  hundred." 

This  is  an  instance  of  a  gross  pan* 
deracian.  The  Report  of  the  Board 
of  Trade  admits  that  the  gradients  of 
the  London  and  YoriL  **  are  for  mo- 
derate lengths,  and  have  nothing  in 
themselves  that  can  be  considered  as 
objectionable."  But  here  is  the  pro- 
position on  which  Mr.  H.  relies :  *'  A 
railway  ought  to  be  measured  not  by 
distance,  but  by  the  time  it  takes  in 
acGomplisbing  that  distance."  Now 
if  trains  of  equal  weight,  drawn  by 
engines  of  equal  power,  were  always 
to  nm  at  the  greatest  possible  speed 
they  coidd  command  and  attain,  this 
would  be  true ;  but,  as  these  circum- 
stances do  not  and  never  can  exist, 
nractically,  the  propositimi  is  a  fal- 
lacy, involving  the  assumption  that 
the  line,  with  better  gradients)  will 
be,  in  its  ordinary  tnmic,  traversed 
at  a  greater  rate  of  speed  than  one 
with  um^  kaa&YiNinuik*   Bui  tbia 


112 


Of  Railways. 


[Jaiftuarj, 


is  not  true.  The  speed  will  be  kept 
up  on  both  lines  alike  up  to  the 
point  ivhich  will  afford  fair  pro^t  and 
satisfy  the  just  requirements  of  the 
public  —  up  to,  in  Stephenson's 
]>hrase,  the  commercial  limit.  But 
the  speed  will  cost  less  on  the  bet- 
ter graded  line  than  it  does  upon 
the  other ;  and  thus  in  so  far  as 
the  difference  may  be  in  amounts 
respectiyelj  of  cost  it  will  affect  one 
of  the  points  on  which  the  cost  of 
transport  mainly  depends,  namely, 
cost  of  conveyance.  This,  in  the 
annual  expenses  of  working  a  line, 
would  not,  under  any  circumstances, 
unless  the  gradients  were  outrage- 
ously bad,  make  a  ver^  large  item. 
But  how  would  it  be  with  respect  to 
the  longer  line  with  the  better  gra- 
dients as  to  the  other  principal  point 
on  which  cost  of  transport  depends, 
namely,  cost  of  construction  ?  Why, 
for  every  mile  it  exceeds  in  length, 
there  will  be  an  annual  expense  for 
working  it  of,  according  to  the  Board 
of  Traders  Report,  1000/.  a  mile,  and 
canital,  at  a  minimum  of  12,000/.  per 
mue  sunk,  together  with  its  interest 
and  compound  interest,  for  ever. 

Let  us,  however,  examine  this 
matter  a  little  farther.  Taking  for 
granted  that  there  must  always  be  a 
commercial  limit  of  speed  on  rail- 
ways, I  say  that  the  Amdamental 
distinction  between  two  lines  of  equal 
length,  and  still  more  of  unequal 
length,  will  be  found  to  result  in  the 
relative  cost  of  transport.  In  other 
words,  the  respective  cost  of  trans- 
port is  the  ultimate  exponent  of  the 
relative  value  of  competing  lines. 
Now  that  cost  depends,  Ist.  upon  the 
cost  of  construction,  to  which  is  to  be 
added,  a  part  of  the  cost  of  manage- 
ment and  repairs ;  2d.  on  the  cost  of 
conveyance  properly  so  called,  to 
which  is  also  to  be  added  a  part  of 
these  same  secondary  expenses.  In 
fact,  the  total  expense  ot  transport- 
ing a  ton  from  one  extremity  of  a 
railway  to  the  other  consists  of  four 
elements.  1st.  The  annual  interest 
of  the  expenses  of  construction,  and 
the  annual  expenses  of  management 
and  repairs  divided  by  the  number 
of  tons  transported  annually;  2d. 
The  expenses  of  the  locomotive  engine 
expressed  by  a  formula  given  by 
Navier ;  3d.  the  expense  of  the  wag- 
gons, carriages,  &c.  which  is  propor- 
tional to  the  length  of  the  xmlway; 


4th.  the  expense  of  warehounn^  aod 
despatching,  which  we  shaU  also  eoe- 
sider  as  proportionate  to  the  l<9]gtli 
of  the  railway. 

We  then  see,  says  Navier,  that 
the  valuation  of  the  total   price  b 
thus  reduced  in  each  particmisr  cue 
to  the  determination  of  a  very  small 
number  of  elements ;  that  is  to  say, 
the  expense  of  construction  and  re- 
pairs, for  which  data  are  given  by  the 
fonnation  of  the  project,  the  eatiiiiate 
of  the  annual  tonnage,  the   deter- 
mination of  the  weight  of  the  timin, 
which  should  be  drawn  by  a  looo* 
motive  engine  of  a  given  power,  and, 
lastly,  the  length  of  the  liae  of  ndl- 
wav.    It  will  be  at  once  perceived 
and  acknowledged  that  the  vitafly 
important  elements  are  the  cost  of 
construction  and  the  length  of  the 
line. 

If,  then,  Hudson's  line  be  twelve 
miles  longer  than  the  London  and 
York,  while  he  will  have  little  to 
take  off  for  his  cheaper  workmg,  he 
will  have  a  great  deal  to  put  on  for 
the  additional  length  to  increase  the 
cost  of  transport.     But  when  the 
excess  of  lei^th,  as  in  Hudson's  over      I 
the  Direct  Northern,  comes  to  be 
twenty -five    miles,   the    argument 
about  performing   the  journey  in 
equal  time  becomes  ridiculous;  so 
much  would  the  cost  of  constmetion, 
&c.,  and  of  working  increase  the  oost 
of  transport    And  if  the  shorter  line 
have  as  good  working  gradients  as 
need  be  well  desired,  a  comparison 
between  the  two  projects  oeoomea 
preposterous. 

Mr.  Hudson,  it  is  true,  never 
alluded  in  the  course  of  his  phi- 
lippic against  the  London  and  York 
to  the  Direct  Northern.  One 
would  not  have  imagined  from  lus 
discourse  that  there  was  any  such 
project  in  the  field.  Why  was  this? 
Simply  because  his  en^eering  ar- 
gument in  favour  of  his  line  would 
not  have  then  been  worth  a  msh ! 
On  the  Direct  Northern  the  whole 
amount  of  tunnelling  is  short  of 
4000  yards.  There  is  only  one 
viaduct.  Sixty-nine  miles  are  on  a 
level,  and  there  is  no  acclivity  or 
declivity  above  1  in  200, — a  most 
excellent  working  gradient  when 
properly  distributed  over  the  line. 
Now  1  in  200  is  that  clivity  which 
forms  the  limit  between  those  diri- 
ties  in  descending  which  there  »}  and 


1  846.] 


The  Lady  of  Elm^wood. 


113 


t^liose  in  desoending  which  there  w  nety 
a  saving  of  power. 

The  objections,  then,  to  the  steep 
gradients  of  the  London  and  York 
aj^d  the  4^  miles  of  tunnelling  would 
not  apply,  while  the  additional  length 
of  twenty-five  miles  presses  against 
Ills  own  line  with  full  force.    In  fact, 
tliough  even  as  against  the  London  and 
York,  his  only  serious  amjment  was 
its  inefficient  estimate,    fi  cannot  be 
t.lie   project  is  not  supported  with 
money,  or  Mr.  Hudson  would  not  wear 
the  aspect  of  so  determined  a  wooer. 
Cut  ii  the  Direct  Northern  and  the 
London  and  York  amalgamated,  as 
they  ought  to  do,  this  objection  would 
be  obviated  by  the  amount  of  com- 
bined capital.    The  main  line,  then, 
should  be  the  direct  one,  and  satis- 
factory arrangements  might  be  con- 
cludea  about  the  numerous  branches. 
If  this  were  done  the  triumph  of  the 


direct  principle  against  the  circuit- 
ous would  in  this,  the  first  great 
contest  of  the  session,  be  undoubted. 

And  now  one  short  observation, 
and  then  I  shall  have  done. 

As  to  better  provision  for  the 
safety  of  passengers,  I  see  no  means 
so  certain  as  laying  down  a  set  of 
rails  by  the  sides  of  the  others  for 
the  use  of  goods  and  luggage  only, 
which  might  be  carried  at  a  rate  of 
fifteen  mUes  an  hour,  at  a  farthing 
per  ton  per  mile.  Nine  out  of  ten 
accidents  occur  through  the  presence 
of  luggage-trains  on  the  same  rails 
with  passenger-trains.  A  good  deal 
of  expense  might  be  spared  in  con- 
struction by  devoting  certain  lines  of 
rail  to  the  transport  of  passengers 
alone,  as  the  steepness  of  gradients 
would  not  be  so  material.  The  cost 
for  the  additional  route  would  be 
about  40002.  a  mile. 


THE  LADY  OF  BLM-WOOD. 


Chapteb  L 


^UB  evening  shadows  were  stealing 
on,  at  the  close  of  a  cold,  bright  %vin- 
ter*8  day.  Stretched  on  a  bed  of 
sickness,  pale,  wasted,  silent,  la^  the 
lady  of  lam- wood.  The  curtains  of 
purple  velvet,  dark  and  gloomy  in 
the  &ding  light,  hung  heavily  round 
her,  and  through  an  opening,  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  a  gleam  of  red  light 
from  the  blazing  fire  now  and  then 
fell  on  her  face,  but  did  not  rouse  her 
from  the  deep  thought  in  which  she 
seemed  plunged.  There  was  much 
beauty  even  yet  in  her  large,  dark 
eyes  and  delicately  formed  features ; 
but  her  cheek  was  hollow,  and  the 
tightly  closed  lips  looked  as  if  no 
smile  of  joy  had  ever  parted  them. 

A  hii^  nurse,  the  only  watcher 
by  that  sick-bed,  was  dozing  in  an 
arm-chair  before  the  fire,  rousing 
herself  now  and  then  to  glance  at  the 
lady,  who  was  totallv  r^ardless  of 
her  presence.  The  old  woman  began 
to  feel  chilly  as  the  evening  clmed 
in,  and  she  was  rising  to  draw  the 
curtains  before  the  window,  when  the 
dear,  gay  laughter  of  a  child  rang  on 
the  frosty  air,  floating  up  from  the 
garden  below.  A  look  of  misery 
VOL.  xxxm,  HO.  czcui. 


passed  across  the  lady*8  face,  and  she 
sighed  heavily. 

'^  Did  you  speaks  my  lady  ?"  asked 
the  nurse,  moving  to  Uie  bedside. 

"  No,  nurse,**  answered  a  sweet,  yet 
feeble  voice ;  ^  I  want  nothing — ^no- 
thing that  you  can  give  me,**  she 
murmured,  as  the  old  woman  turned 
away.  ^'  Oh,  for  a  loving  voice  to 
cheer  me  in  this  dark  hour  T' 

Again  she  lay,  silent  and  thought- 
ful as  before;  but,  after  a  time,  she 
called  the  nurse,  and,  as  if  by  a  strong 
effort,  said,  "  Go  to  him — ^to  my  hus- 
band— and  tell  him  I  am  very,  very 
ill.  Say  that,  for  the  love  of  Hea- 
ven, I  entreat  him  to  come  to  me  !** 

She  half  nused  her  head  from  the 
pillow  to  listen  to  the  old  woman*s 
slow  footsteps,  till  the  sound  died 
away  in  the  long  and  distant  corri- 
dors. The  slamming  of  a  door  gave 
her  notice  when  the  nurse  had  r^ch- 
ed  her  destination,  and  she  clasped 
her  thin  hands  in  an  agony  of  un- 
patienoe,  as  it  seemed,  to  know  the 
result  of  her  mission. 

'*  Surely,  surely  he  will  come  now,** 
she  said ;  "  he  does  not  love  me ;  he 
has  taught  my  child  to  scoff  at  me ; 

I 


114 


The  Lady  ofElm^uwod. 


[Januarr, 


and  yet,  now,  surely  he  will  feel 
Bometning  for  me  r 

The  door  was  heard  again,  the 
nurse  tottered  hack,  and  stood  once 
more  beside  her  charge. 

"  My  lord  bids  me  say,  he  is  en- 
gaged now,  but  will  come  by  and 
by." 

The  lady's  head  fell  back  on  the 
pillow,  and  the  colour  that  had  risen 
to  her  cheek  for  a  moment  faded 
away.  The  nurac  had  been  used  to 
look  on  scenes  of  suffering  and  sor- 
row, and  perhaps  age,  too,  had  blunted 
her  feelings,  for  she  re-established 
herself  in  ner  comfortable  chair,  and 
sank  into  a  doze.  The  lady*s  voice 
once  more  roused  her. 

^  60  to  him  again,  nurse !  say, 
that  I  am  dying — you  see  I  am ; — ^tell 
him,  I  entreat  him  to  send  for  Mr. 
Faterson  to  pray  for  my  departing 
soul.  Beg  him  earnestly  to  grant 
me  this,  only  this  T* 

Again  the  messenger  departed,  and 
again  the  lady  listened  anxiously  for 
her  return,  yet  with  less  hope  in  her 
sorrowful  eyes  than  before.  Her 
heart  sank  evidently  when  she  heard 
the  nurse  returning  immediately. 

"  My  lord  says,  said  the  old  wo- 
man, '*  it  is  only  your  fancy  that  is 
sick." 

**  And  did  you  tell  him,  nurse,  that 
on  knew  I  was  dying  P"  interrupted 
er  listener. 

"  Tes,  mj  lady ;  hut  he  said,  of 
course  I  should  swear  to  any  thing 
you  bid  me  say.*' 

"And  Mr.  Faterson?"  inquired 
the  lady.     '*  May  I  send  for  him  ?  " 

**  My  lord  said,  *  No,  he  would  have 
no  canting  priests  here.' " 

The  old  woman  hobbled  back  to 
her  seat,  and  the  lady,  covering  her 
face,  sobbed  aloud. 

"Cruel,  even  to  the  last!"  she 
said  at  length.  "  This  lifb,  that  some 
call  so  happy,  how  dreary  has  it 
been  to  meT  W,  miserable  yean, 
ending  in  a  death  like  this !"  And 
words  of  long-suppressed  anguish, 
thoughts  that  had  burdenea  the 
heart  with  a  weight  of  misery  for 
years,  burst  from  her  dying  lips. 

"  Poor  lady !"  muttered  the  nurse, 

*'her  ndnd  wanders.      I've   heard 

strange  stories  about  her.     To  be 

«*ure,  there  was  something  wrong,  or 

'V  lord  woidd  never  have  kept  her 

ired  up  so  close ;  and  I  dare  sav  the 

^ht  of  it  troublea  her  now. 


I 


"  To  be  sure  there  was  aoftatthmg 
wrong!"    The  words   had   been  in 
many  mouths,  till  it  came  to  be  be- 
lieved that  some  dark  secret,   some 
hidden  error,  was  the  cause  of  the 
seclusion  in  which  she  was  kept  by 
her  husband.     The  sadness  of  her 
countenance  was  held  to  be   occa- 
sioned by  remorse,  and  the  tears  that 
were  sometimes  seen  to  fal!,  as  she 
knelt  in  prayer  in  the  house  of  Grod, 
were  looked:  upon  as  tears  c^  peni- 
tence.   The  patience  and  meekness 
with  which  she  bore  the  impertinence 
of  some,  who  hinted,  even  in    her 
presence,  at  the  suspicions  they  en- 
tertained, onhr  connrmed    them  in 
their  belief  that,  in  some  wav,   she 
had  erred  mievously.    "  And  then, 
my  lord,"  they  said,  "  is  so  easr  and 
good-humoured,  any  body  migiit  be 
happy  with  him !"    So  by  degrees  a 
beiier  had  gained  ground  that  aO  was 
not  as  it  should  be  with  the  beautiful 
lady  of  Elm-wood,  and  some  dared 
to    speak   scornfully  of  her,   even 
those  who  were  unworthy  to  wipe  the 
dust  from  her  feet. 

For  the  suspicions  that  had  ^ne 
abroad,    the    undefined   mystenous 
whispers  against  her,  were  unjust  as 
they  were  cruel.    There  was  nothing 
of  shame,  though,  God  knows,  there 
was  enough  of  bitter  sorrow  in  her 
blushes  and  her  tears.     Pier  spirit 
was  too  utterly  broken  by  daily  and 
hourly  trials,  of  which  the  coarse 
world  knew  nothing,  to  resent  insult 
or   reply   to   impertinence      None 
knew— now  should  they  know?— 
how  a  course  of  petty  oppression,  be- 
ginning in  her  earliest  years,  had 
conquered  all  cheerfulness  and  crush- 
ed ail  hope ;  and,  during  her  married 
life,  to  none  but  to  her  God  did  she 
breathe  a  word  of  the  troubles  which 
subdued  her,  and  to  which  she  sub- 
mitted without  a  struggle.   The  little 
world  about  Elm- wood  had  only  seen 
her   brought  —  in    triumph,   as  it 
seemed — as  a  bride  to  her  husband's 
ancestral  home.    They  had  seen,  at 
first,  a  gay  succession  of  guests  at  the 
old  hall,  and  the  young  bride  pre- 
siding  at   brilliant   entertainments. 
But  the  number  of  guests  fell  off  by 
degrees,  ladies  cea»ed  to  be  among 
the  few  remaining  visitors,  and,  when 
an  occasional  party  met  at  Elm-wood, 
the  lady  was  no  longer  seen  among 
them.    Her  husbana  thought  it  ne« 
cessary,  at  first,  to  excuse  her  absence 


1846.] 


The  Lady  of  Elm-wood, 


115 


on  the  plea  of  ill  health,  but  it  was 
soon  understood  that  there  were  other 
reasons  (although  none  knew  what 
such  reasons  were)  why  she  appeared 
no  more,  and  her  name  was  never 
mentioned. 

She  was  sometimes  seen  by  persons 
who  visited  Elm-wood  on  business, 
wandering  alone  in  the  woods  near 
the  house,  like  a  pale  yet  beautiful 
spirit,  or  tending  the  flowers  in  a 
small  j^arden  sheltered  by  the  far- 
stretchmg  walls  of  the  old  haU. 
Some,  who  had  purposely  thrown 
themselves  in  her  way,  said,  that  she 
replied  gently  to  their  greeting,  but 
always  m  a  tone  of  mdness.  On 
Sunoay  she  never  failed,  unless  when 
detained  at  home  by  severe  illness,  to 
walk  to  the  church  in  the  neigh- 
bouring village.  It  was  built  upon 
the  edge  of  her  husband*s  park, 
and  a  little  path  led  to  it  from  the 
great  house,  through  old  dark  woods, 
and  by  a  little  stream,  that  stole 
away  at  last  singing  as  it  went,  into 
the  fields  below  the  churchyard. 
The  whole  village  was  part  of  the 
Elm-wood  property,  and  the  church 
contained  many  monuments  to  the 
memory  of  its  possessors.  The  fa- 
mily pew  had  still  its  velvet  cushions 
ana  draperies,  faded  though  they 
were,  and  here  the  lady  knelt  idone 
Sunday  after  Sunday.  Ilain  and 
cold,  frost  and  snow,  all  seemed  alike 
to  her.  The  good  rector,  who  soon 
learned  to  take  an  interest  in  her 
pale  and  melancholy  face,  never 
failed  to  glance  at  that  humble  wor- 
shipper, so  constant  in  her  attend- 
ance. Sometimes  he  saw  that  she 
was  weeping,  and  his  kind  heart 
longed  to  breathe  comfort  to  her 
evioently  wounded  spirit.  His  at- 
tempts to  make  her  acquaintance  at 
her  own  house  had  all  proved  vain. 
Her  husband,  whose  manner  to  the 
good  old  priest  was  full  of  scarcely 
suppressed  contempt,  always  replied 
to  his  inquiries  about  the  lady^  by 
saying,  she  received  no  visitors.  Tx) 
speak  to  her  on  her  wav  to  or  from 
tne  church  was  his  only  chance  of 
proving  to  her  how  much  he  felt 
mterested  in  her  welfare.  She  al- 
irays  waited  till  all  others  had  left 
the  church,  and  then  stole  quietly 
across  the  graveyard,  and  through 
the  litUc  gate  into  the  park.  One 
wet  and  stormy  Sunday,  when  the 
congregation  was  very  scanty,  the 


clergyman,  Mr.  Paterson,  to  his  sur- 
prise, saw  the  delicate  form  of  the 
lady  of  Elm-wood  kneeling  in  her 
usual  place,  her  meek  hea^  bowed 
in  prayer.  When  the  service  was 
over,  he  went  to  her,  and  offered  to 
assist  her  in  ^tting  home.  She  took 
his  arm  in  silence,  and,  feelins  that 
she  was  trembling  with  cold,  he  led 
her  towards  the  rectory,  whither  his 
wife  and  daughter  had  preceded  him. 
He  looked  compassionately  upon  her, 
as  he  endeavoured  to  shield  her  from 
the  beating  rain,  for  she  appeared  so 
feeble,  that  vrithout  his  help  she  must 
have  fallen. 

**  This  is  trying  weather  for  one 
who  seems  so  delicate  and  weak  as 
you,"  he  said  gently.  "  Surely  yoo 
should  not  venture  to  leave  home  on 
a  day  like  this." 

"  I  come  here  for  consolation,**  she 
answered  sadly ;  "  you  know  not  how 
much  I  need  it." 

"  But  God  is  in  every  place,  dear 
lady.  From  your  secret  chambo*, 
lie  hears  your  prayer  arise,  and 
surely  it  is  not  well  to  risk  your  life 
thus.^' 

**  Mv  life !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a 
tone  of  grief  that  brought  tears  into 
the  old  man's  eyes ;  "  my  life  I  Why 
should  I  nurse  and  cherish  it,  as  if  it 
were  a  precious  thing  ?  Who  would 
miss  me  if  I  were  gone?  Forrive 
me!  oh.  forgive  me!"  she  added, 
after  a  snort  silence ;  **  I  know  these 
are  wild  and  sinful  words.  Forget 
that  I  have  spoken  them.  Think  of 
me  only  as  of  one  sorely  tried,  to 
whom  your  ministrations  nave  giren 
more  comfort  than  aug^t  else  on 
earth.  Good  and  kind  I  know  you 
are.  Let  my  name  be  sometimes  on 
your  lips  wnen  you  pray  to  your 
God.  We  are  told  the  prayer  of  a 
righteous  man  availeth  much.  WOl 
you  do  this?**  she  said,  earnestly, 
raising  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

**  ^  I  hope  for  peace  I  will,"  an- 
swered he,  with  much  emotion. 

**  And  when  you  hear  that  I  am 
dead,  do  not  grieve  for  me,  but  thank 
God  that  a  wounded  spirit  has  found 
peace." 

"  Do  not  speak  so  sadly,  dear 
lady,"  said  the  rector.  **Yon  must 
be  familiar  with  God's  Word ;  you 
have  read  there,  that  lie  who  made 
the  worlds,  even  He,  '  healeth  the 
broken  in  heart.' " 

♦♦  Yes,  I  fed  it,"  she  replied.  "He, 


114 


The  Lady  of  Elm^wood. 


[January, 


and  yet,  now,  surely  he  will  feel 
something  for  me  I"^ 

The  door  waa  heard  again,  the 
nurse  tottered  hack,  and  stood  once 
more  beside  her  charge. 

'^  My  lord  bids  me  say,  he  is  en- 
gaged now,  but  will  come  by  and 
by." 

The  ladv's  head  fell  back  on  the 
pillow,  and  the  colour  that  had  risen 
to  her  cheek  for  a  moment  faded 
away.  The  nurse  had  been  used  to 
look  on  scenes  of  suffering  and  sor- 
row, and  perhaps  age,  too,  had  blunted 
her  feelings,  for  she  re-established 
herself  in  her  comfortable  chair,  and 
sank  into  a  doze.  The  lady*s  voice 
once  more  roused  her. 

*'  €ro  to  him  again,  nurse !  say, 
that  I  am  dying — ^you  see  I  am ; — ^tdl 
him,  I  entreat  him  to  send  for  Mr. 
Faterson  to  pray  for  mv  departing 
soul.  Beg  him  earnestly  to  grant 
me  this,  only  this !" 

Again  the  messenger  departed,  and 
again  the  lady  listened  anxiously  for 
her  return,  yet  with  less  hope  in  her 
sorrowful  eyes  than  before.  Her 
heart  sank  evidently  when  she  heard 
the  nurse  returning  immediately. 

"  My  lord  says,  said  the  old  wo- 
man, "  it  is  only  your  fancy  that  is 
sick.'' 

"  And  did  you  tell  him,  nurse,  that 
you  knew  I  was  dying  ?"  interrupted 
her  listener. 

"Yes,  my  lady;  but  he  said,  of 
course  I  should  sweilr  to  any  thing 
you  bid  me  say." 

"And  Mr.  PaiersonP"  inquired 
the  lady.     "  May  I  send  for  him  ?  " 

"  My  lord  said,  *  No,  he  would  have 
no  cantins  priests  here.' " 

The  old  woman  hobbled  back  to 
her  seat,  and  the  lady,  covering  her 
face,  sobbed  aloud. 

"  Cruel,  even  to  the  last ! "  she 
said  at  length.  "  This  lifb,  that  some 
call  so  happy,  how  dreary  has  it 
been  to  me !  lonff,  miserable  years, 
ending  in  a  death  like  this  I'*  And 
words  of  long-suppressed  anmiish, 
thoughts  that  had  burdened  the 
heart  with  a  weight  of  misery  fbr 
years,  burst  from  her  dying  lips. 

"  Poor  lady !"  muttered  the  nurse, 
"her  mind  wanders.  FVe  heard 
strange  stories  about  her.  To  be 
sure,  there  was  something  wrong,  or 
my  lord  would  never  have  kept  her 
mewed  up  so  close ;  and  I  dare  sav  the 
thought  of  it  troubles  her  now/ 


"  To  be  sure  there  was  sonieihiiig 
wrong!"    The  words  had  been   in 
many  mouths,  till  it  came  to  be  be- 
lieved  that  some  dark  secret,    some 
hidden  error,  was  the  cause  of  the 
seclunon  in  which  she  was  kept  by 
her  husband.     The  sadness  oi    her 
countenance  was  held  to  be   occa- 
sioned by  remorse,  and  the  tears  that 
were  sometimes  seen  to  fall,  as  she 
knelt  in  prayer  in  the  house  of  Grod, 
were  lookea  upon  as  tears  of  peni* 
tence.    The  patience  and  meekness 
with  which  she  bore  the  impertinence 
of  some,  who  hinted,  even  in    her 
presence,  at  the  suspicions  they  en- 
tertained, only  connrmed   them   in 
their  belief  that,  in  some  way,   she 
had  eired  grievously.    "  And  then, 
my  lord,"  they  said,  "  is  so  easy  and 
good-humoui4d,  any  body  mignt  be 
happy  with  him !"    So  by  d^rees  » 
belief  had  gained  ground  that  all  was 
not  as  it  should  be  with  the  beautiful 
lady  of  Elm- wood,  and  some  dared 
to    speak    scornfully  of  her,   even 
those  who  were  unworthy  to  wipe  the 
dust  from  her  feet. 

For  the  suspicions  that  had  ^ne 
abroad,  the  undefined  mystenous 
whispers  against  her,  were  unjust  as 
they  were  cruel.  There  was  nothing 
of  shame,  though,  Ood  knows,  there 
was  enough  of  bitter  sorrow  in  her 
blushes  and  her  tears.  Her  spirit 
was  too  utterly  broken  by  daily  and 
hourly  trials,  of  which  the  coarse 
worla  knew  nothing,  to  resent  insult 
or  reply  to  impertinence  None 
knew— now  should  they  know? — 
how  a  course  of  petty  oppression,  be- 
ginning in  her  earliest  years,  had 
conquered  all  cheerfulness  and  crush- 
ed all  hope ;  and,  during  her  married 
life,  to  none  but  to  her  God  did  she 
breathe  a  word  of  the  troubles  which 
subdued  her,  and  to  which  she  sub- 
mitted without  a  struggle.  The  little 
world  about  Elm- wood  had  only  seen 
her  brought  —  in  triumph,  as  it 
seemed — as  a  bride  to  her  husband's 
ancestral  home.  They  had  seen,  at 
first,  a  gay  succession  of  guests  at  the 
old  haU,  and  the  young  bride  pre- 
siding at  hrilliant  entertainments. 
But  Uie  number  of  guests  fell  off  by 
degrees,  ladies  ceawd  to  be  among 
the  few  remaining  visitors,  and,  when 
an  occasional  party  met  at  Elm- wood, 
the  lady  was  no  longer  seen  among 
them.  Her  husband  thought  it  ne- 
cessary, at  first,  to  excuse  her  absence 


1846.1 


The  Lady  of  Elm-wood, 


115 


•^ 


■  -t 


■\  i 


on  the  plea  of  ill  health,  hut  it  was 
soon  unaerstood  that  there  were  other 
reasons  (although  none  knew  what 
such  reasons  were)  why  she  appeared 
no  more,  and  her  name  was  never 
mentioned. 

She  was  sometimes  seen  hy  persons 
who  visited  Elm-wood  on  husiness, 
wandering  alone  in  the  woods  near 
the  house,  like  a  pale  yet  beautiful 
spirit,  or  tending  the  Howers  in  a 
small  garden  sheltered  by  the  far- 
stretchmg  walls  of  the  old  hall. 
Some,  wno  had  purposely  thrown 
themselves  in  her  way,  said,  that  she 
replied  gently  to  their  greeting,  but 
always  m  a  tone  of  »^ness.  On 
Sunday  she  never  failed,  unless  when 
detained  at  home  by  severe  illness,  to 
walk  to  the  church  in  the  neigh- 
bouring village.  It  was  built  upon 
the  ed^e  of  her  husband's  park, 
and  a  little  path  led  to  It  from  the 
great  house,  through  old  dark  woods, 
and  by  a  little  stream,  that  stole 
away  at  last  singing  as  it  went,  into 
the  fields  below  the  churchyard. 
The  whole  village  was  part  of  the 
Elm-wood  property,  and  the  church 
contained  many  monuments  to  the 
memory  of  its  possessors.  The  fa- 
mily pew  had  still  its  velvet  cushions 
and  draperies,  faded  though  they 
were,  ana  here  the  lady  knelt  alone 
Sunday  after  Sunday.  Kain  and 
cold,  frost  and  snow,  aU  seemed  alike 
to  her.  The  good  rector,  who  soon 
learned  to  take  an  interest  in  her 
pale  and  melancholy  face,  never 
failed  to  glance  at  that  humble  wor- 
shipper, so  constant  in  her  attend- 
ance.  Sometimes  he  saw  that  she 
was  weeping,  and  his  kind  heart 
longed  to  breathe  comfort  to  her 
evidently  wounded  spirit.  His  at- 
tempts to  make  her  acquaintance  at 
her  own  house  had  all  proved  vain. 
Her  husband,  whose  manner  to  the 
good  old  priest  was  full  of  scarcely 
suppressea  contempt,  always  replied 
to  his  inquiries  about  the  lady,  hy 
saying,  she  received  no  visitors.  'Ju) 
speak  to  her  on  her  way  to  or  ftom 
tne  church  was  his  only  chance  of 
proving  to  her  how  much  he  felt 
mterested  in  her  welfare.  She  al- 
ways waited  till  all  others  had  left 
the  church,  and  then  stole  quietly 
across  the  graveyard,  and  througn 
the  little  gate  into  the  park.  One 
wet  and  stormy  Sunday,  when  the 
congregation  was  very  scanty,  the 


clergyman,  Mr.  Faterson,  to  his  sur- 
prise, saw  the  delicate  form  of  the 
lady  of  Elm- wood  kneeling  in  her 
usual  place,  her  meek  head  bowed 
in  prayer.  When  the  service  was 
over,  he  went  to  her,  and  offered  to 
assist  her  in  ^tting  home.  She  took 
his  arm  in  silence,  and,  feelins  that 
she  was  trembling  with  cold,  he  led 
her  towards  the  rectory,  whither  his 
wife  and  daughter  had  preceded  him. 
He  looked  compassionately  upon  her, 
as  he  endeavoured  to  shield  her  from 
the  beating  rain,  for  she  appeared  so 
feeble,  that  without  his  help  she  must 
have  fallen. 

"This  is  trying  weather  for  one 
who  seems  so  ddicate  and  weak  as 
you,"  he  said  gently.  "  Surely  you 
should  not  venture  to  leave  home  on 
a  day  like  this." 

"  I  come  here  for  consolation,**  she 
answered  sadly ;  "  you  know  not  how 
much  I  need  it." 

"  But  God  is  in  every  place,  dear 
lady.  From  your  secret  chamber. 
He  hears  your  prayer  arise,  and 
surely  it  is  not  well  to  risk  your  life 
thus.^* 

"  My  life !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a 
tone  of  grief  that  brought  tears  into 
the  oldman*s  eyes;  "  my  life  I  Whj 
should  I  nurse  and  cherish  it,  as  if  it 
were  a  precious  thing  P  Who  would 
miss  me  if  I  were  gone?  Forgive 
me!  oh,  forgive  me  I"  she  added, 
after  a  short  silence ;  "  I  know  these 
are  wild  and  sinful  words.  Forget 
that  I  have  spoken  them.  Think  of 
me  only  as  of  one  sorely  tried,  to 
whom  your  ministrations  have  given 
more  comfort  than  aught  else  on 
earth.  Good  and  kind  X  know  you 
are.  Let  my  name  be  sometimes  on 
your  lips  when  you  pray  to  your 
God.  We  are  told  the  prayer  of  a 
righteous  man  availeth  much.  Will 
you  do  this?**  she  said,  earnestly, 
raising  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

"  As  I  hope  for  peace  I  will,"  an- 
swered he,  with  much  emotion. 

"  And  when  you  hear  that  1  am 
dead,  do  not  grieve  for  me,  but  thank 
God  that  a  wounded  spirit  has  found 
peace.** 

**  Do  not  speak  so  sadly,  dear 
lady,"  said  the  rector.  "You  must 
be  familiar  with  God*s  Word;  you 
have  read  there,  that  He  who  made 
the  worlds,  even  He,  '  healeth  the 
broken  in  heart.*  '* 

♦♦  Yes,  I  feel  it,"  she  replied.  "  He 


116 


The  Lady  of  Elm-wood. 


[Januan, 


indeed,  healcth  thctn,  but  it  is  by 
takiriT  them  to  himself.  I  have 
looked  round  me  liere,"  she  con- 
tinued, pointing  to  the  ffraves  by 
which  they  were  surrounded,  "  and 
envied  those  who  have  gone  before 
me  to  that  home  where  the  weary  are 
at  rest." 

Some  few  words  of  comfort  the 
good  rector  spoke,  as  he  approached 
his  own  house,  and  opened  the  glass 
door  that  led  into  the  little  study 
where  his  daughter  awaited  Iiim. 
Tlie  lady  hesitated,  and  seemed  half 
fearful  of  entering,  but  he  led  her  in, 
and  seated  her  beside  the  Are,  while 
his  daughter  divested  her  of  some  of 
her  damp  garments,  and  insisted  on 
wrapping  her  in  her  own  cloak. 

There  was  something  so  humble  in 
the  lady*s  gratitude,  something  so 
sorrowful  even  in  her  extreme  beauty, 
uncared  for  and  neglected  as  she 
seemed,  that  the  kind-hearted  family 
at  the  rectory  could  not  but  feel  a 
touching  interest  in  her;  and  when 


at  length  her  carriage,  for  w^hicfa  a 
messenger  had  been  despatched,  ar- 
rived to  convey  her  home,  many  kind 
words  were  spoken,  and  none  coaid 
have  supposed  that,  till  that  day,  the 
lad  V  had  been  a  stranger. 

The  next    Sunday   ^vas  fine  and 
bright,  but  the  lady  was  not  in  her 
usual  place.    She  was  seen  no  more 
even  m  her  garden ;  and  tlie  rector, 
who  made  several  vain  attempts  to  be 
admitted  to  her  presence,  h^id  that 
she  was  very  ill.    He  doubted  not 
remembering  her  weakness  and  her 
wan  looks,  that  the  hour  for  whicli 
she    longed   was   approaching,   and 
gladly  would  he  have  endeavoured, 
as  the  minister  of  Grod,  to  smooth  the 
way  before  her  to  the  g^vc.     We 
have  seen  that  she,  too,  wished  for 
the  comfort  of  his  presence,  bat  even 
this  was  denied  to  her.    Y^oung  (for 
she  was  only  in  her  twen^-sixtfa 
year),  innocent,  beautiful,  yet  bro- 
ken-nearted,  she  was  left  to  meet  her 
death  alone. 


Chapter  II. 


It  is  time  that  we  say  something 
of  the  cause  of  that  ffrief  which  op- 
pressed the  lady  of  Elm-wood,  and 
which  the  ignorant  and  unkind  at- 
tributed to  some  error  of  her  past 
life.  For  this  purpose,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  turn  to  the  history  of  her 
early  years.  Her  mother  died  when 
she  was  an  infant,  and  her  father,  a 
man  of  extravagant  habits,  married 
a  second  time  within  a  year  of  his 
first  wifc*s  death.  His  marriage  with 
a  wealthy  heiress  freed  him  for  a 
while  from  pecuniary  embarrass- 
xucnts,  but  destroyed  for  ever  the  peace 
of  his  home.  His  bride  was  haughty, 
vain,  and  ill-tempered,  and  the  in- 
difference  he  had  felt  for  her  at  first 
(quickly  deepened  into  positive  dis- 
like. For  a  time,  he  seemed  to  find 
in  the  caresses  of  his  child  a  consol- 
ation for  the  disagreeables  of  his  do- 
mestic life;  but  his  weak  mind 
soon  thirsted  for  excitement,  and  he 
found  it  at  the  gamine- table.  By 
degrees  a  {Mission  for  niay  al)sorbed 
every  other  feeling.  Tne  birth  of  an 
heir,  though  it  appeared  to  give  him 
pleasure,  did  not  long  keep  him  from 
his  darling  pursuit,  ami,  as  years 
passed  by,  he  saw  less  and  less  of  his 
family,  'and  appeared  to  become 
totally  iniiifcrent  as  to  their  welfare. 


Thus  his  daughter  was  left  a  victim 
to  the  caprice  and  ill-humour  of  her 
vain  and  frivolous  step-mother.  Few 
were  the  remembrances  of  her  child- 
hood, which  she,  even  in  the  deeper 
trials  of  her  after-life,  could  recall 
^vith  any  thing  of  pleasure.     The 
spoiled  and  petted  son  of  her  step- 
mother, imitating  the  small  tyranny 
of  his  parent,  on  every  occasion  as- 
serted his  superiority  over  the  gentle 
^rl,  whose  spirit  was  already  learn- 
ing its  lesson  of  humility  and  sub- 
mission.   When  she  had  grown  to 
womanhood,  her  extraordinary  beau- 
ty, thouffh  it  did  not  increase  the 
good- will  of  her  step-mother,  was 
yet  looked  upon  by  her  father  with 
something  oi  selfish  pride,  and  he 
already    calculated    the   aclvantagcs 
which  might  accrue  to  himself  from 
her  making  what  is  termed  a  good 
match. 

It  was  while  these  thoughts  were 
maturing  into  plans  for  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  object,  that  he  made 
acquaintance  with  the  lordly  owner 
of  JRlm-wood— a  man  in  the  prime 
of  life,  yet,  like  himself,  an  habitual 
^mblcr.  In  their  frequent  meet- 
mgs,  these  two  men  became  intimate, 
and  frequently  played  together—up 
to  a  ccrfain  timo.  with  iSwut  cquw 


1846.] 


The  Lady  of  Elm-wood. 


117 


success.  At  length  the  yonnger  gam- 
bler began  to  lose ;  one  by  one  he 
pledged  all  his  possessions,  and,  in 
the  end,  rose  from  the  table  a  ruined 
man.  He  might  raise  the  money  to 
pay  his  debt,  but  only  by  injuring 
nis  property  past  the  hope  of  reco- 
very.  His  companion  observed  the 
struggle  in  his  mind;  he  balanced 
the  advantages  and  disadvantages  of 
insisting  on  the  payment  of  the  debt ; 
for,  while  he  wanted  money,  he  yet 
did  not  wish  for  the  publicity  which 
the  present  aifair,  if  persevered  in, 
must  give  to  the  nature  of  his  re- 
sources. 

"Come!"  he  said,  after  some  re- 
flexion, '^  I  know  it  would  be  incon- 
venient to  you  to  pay  a  sum  like  this. 
Let  us  compromise  the  matter.  I 
have  a  daughter,  beautiful  as  an  an- 
gel :  marry  her,  and  I  will  take  your 
doing  so  as  three  quarters*  payment 
of  your  debt." 

"  You  must  be  very  fond  of  your 
daughter,"  said  his  auditor,  sarcastic- 
ally, "very  fond  indeed.  Does  she 
at  all  resemble  yourself?" 

"I  have  told  you  she  is  beauti- 
ful," was  the  reply.  "  You  may  even 
see  her,  if  you  will,  before  you  de- 
cide." 

The  young  man  remained  for 
awhile  in  a  state  of  moody  abstrac- 
tion, and  then  exclaimed,  "  No,  no ! 
I  don't  want  to  see  her.  TU  marry 
her,  if  she  is  as  ugly  as  Sin.  There's 
my  hand  upon  it! 

They  sat  down  again,  called  for 
writing-materials,  and  wrote,  —  the 
one  a  promise  of  marriage  to  a  wo- 
man he  had  never  seen;  the  other, 
a  discharge  of  three-fourths  of  the 
debt  due  to  him,  on  condition  of  the 
fulfilment  of  the  pledge  agreed  upon. 
The  two  papers  were  duly  si^ed; 
and  the  parties  separated.  And  thus 
the  father  bartered  away  his  child — 
thus  the  lord  of  Elm- wood  obtained 
his  bride !  She  was  told  to  prepare 
to  receive  her  future  husband,  and 
she  obeyed ;  for  she  knew  resistance 
would  be  in  vain.  Her  father  had 
become  so  entirely  estranged  from 
her,  that  she  dared  say  nothing  in 
opposition  to  his  commands ;  and  her 
fitep-mother  shewed  too  openly  the 
joy  she  felt  in  the  prospect  of  being 
rid  of  one,  whose  very  patience  was  a 
tacit  reproach  to  her  conscience  for 
U)e  poor  girl  to  entertain  a  hope  that 
she  would  intercede  for  her. 


The  future  husband  came,  and  was 
not  slow  to  perceive  the  repugnance 
of  his  betrothed.  His  pride  and  self- 
love  were  interested  at  once ;  and  he 
devoted  his  attentions  to  the  hitherto 
neglected  girl,  filling  her  ear  with 
the  sweet  voice  of  praise  and  seem- 
ing love,  till  he  won  not  only  her 
gratitude  but  her  affection.  In  a 
very  few  weeks  she  became  his  bride, 
and  went  with  him  to  his  stately 
home,  where,  for  awhile,  she  deemed 
herself  happier  than  she  had  ever 
been  before.  But  he  soon  slackened 
in  his  attentions,  and  sometimes  be- 
trayed the  bitterness  and  violence  of 
his  temper  even  to  her.  One  day, 
when  he  had  spoken  to  her  with 
cruel,  and,  as  she  felt,  undeserved 
harshness,  the  feelings  that  had  for 
some  time  been  gathering  strength 
in  her  heart  found  utterance,  and 
she  passionately  entreated  to  know 
what  she  had  done  to  forfeit  his  love. 

"My  love!"  he  said,  contemptu- 
ously, "did  you  never  hear  why  I 
married  you  ?  " 

"I  thought — I  hoped  you  loved 
me,"  she  answered,  in  a  low,  timid 
voice. 

"  You  thought — you  hoped !  Did 
your  father  never  tell  3'ou  of  our 
bargain?  J  gave  you  my  hand  in 
payment  of  a  gambling  debt  to 
your  excellent  and  respected  father. 
Alighty  innocent  you  are,  no  doubt, 
and  never  knew  that  you  were  forced 
upon  me ;  and  that  now  your  every 
look  reminds  me  of  the  most  hateful 
hours  of  my  life !  There,— dry  your 
eyes.  Your  revered  parent  has,  no 
doubt,  made  you  a  capital  actress; 
but  we  need  not  pretend  to  misun- 
derstand each  other.  We  have  each 
won  our  reward  in  this  blest  union : 
you  are  mistress  of  Elm*  wood,  and 
I  am  saved  from  ruin,  which  would 
be  bad'enough,  and  exposure,  which 
would  be  worse." 

"  My  father  !  "  stammered  the 
lady. 

"  Yes.  No  doubt  his  conduct  pro- 
ceeded from  the  purest  affection  for 
yourself.  He  had,  of  course,  every 
reason  to  believe  I  should  make  an 
excellent  husband.  There  was  no- 
thing of  self-interest  in  what  he  did 
— ^no  desire  to  make  use  of  my  house 
and  fortune,  or  to  make  a  tool  of 
myself.  It  matters  not "  he  added, 
with  increased  bitterness,  "I  hav^ 
made  myself  a  promise  that  he  she 


118 


The  Ladif  o/  Elm'^wood* 


[Janaary, 


never  cross  my  threshold;  and  I 
never  broke  my  word  yet,  as  you 
know,"  bowing  to  her  mth  mock 
civility. 

He  lefl  the  room,  and  his  be- 
wildered hearer  remained  longstand- 
ing in  the  same  attitude,  utterly  con- 
founded by  the  words  he  had  spoken. 
"  Was  it  true  ?  Had  he,  indeed,  said 
he  did  not  love  her?  Was  every 
hope  gone  from  her  for  ever  P  Was 
her  very  presence  hateful  to  him? 
Oh,  that  she  had  died  in  the  blessed 
belief  that  he  loved  her!  AY  here  could 
she  turn  for  heljp,  for  advice  ?  Her 
dream  of  happmess  was  past;  no- 
thing could  restore  it."  Such  were 
the  thoughts  that  passed  across  her 
mind  again  and  a^am ;  and,  in  truth, 
it  was  a  hard  thme  for  a  heart  so 
young,  and  so  loving,  to  feel  itself 
desolate  and  forsaken. 

After  a  time,  the  hone  of  winning 
his  affection  rose  witnin  her,  and 
long  and  patientljr  she  strove  to 
realise  it ;  but  alas,  in  vain !  Months 
passed  on,  and  the  hour  drew  near 
m  which  she  expected  to  become  a 
mother.  When  a  son  was  born  to 
her,  once  more  her  hope  revived. 
*•  Surely,"  she  thought,  "for  the  sake 
of  his  child  he  will  love  me."  But 
again  she  was  disapuointed.  He  had 
returned  to  his  old  rriends,  and  to  his 
old  amusements ;  and  she  felt  at  last, 
however  unwillingly,  that  she  could 
never  fill  a  place  in  his  heart. 

Eight  years  elapsed  between  the 
time  of  her  marriage  and  the  scene 
with  which  our  tale  opened.  All 
that  she  had  endured  in  that  inter- 
val, none  may  know.  Her  eldest  boy, 
as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  talk,  be- 
came his  father's  plaything,  and 
quickly  learned  to  laugh  at  his 
mother's  authority.  A  second  son, 
who  was  still  dearer  to  her  than  the 
first,  because  she  was  still  more  un- 
happy at  the  time  of  his  birth,  lived 
only  a  few  months;  and  she  wept 
alone  beside  his  grave.  Her  youngest 
darling,  a  bright,  rosy  ^irl,  with 
dimpl^  smile,  and  eyes  full  of  glad- 
ness, was  little  more  than  a  vear  old 
at  the  time  the  lady  of  £im-wood 
lay  on  her  death -bed. 

We  return  to  that  death -bed,  where 
we  left  the  dying  sufferer  breathing 
aloud  the  sorrows  that  had  weighed 
down  her  spirit  for  years.  Exhausted 
at  length,  she  had  once  more  sunk 
into  silence,  when  a  light  knock  was 


heard  at  the  door,  and,  in  a  fev  mo- 
ments, the  nurse  admitted  a  woman 
carrying  a  lovely  infant.  The  lady 
clasped  the  chila  in  her  armm,  kiss^ 
again  and  again  its  cheeks  and  lips, 
and  almost  smiled  when  she  £eit  uks 
touch  of  its  cool  hand  on  her  brow. 
**  You  must  leave  her  with  me  to- 
night, Alice,**  she  said,  taming  to 
the  young  woman  who  had  carried 
the  child.  "  I  will  undress  her. 
Kurse,  help  me  to  get  up.** 

It  was  in  vain  that  toe  old  nurse 
remonstrated,  the  lady  persisted; 
and,  supported  by  pillows,  she  sat 
up  in  her  bed,  and  tenderly  loosened 
the  baby*s  clothes,  and  wrapped  it  in 
its  little  night-dress.  She  even  played 
with  it  as  of  old,  and  smiled  to  hear 
its  merry  laughter.  She  disinissed 
Alice,  but,  recalling  her  as  she  wa<i 
leaving  the  room,  sud,  earnestly,— 
^  Alice,  you  love  this  child :  she  will 
soon  be  motherless,  there  will  be 
none  to  care  for  her.  Oh,  he  faith- 
ful to  yonr  charge !  Cherish  her,  do 
not  desert  her;  and  may  the  bless- 
ing of  her  dying  mother  be  with  you 
to  vour  last  hour  I  ** 

The  young  woman  lefl  the  room 
in  tears,  the  nurse  sighed  as  she 
turned  away ;  and  the  lady  lay  down 
with  her  beautiful  baby  on  her  bo- 
som. Her  heart  was  full  of  prayer 
though  her  voice  was  hushed,  lest 
she  snould  disturb  the  slumber  that 
was  stealing  over  the  child.  Its  * 
calm,  regular  breathing  >vas  music 
to  her  ear ;  the  smiles  that  broke,  like 
gleams  of  sunshine,  on  its  sweet,  sleep- 
uig  face  soothed  her,  and  stole  into 
her  thoughts.  Full  of  faith  and  hope, 
she  conunended  that  precious  one  to 
the  care  of  her  Saviour ;  and  when 
some  stru^glinff  wish  would  arise, 
that  she  mi^ht  have  lived  to  protect 
and  cherish  it,  still  she  could  say  in 
sincerity,  ^'  In  Him  is  my  trust.** 

Long  past  midnight,  the  old  nurse 
was  awakened  from  a  deep  sleep  by 
a  hasty  step  advancing  across  the 
apartment  It  was  the  lord  of  Elm- 
wood,  who  thus  tardily — ^liis  even- 
ing*s  amusement  being  concluded— 
Answered  his  wife*s  summons. 

'*I  am  here,  Eleanor,**  he  said, 
withdrawing  the  curtain ;  "  why  did 
you  send  for  me?'*  No  voice  re- 
plied ;  and  he  moved  the  lanip,  so  as 
to  throw  its  light  on  the  bed.  The 
light  that  met  his  eyes  touched  even 
him.   There  lay  his  wife,  dead}  and, 


1846.] 


The  Lady  of  Ebn-wooi. 


119 


on  her  bosoni)  its  rosy  cheek  touch* 
ing  her  cold  lips,  its  round  arm 
thrown  about  her  neck,  lay  her  in- 
fant, in  its  calm,  happy  steep.  He 
bent  over  them — he  gazed  upon  that 
faded  form,  now  awful  in  its  still- 
ness, and  on  that  joyful  infant  so 
full  of  life  and  happmess.  He  re- 
membered, as  he  looked  on  the  dead, 
her  patience,  her  humility,  her  un- 
failing submission  to  his  capricious 
will ;  he  remembered  to  what  a  life 
of  solitude  he  had  condemned  her, 
and  then  he  thought  of  her  as  she 
was  when  he  first  saw  her,  and  when 
those  eyes  looked  lovingly  upon 
him.  dnly  a  few  hours  ago,  she 
was  even  as  his  slave,  trembling  at 
his  word,  obedient  to  his  will.  Now, 
perhaps,  she  was  pleading  her  cause 
asainst  him  before  the  throne  of  God. 
(Jn,  if  he  had  but  come  earlier !  if 
he  could  only  have  heard  one  word 
of  for^veness  from  those  lips,  which, 
in  their  silence,  seemed  yet  to  whisper 
that  he  had  been  a  murderer ! 

He  turned  away :  "  Take  the 
child,**  he  said,  hoarsely.  *'  Take  it 
away  from  her, — she  is  dead.**  He 
lefb  the  room.  The  nurse  followed, 
and  put  a  paper  into  his  hand : — 

"  My  lady  bade  me  give  you  this 
after  she  should  be  gone,**  she  said. 

He  thrust  it  into  his  bosom,  and 
hurried  into  his  study,  where,  hav- 
,  ing  carefully  closed  the  door,  he 
again  drew  it  forth,  and  began  to 
r«id.  It  was  a  short  letter,  dated 
but  two  days  back. 

*'  Sometbing  I  mutt  My  to  you/' — so 
it  W09  worded, — "  sometbiug  I  must  say, 
of  oil  the  thoughts  that  now,  in  my  last 
hours,  crowd  upon  my  brain.  1  have  no 
fiiend  to  sit  beside  my  death-bed,  and 
listen  to  my  last  words ;  no  friend  to  go 
with  me  to  the  threshold  of  the  grave, 
and  uphold  me  when  my  faith  falters. 

"Alone,  and  uncared  for,  I  wait  for 
death ;  sometimes  full  of  fear,  sometimes 
eagerly  longing  for  its  coming.  For  years 
I  have  had  no  friend  but  my  God ;  He 
alone  has  heard  the  voice  of  my  sorrows, 
and  He  alone  is  with  me  now. 

"  Do  not  fear  a  word  of  reproach  from 
roe.  My  short  life  has  been  a  sad  one ; 
but  it  is  to  you  1  owe  the  only  dream  of 
gladness  that  has  cheered  it.  For  those 
few  months,  during  which  I  believed  1 
was  dear  to  you,  I  was  perfectly  happy. 
I  know  my  belief  was  vain ;  but  F  do  not 
blame  you.  Our  love  is  not  our  own  to 
give  aud  take  back  as  we  will. 

"  It  is  strange,  that  though  years  have 


passed  since  I  was  undeceived — years  in 
which  you  have  repulsed  all  my  efforts 
to  win  your  confidence,  and  to  be  to  you 
even  but  a  companion,  when  others  failed 
you,  yet  now,  all  that  long  interval  of 
grief  18  forgotten ;  and  every  kind  word 
you  spolce  in  that  happier  time  seems 
sounding  in  my  ear  oace  more. 

"  But,  why  do  I  say  this  to  you  1 
Those  kind  words  came  not  from  your 
heart;  and  I  am  nothing  to  vou  now. 
I  can  appeal  to  you  only  as  a  dying  wo- 
man, and  pray  you,  by  Heaven's  mercy, 
to  attend  to  my  last  wish.  My  baby, 
my  fair,  happy  baby  !  Oh,  look  with 
pity  upon  her  when  she  is  motherless ! 
UQ  not  let  her  grow  up  among  those 
who  will  not  love  her  1  It  is  a  dreadful 
thing  to  live  on  year  hy  year  with  a 
heart  full  of  love,  and  yet  to  have  that 
love  despised  and  rejected.  If  I  might 
dare  ask  of  you  compliance  with  my  last 
wish,  1  would  say,  let  her  be  placed 
with  Mrs.  Paterson,  I  am  sure  she  will 
be  happy  in  that  home  of  peace. 

"  Farewell !  1  linger  over  these  last 
words.  Would  that  I  might  lay  my  head 
on  your  bosom,  and  breathe  away  my 
life,  dreaming  once  more  that  you  loved 
me !  My  presence  has  been  a  burden 
to  you.  £ven  now  you  will  not  come  to 
me.    it  is  almost  over ! 

**  Once  more,  1  commend  to  you  my 
child.  Yon  surely  will  love  her.  There 
is  nothing  in  her  sunny  face  to  remind 
you  of  me*  I  am  weary,  and  can  write 
no  more ;  perhaps,  even  now,  T  have 
said  too  much;  but  my  poor  heart  was 
full,  and  I  had  none  to  comfort  me. 
May  God  bless  you ! " 

The  letter  fell  from  his  hand,  and 
he  wept  like  a  child.  A  change  had 
come  over  his  fleelings  towards  his 
wife,  but  it  was  too  uSe. 

Some  days  after  the  lady  had  been 
laid  in  her  g^ve,  a  group  of  vil- 
lagers gathered  round  the  old  nurse, 
questioning  her  as  to  all  that  had 
happened  at  Elm- wood. 

**  xou  see  he  must  have  been  very 
fond  of  her  after  all,"  said  one. 
**He  has  asked  Mrs.  Paterson  to 
take  the  baby,  as  my  lady  wished; 
and  did  vou  see  how  he  cried  at  the 
funeral  P  " 

"  Bah  I  don*t  talk  to  me  of  such 
love,"  said  the  old  nurse,  impatiently. 
**  If  he*d  shewn  but  a  quarter  of  the 
kindness  towards  her  a  year  ago 
that  he*s  shewn  since  she  was  dead, 
and  could  feel  it  no  longer,  she*d 
have  been  a  happy  living  woman 
this  day.  Heaven  preserve  us 
from  lov«  like  his ! " 


120  Ronsard  to  his  Mistress.      .  [.lanaarr, 


ROKSARD  TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 


"  Qnand  vouft  seres  bien  Tieille,  le  soir  a  la  efaandelle 
Assise  aopres  du  (eu  d£f  issnt  et  filant 
Dires,  cbantant  mas  rare  en  vous  esmerveilhnt 
RoDsard  m'a  c^l6br4  au  temps  que  j*^lois  belle." 


Some  winter  night,  shut  snusly  in 

Beside  the  fagot  in  the  hall, 
I  think  I  see  you  sit  and  spin, 

Surrounded  by  your  maidens  all. 
Old  tales  are  told,  old  songs  are  sung, 

Old  days  come  back  to  memory ; 
You  say,  ^^  When  I  was  fair  and  young, 

A  poet  sang  of  me !  *' 

There  *s  not  a  maiden  in  your  hall, 

Though  tired  and  sleepy  ever  so, 
But  wakes  as  you  my  name  recall. 

And  longs  the  history  to  know. 
And  as  the  piteous  tale  is  said 

Of  lady  cold  and  lover  true. 
Each,  musing,  carries  it  to  bed. 

And  sighs  and  envies  you  I 

**  Our  ladv  *8  old  and  feeble  now,'* 

They'll  say,  "  she  once  was  fresh  and  fair. 
And  yet  she  spumed  her  lover's  vow. 

And  heartless  left  him  to  despair ; 
The  lover  lies  in  silent  earth. 

No  kindly  mate  the  lady  cheers ; 
She  sits  beside  a  lonely  hearth. 

With  threescore  and  ten  years ! " 

Ah  I  dreary  thoughts  and  dreams  are  those, 

But  wherefore  yield  me  to  despair, 
While  vet  the  poet's  bosom  glows. 

While  yet  the  dame  is  peerless  fair  ! 
Sweet  lady  mine !  while  yet 't  is  time. 

Requite  my  passion  and  my  truth, 
And  gather  in  their  blushing  prime 

The  roses  of  your  youth ! 

Michael  Angelo  TixiiABSff. 


1846.] 


Mtfiiertes  of  the  CaUnet 


m 


MYSTERIES  OF  THE  CABIHET. 


If  our  readers  expect  that  we  are 
goii^  to  help  them  to  an  esrohmation 
of  the  harlequin  tricks  that  have 
been  played  of  late  in  the  highest 
politick  circles,  we  b^,  at  the  out- 
set of  this  paper,  to  undeceive  them. 
The  whole  series  of  events  is  a  mys- 
tery to  us.    We  cannot  even  guess 
why  Sir  Rohert  PeeFs  eovemment 
should  have  come  to  a  &ad-lock  at 
all,  far  less  assign  a  plausible  reason 
for  the  resignation  by  aU  its  members 
of  their  offices.    It  is  the  onlinary 
practice,  we  believe,  when  differences 
occur  in  cabinets,  that  the  minority 
shall  give  way  to  the  majoritj^,  who- 
soever the  inoividuals  composing  the 
adverse  fiicUons  may  be ;  and  it  some- 
times happens,  if  the  dispute  run 
ver^  high,  or  the  point  under  dis- 
cussion be  regarded  as  a  vital  one, 
that  the  dissentients  retire.   So  it  was 
with  Mr.  Huskisson  and  his  friends 
in  the  fiunous  East  Betford  case ;  so 
with  Lord  Stanley  and  Sir  James 
Graham,  who   quitted   Lord  Mel- 
bourne's administration  rather  than 
be  parties  in  any  way  to  the  spolia- 
tion of  the  churcns  property  in  Ire- 
land.   I^either  is  the  secession  of  the 
head  of  the  government,  if  he  find 
himself  at  issue  with  his  colleagues, 
by  any  means  unprecedented.    The 
late  Earl  Grey  fipsve  place  among  the 
Whigs  to  Lorcf  MelDoume,  not  be- 
cause he  found  himself  unable  to  do 
the  work  of  premier,  but  because  hb 
suggestions   were    resisted   by   the 
youn^r   members    of  his    cabinet. 
And  if  we  go  back  to  the  days  of  the 
Butes,  and  the  Bockinghams,  and  the 
Portlands,  we  shall  dScover  cases  of 
the  kind  befsJling  continually.    But 
the   sudden  abandonment  of  their 
posts  by  a  body  of  noblemen  and 
gentlemen  whom  the  sovereign  had 
called  to  her  councils,  and  the  nation 
trusted  to  an  extent  unparalleled  in 
modern  times,  that  was  an  occurrence 
for  which  people  were  unprepared. 
Moreover,  as  if  the  measure  of  the 

ale's  astonishment  required  some 
ler  fiUine  up,  it  turns  out,  after 
all,  that  this  nigitive  cabinet  is  forced 
back  again,  bodily,  into  power,  not 
through  any  intrigue  on  tne  pajrt  of 
the  statesmen  composing  it,  nor  yet 
by  a  vote  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
or  the  results  of  a  general  election, 

but  through  the  sheer  imlnli^  of 


their  rivals  to  undertake  the  task 
which  Sir  Bobert  Ped  and  Co.  had 
voluntarily  assigned  to  them.  Koar 
readers  expect  that  we  are  going  to 
account  for  all  this, — to  expCiin  why 
the  Conservatives  broke  down,  or 
how  they  have  contrived  to  set  the 
state  omnibus  in  motion  again,  they 
^ve  us  credit  for  an  amount  either 
of  intelligence  or  ingenuity  to  which 
we  cannot  lay  daim.  But  though 
we  be  unable  to  trace  recent  events 
to  their  causes,  there  is  nothing,  as 
far  as  we  can  see,  to  prevent  us,  or 
any  other  of  her  maj^y's  reflecting 
subjects,  from  gathering  oat  of  the 
dreumstanoes  by  which  we  seem  to 
be  surrounded  a  lesson  which  it  may 
be  worth  while  to  remember.  Let 
us  see  whether  our  notions  in  rmrd 
to  the  general  position  of  affairs 
be  either  rational  in  themselves,  or 
likely  to  find  an  echo  in  the  opinions 
of  those  on  whose  judgments  m  such 
matters  we  have  nereto  been  accus- 
tomed to  place  some  reliance. 

And,  first,  it  may  be  necessary  to 
notice  the  rumours  which  are  boat- 
ing about  on  the  surface  of  society, 
some  of  which,  we  must  confess,  ap- 
pear to  us  almost  too  ridiculous  to  be 
Savely  entertained.  These  are  not 
ys  ior  the  creation  of  kings  -  con* 
sort,  or  even  for  the  appointment  to 
the  command  of  the  Englbh  army  of 
a  young  foreign  prince,  however 
amiable.  It  may  be  distressing  to 
the  feelings  of  an  exalted  personage, 
that  one  whom  she  has  honoured 
with  her  hand  should  not  be  per- 
mitted to  daim  at  the  courts  of  other 
nations  the  foremost  place,  which  is 
freely  conceded  to  him  here.  And 
with  all  our  hearts  we  wish  that  the 
grievance  could  be  got  rid  of.  But 
to  suppose  that  on  ground  so  silly, 
for  a  reason  so  puerile,  the  idea  of 
seeking  a  crown  matrimonial  could 
have  been  entertained  is  to  outrage 
all  decency,  and  to  offer  to  the  illus- 
trious individuals  most  deeply  con- 
cerned in  the  supposed  arrangement 
a  direct  insult.  No  minister,  Tory, 
Whig,  or  Radical,  would  dare  to  pro- 
pose such  a  thing  to  a  British  parlia- 
ment ;  no  parliament,  if  any  minister 
were  found  hardy  enough  to  broach 
the  project,  would  entertain  it  for  a 
moment.  There  is  neither  scope 
sor  pliability  ia  the  coostitutioa  rar 


\22 


Myitmries  of  the  Cabinet, 


[J 


such  an  interpolation  on  the  rights  of 
the  royal  family ;  and  we  are  alto- 
gether without  a  precedent  which 
might  hel^  us  to  hend  it  to  our  pur- 
poee,  were  it  desirahle  to  do  so.  The 
case  of  William  and  Mary  is  not  a 
case  in  point.  They  came  in,  con- 
jointly, to  fill  up  a  breach,  or  an  as- 
sumed breach,  m  the  regular  line  of 
succession.  They  were  elected  by 
the  people  of  England  acting  through 
a  convention,  woich  convention  did 
not  become  a  parliament  till  after 
William,  eoually  with  Mary,  had 
been  offered  ana  had  accepted  the 
crown.  Moreover,  the  act  of  con- 
vention which  thus  disposed  of  the 
crown  decreed,  that  in  the  lifetime  of 
Mary,  the  "  sole  and  full  regal 
power  should  be  in  the  prince ;"  yet 
that,  in  the  event  of  tne  death  of 
Mary  \vithout  issue,  the  succession 
should  be  in  the  Princess  of  Den- 
mark and  her  children.  To  look, 
therefore,  to  the  Kevolntion  of  1688 
as  affording  any  sanction  or  prece* 
dent  for  the  engrafting  of  a  new 
branch  on  the  old  rcyal  stock  would 
be  ridiculous.  We  have,  however,  a 
case  in  point  of  not  much  more  than 
a  century's  standing.  Prince  George 
of  Denmark,  thougli  the  husband  of 
Queen  Anne,  continued  Prince 
George  to  the  end  of  his  days,  without 
90  much  as  a  patent  of  precedency 
having  been  made  out  for  him,  or 
any  otner  step  taken  to  place  him  at 
the  head  of  society  even  in  England. 
So  much  for  one  rumour,  which 
seems  to  carry  the  refutation  of  its 
truth  upon  the  face  of  it;  neither 
are  we  inclined  to  allow  greater 
credit  to  another,  which  is  likewiBe 
going  about.  With  all  possible  re- 
spect for  Prince  Albert,  we  must  use 
tne  fVeedom  to  say,  that  he  is  every 
way  unfit  to  be  placed  at  the  head  of 
the  English  army.  Ilis  ro3ral  high- 
ness is,  we  believe,  a  good  man  in  all 
the  relations  of  life;  nor  is  it  be- 
cause we  distrust  his  talents,  whether 
as  a  tactician  or  as  the  administrator 
of  a  machine,  however  great,  which 
he  understands,  that  we  thus  express 
ourselves.  But  he  does  not  under- 
stand— indeed  it  would  be  miracu- 
lous if  he  did — the  construction  of 
the  British  army.  Put  him  at  the 
head  of  his  father's  forces,  and  we 
are  persuaded  that  he  would  manage 
them  well ;  but  the  British  army  xs^ 
^  different  from  all  the  other  armies 
^  the  world,  both  in  the  materials  of 


which  it  is  composed  and  the  onia' 

of  the  duties  which  it  is  required  to 
perform,  that  we  defy  any  man,  ex- 
cept  a  native  bont  Engliahmas,  be 
his  natural  and  acquired  powers  whst 
they  may,  to  command  it  pit^ierlT. 
This  was  conspicuouslyshewn  in  t& 
instance  of  William  III.     WHliam 
was  a  soldier,  and  a  tried  one,  too: 
yet  his  manner  of  conducting  the 
aflairs  of  the  English  army  was  nicb 
as  to  produce  universal  diacont&ic, 
and  here  and  there  to  provoke  mu- 
tiny.   Now,  we  do  not  suppose  that 
Prmce  Albert  would  act  with  the 
sternness  of  preoipitation  which  more 
than  once  characterised  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  Prince  of  Orange.    Hb 
physical  temperament  is  milder,  and 
ne  is  a  younger  man — too  yonng,  in- 
deed, even  if  all  the  other  requisites 
were  present  with  him  for  ao  grave 
an  office ;  and  youth,  and  a  temper 
constitutionally  gentle,  wonld  restrain 
him  ftt)m  outraging  the  feelings,  or 
even  jarring  the  prejudices  of  vete- 
rans old  cuoush,  many  of  them,  to 
be  his  grandfather.    But  he  lacks 
that  intimate  acquaintance  with  the 
tastes,  habits,  manners,  and  capabili- 
ties of  all  ranks  and  orders  m  the 
British  community,  which  no  for- 
eigner   can   acquire    were    he    re- 
sident   among    us    twice   as   long 
as  the  Prince  has  been;  and  with- 
out   which    it    would   be  fatal   in 
an^  man,  be  hb  position  what   it 
might,  to  attempt  tne  establishment 
ofanyd^^ree  or  authority  over  our 
army.    Y  or  the  British  army  is  go- 
verned now, — and  every  day  will  bnt 
confirm  and  strengthen  the  system, 
much  more  by  moral  than  by  pbj-- 
sical  influence.     A  commanaer-in- 
chief  among  us,  miist  not  only  know 
how  to  issue  orders  and  come  to  de- 
cisions which  are  wise,  but  he  roust 
be  able  to  satisfy  the  countir  that 
they  are  the  wisest  that  could  have 
been  attained  to ;  and  that  they  de- 
serve to  be  respected  because  of  their 
perfect  adaptation   to   the  circum- 
stances of  the  parties  to  which  thev 
apply.  And  his  royal  highness,  wito 
tne  utmost  deference  be  it  written, 
is  very  little  familiar  with  the  habits 
of  any  circle  of  society,  beyond  that 
of  the  palace.    He  never  mixes,  as 
fat  as  we  know,  with  the  gentlemen 
of  the  land.    He  speaks  the  English 
language  but  imperfectly.  We  doubt 
whether  he  could  put  a  battalion  of 
the  Guards  through   the   simplest 


J-J-^'l    •  -_^^ --_•■--- 


1846.]  My<t£-ifi  /     -  i\ 


BiaooenTTes.    Be  cumut  be  i-nre  i"  I-  r^  7-   i^  jc       .•   r    Ti.--*^  -: 

the  delicacy  tbst  h  reqnirai  in  Mil-  ^sr  -'wTrr*  1'  — l  nc  -a*-    -.2^  "-^^ 
ing  with  courts-mnial  lad  tbrz 
cisioos.    In  a  word,  he  :«  i.t.~<c> 

unfit  for  the  office;,  wiixa  i>  =3e-  razr::=.  fizr:>rr    -  •.    t_  -=:   •    •?:!:- 

jnies,and  those  of  oar  nrril  3i.s=rr?2a.  7  -=3==-:    =1^  r    1.=^  — =il    TTrruMt- 

say  that  he  aspires  to :  iril  ::j  leam.  tti  s  -=•-    "-—^   1^  "^    >    ti!t-  r 

in  the  three  kmrdccs  sz^  be  ^r-*  -ar^  !i^— -m    r     .   -s-.Ta-T   -^=±. 


fully  satisfied  of  ike  iict  rha-i  rzir-  -ir"  :=r^s  :ii 

self.    AVe,  therefore.  di=!=««  -^3  n-  *=.--%.    .=:«.    ! 

mour,  as  we  have  d-jce  lie  .£->  i_£  sjt—    -r  zjc 

about   the    cn>w zs-aiiirj^t^Ti-j:^  :ix  n^ir  -   V.  — 
only    as   a    thirxz    n:rr-^->e-     T-rt 
imperUn^it.     Prliire  A-:i^^   *   1- 

that  the  people  oif  Ijirliai  ▼>-i  na  •rzix  -=rrT^;«i.i:=r-  ^ 

to  be,  where  he  is^    Im  -v^^n  z^  -a  •^^    z--tr    *:-=i-— _-~ 

ever  out  of  tbe   r?rr>sL»?iE   t-t.  -  ■aci  -  --:_  r    •-   ^.ir 

best   becomes  th-e  ii^-izir    if  -n^  r  -^    ^-_-^   -  r—  -l.-. 

queen,   his    pr'pclizir"-  -r-.r^ii  *••-.*  a:.<  r  .-.r-'  ,:, -.     z:  - 
make  to  its^  ^~-^er^  1^  -- 
if  results,  nnih  z:* 


did  not  arise  frvs.  n*  }~.r:-':  ::-f  ttt-     2.    --r     -  _:-.-».    :      -    —     * 

We  come  OTw  ^1  a'-i^n  T»^>r-.  if  r-,**:-  z.  ^^    1  ^-rz.    *     -'^r    "  • 

wbicfa  7^7cBSif#a:&'r':c  &j:.  X3.«  He  i-in    -.    je-  ^ii«rr    -p^c-—      •     «.«: 

degf  ee,  to  be  tLe :  r^j^jar  j-  -:iur-rj=n^  ir^»a   —r   -      r-    --r    a   vj    wr- 

were  ifirisiocif  iz.  il»*  n..i.irr  »?•  lie  :riu'^  T=ir  -'-:_-          ^    r.:     -w—x* 

subject  of  tbe  C:cs-^v».  *:  ▼-n^  «  ^»    a     -n.  .-•.—  -     _         —     .* 

irreoonciicaili.  mr  r  tti?  i  -i-i-r  el-  sl  ^*«:   -   -  _    a    s*:     iti.v  —    i 

possible  for  tie  •e^.'^i'i*  ri  ii.i.i  wrj  T-r->*Er  -:a_ 

longer  tDst'.ijer.     X-r.  ittr*   i«c"-:n.  j   *  — i   i;.-    i    *  -     'it    *    r=— ' 

it  appear*  10  "af  tjus  rtt»_-»  t.!!.*"   '^  *»-.-": —    — '    ^     r^             -^^ 

some  grtsl  ia!«ux£.     7'ijr  n-  tu:  -  ij-  h -'i^.i.    jl-      .    —.           •      -- 

net,  worked  t}*:a  '/r  iiit  »-'•'.•'' .--^-  i-i^  ^     ^    s —     -.     .' 
sionsof  a  scanirr  -.i»t€n*r'-  '.r  T-::r::. 

posea^badzTtisfc^TiiiLrun*::!.  TLi"  l.v  t 

taken,  azhd  pn<iL*j.T  tiit   -Uifii-  1  j? 

subject  of  lie  C  'jrt-irv»  ii:».    tui^ 

sideration.  we  &?»  use   d>«:*v«i»:i   i* 

donbC    It  wv  a  pn<B*frinu  <«   (vi- 

TioosiTeoBttbcxr^i  m  iie  tzr'  r-i^-a 

suddeolr  ar»e.  tioc  luiL   lie    «^ 

binet   &zkd  ic*   mmt   nnt    jl   -tur^ 

would   bare    ^leer   -r^rj   uiun     n 

blame.      fi^    hii*w    817-    Ttasr»u.^  ip 

man  can   l/^oEtr^  iiitf   •ir  lioi^r^ 

Pedf  in  ibclfeee"jf  tvobu:  U'r:iirnnit/ii 

to  the  crjBSrarj,  wiiuu.  jruiwift  n 

the  caliic£^  xa'flB^in  nut  iiuamfi- 

tioual  repeal  ciTu^  jl'Wf  vnierL  T£«n'> 

late  the    'rjwreaLiuii    ff  ein    am 

other  artS.-t^  •-id'iimi.  nr*i-  tu*-  rkiUi.^ 

tr)',  doc«  iria-rrrf  fni'^r'iift  u-      -^^ir  t       »r^j-«".-:  .     .**t      »^j?-^ 

this  all.     ^'T  ll.«*»*.rt    w»  u:*    i«  il       r-.'-i    '^'r*    r,i    t-  "    •-n      *■•     •• 

prc^KMHl  an  t*m'*'ir-»' ;  *'*;•  tr^ii*    11       m   *:  i<.»*       ?  •■-•     -•- 

com;  the  I>Jtt  u?   *'*'**iliiur4ui    r»  -      »  •   i- ..  r    .*     'it--   .*.    -        1     .*• 

fused  to  b'DdiTc'  i«i  iii*'i    \n"  intt    t<»»       .^A*i     •»    •.«*■  tMu^fc*" a»*-»t 

present  •l«j.,:.^-hKiut  .  'in  iiu*-n../i  h  >•  .i:r  .  .:;,#  •*!-  >  ,1 
was  put  to  iittr  "^  iu».  •'r  l.»ivrr  r*  !,»■  n  *  u^u  .  *  •  -"- 
was  feft    in   liit  Pi.uu-r;  .  nuf    tu*       «r»    ii»-i«»  ••     *-    «         •      *.     *ir    .  .** 


TJX    «T-jJ»^    ' 

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124 


Mysteries  of  the  Cabinet. 


[Janaarr. 


Banction  ivhat  the  Lower  had  pro- 
posed to  them,  the  hill  was  thrown 
out  hy  an  inconsiderahle  majority  of 
fifteen.  ^loreover,  of  these  fineen 
peers  several  avowed  their  intention 
of  voting,  when  next  it  should  he 
brought  forward,  in  favour  of  the 
measure.  It  cannot,  therefore,  be 
said,  that  however  daringly  he  may 
have  outraged  the  religious  preju- 
dices of  the  British  people,  even  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  put  any  unne- 
cessary restraint  upon  the  two  Houses 
of  Parliament  in  carrying  his  Catho- 
lic Emancipation  Act.  And  as  to 
Feel,  it  is  no  longer  a  secret  that  he 
resisted  the  making  a  cabinet  question 
of  the  measure  as  lon^  as  he  could ; 
that  he  M'ould  have  withdrawn  from 
the  cabinet  sooner  than  be  a  ^ty  to 
the  plan,  had  not  the  Duke  m  some 
measure  constrained  him  to  abide. 
But  how  stands  the  case  now  ? 
Whatever  may  be  the  ojjiuions  of 
men  out  of  doors,  there  is  no  dis- 
puting the  fact  that  the  present 
riouse  of  Commons  is,  by  a  great 
majoritv,  made  up  of  members  who 
stand  pledged  to  their  constituencies 
to  protect  the  agricultural  interests. 
The  Lords,  likewise,  are,  almost  to  a 
man,  opposed  to  any  furtlier  inter- 
ference with  the  Coni-laws ;  indeed, 
there  needed  all  the  skill  of  Peel 
and  all  the  moral  influence  of  Wel- 
lington to  lead  their  lordships  for- 
ward, even  amid  the  dangers  of  1842, 
to  the  point  at  which  they  no  longer 
make  a  secret  that  they  are  determined 
to  stop.  Are  we  to  suppose  that  Sir 
Robert  Peel,  knowing  all  this,  know- 
ing that  it  was  the  agricultural  con- 
stituencies which  brought  him  into 
office — his  fixed  duty  scheme  and  no- 
thing else  having  sent  Lord  John 
Russell  into  opposition — are  we  to 
suppose  that  Sir  Robert  Peel,  with 
these  truths  patent  before  him,  has 
ever  meditat^  a  step  so  wild  as  the 
recommendation  hy  tne  crown  of  an 
unconditional  and  immediate  repeal 
of  the  Corn-laws  ?  The  idea  is  quite 
monstrous.  Sir  Robert  may  regret, 
as  many  other  good  and  wise  men  do, 
that  such  lawn  ever  had  existence. 
He  may  wish  that  it  were  possible  to 
eet  rid  of  them,  and  cherish  the 
belief  that  their  repeal  would  effect 
changes  neither  so  ruinous  as  their 
^vocates  apprehend,  nor  so  advan- 
^eous  for  commerce  as  is  as- 
«d    by    their  assailants.      But 


he  cannot  fail   Ui   be    aware,   tba: 
to  repeal  them  in  the  lump  Is  not 
possible,  except  on  peril  of  the  very 
existence  of  the  constitution.     Nov 
Sir  Robert  Peel  may  be  as  resolate  i 
politician  as  you  please,  but  he  is  dgc 
a  revolutionist.    lie  is  not  prepai>ed 
to  array  one  House  of  ParliameDt 
against  the  other,  even  if  he   wert 
sure  of  carrying  the  Commons  along 
with  him,  far  less  to  coerce  the  LfOnl- 
by  pitchforking  or   threatening  u 
pitchfork  100  members  at  the  lea.< 
into    the    chamber.      Yet,    without 
some  such   procedure,  we   quesdoa 
whether  any  minister  would  be  ahk 
to  carry  a  bill  for  free  trade  in  com : 
for  we  know  that  a  good  hundred 
peers  at  least  would  be  necessary  to 
equalise  the  strength  of  parties  in  the 
upper  house  of  parliament. 

Again,  it  is  no  secret  to  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  that  however  free  be  may  stand 
in  his  own  person  from  all  pledge* 
one  way  or  another,  his   party  ac- 
cepted him  for  their  leader,  and  fol- 
lowed him  with  an  enthusiasm  which 
has  no  parallel  in  the  history  of  poli- 
tical warfare — for  this  single  reason, 
that  they  put  faith  in  him  as  the 
advocate  ol  the  views  —  fiscal,  reli- 
gious, and  economic — which    they 
themselves  entertained.    Had  their 
confidence  in  regard  to  these  matters 
been  less  surely  fixed,  there  would 
have  been  no  rally  worth  the  name 
from  the  defeat  of  1833.    Doubtles 
the  incapacity  of  the  Melbourne  ad- 
ministration to  carry  on  the  detail 
business  of  the  country  must  have 
made  itself  felt  sooner  or  later ;  and, 
in  the  common  course  of  thines,  the 
powers  of  the  executive  would  have 
passed  from  one  set  of  hands  to  an- 
other, till  somebody  was  found  of 
sufficient  judgment  to  wield  them. 
But  there  would  have  been  no  such 
industry  or  ready  expenditure  of  time 
and  money  in  watching  the  regis- 
tration courts,  and  seeing  that  the 
lists  of  voters  were  full,  as  has  brought 
us  round,  in  point  of  public  feeling, 
well-nigh  to  what  we  used  to  be  ere 
the  lletonu  Act  passed.    Sir  Robert 
Peel  cannot  forget  this ;  no,  nor  the 
one  ^eat  rallying  cry  which  achieved 
it.    He  has  trial  his  party  pretty 
well,  it  must  be  confessed.    They 
have  given  up  much  for  him  in  va- 
rious ways — much  of  Protestant  pre- 
judice, since  it  is  the  fashion  so  to 
speak  of  that  which  our  fathers  used 


1 846.] 


Mysteries  of  the  Cabinet. 


125 


to  call  a  holy  principle ;  consenting 
to  his  Charitable  Bequests-bill,  to 
Ills  Maynooth  Endowment-bill,  and 
bearing  ^rith    astonishing   fortitude 
the  liberalism  which  dismisses  gentle- 
men from  the  bench  of  magistrates 
on  no  other  grounds  than  that  their 
attachment   to   the   constitution  in 
Church  and  State  is  excessive.    They 
liaye  seen  the  amount  of  protection 
offered  to  the  British  corn-grower 
cut  down  to  a  figure  which  no  other 
statesman  than  he  could  have  pre- 
sented, and  are  suffering,  some  of 
them  not  very  patiently,  under  the 
pressure  of  an  income-tax  which  they 
owe  to  his  boldness.    Let  them  have 
reason  to  apprehend  that  he  means 
to  go  farther,  and  there  will  be  an 
end  at  once  to  their  confidence.    And 
then  where  is  he — ay,  and  where  is 
the  country  ?   Sir  Robert  Peel  knows 
all  this.     He  may  regret  that  the 

fublic  temper  should  be  what  it  is. 
le  may  feel  the  restnunts  of  party 
gall  and  hamper  him  sorely,  and,  in 
his  more  earnest  moments,  he  may 
come  to  the  determination  of  break- 
ing through  them.  But  he  cannot 
break  through  them.  Neither  he 
nor  any  other  man  living  can  govern 
this  great  country  except  by  a  part^, 
for  the  attempt  to  do  otherwise  will 
overwhelm  in  one  common  niin  both 
the  individual  who  makes  it  and  the 
constitution. 

Lastly,  Sir  Robert  Peel  has  some 
knowleage  of  human  nature,  and  does 
not,  therefore,  need  us  to  tell  him 
that  men  who  cannot  be  brought  to 
fisht  for  any  thing  else,  will  fight 
like  lions  for  their  breeches-pockets. 
Now  the  agriculturists  may  be 
right  or  they  may  be  wron^,  but  it  is 
past  dispute  that  the  conviction  has 
established  itself  among  them,  that 
the  repeal  of  the  Corn-laws  would 
reduce  the  incomes  of  landowners  by 
one-third  at  the  least,  besides  throw- 
ing an  immense  quantity  of  the  land 
of  the  country  out  of  cultivation. 
We  know,  indeed,  of  our  own 
personal  knowled^,  many  tenants- 
at-will,  the  occupiers  of  enormous 
farms,  who  are  so  satisfied  of  the 
mischievous  working  of  a  repeal 
measure,  that  nothing  would  induce 
them  to  accept  at  this  moment  leases 
from  their  landlords.  Their  argu- 
ment is  this,  "  We  are  doing  well 
enough  now ;  and,  if  we  could  be 
insured  against  any  further  tamper- 
ing with  the  Com-la>vs,  we  should 


be  happy  to  engage  to  pay  the  same 
amount  of  rent  that  we  are  paying 
now,  for  as  many  years  as  our  land- 
lords might  propose;  but,  whether 
rightly  or  wrongly,  we  are  convinced 
of  the  impossibility  of  competing,  on 
our  present  terms,  with  the  foreign 
grower,  and  are,  therefore,  prepared 
to  throw  up  our  farms  the  moment 
the  ports  are  opened,  and  to  live  in 
idleness  till  things  find  their  level.*" 
Now,  with  such  a  prospect  before 
them,  is  it  reasonable  to  expect  that 
the  landlords  of  England  will  consent, 
whether  they  be  peers  or  commoners, 
to  an  immediate  and  total  repeal  of 
the  Corn-laws  ?  Can  they  afford  to 
exist  on  two-thirds  of  their  present 
income,  making  good  the  engage- 
ments to  which  their  estates  are 
liable  ?  and  if  they  could,  who  will 
undertake  to  guarantee  even  two- 
thirds  of  their  income  from  the  out- 
set? No  one.  A  sudden  opening 
of  the  ports,  an  abrupt  repeal  of  the 
Corn-laws,  would  tend  as  surely  to 
anarchy  for  awhile  as  the  vriping 
out  of  the  national  debt ;  and  five 
years  of  anarchy,  through  the  throw- 
ing up  of  leases  or  the  breaking  of 
tenants  —  and  we  cannot  anticipate 
less — would  suffice  to  make  begsars 
of  the  representatives  of  all  theoest 
families  m  the  kingdom.  Can  it 
surprise  us  to  learn  that  the  land- 
lords are  determined  to  resist  a  sud- 
den repeal  to  the  death  ?  and  seeing 
that  in  their  ruin  the  ruin  of  the 
peasants,  at  all  events,  must  be  in- 
volved, is  the  driving  of  such  a  body 
of  men  to  desperate  measures  a  con- 
tingency to  be  thought  of  without 
horror  r 

Whatever  changes  Sir  Robert 
PeeFs  plan  may  involve  —  that  is| 
supposing  him  to  have  a  plan  in 
preparation — we  are  on  these  grounds 
satisfied  that  he  cannot  contemplate 
either  the  unconditional  or  the  im- 
mediate repeal  of  laws  amid  which 
All  the  domestic  arrangements  of  all 
the  landed  proprietors  and  cultivators 
of  the  kin^om  have  for  the  last 
five- and- thirty  years  been  formed. 
And  we  come  to  this  conclusion,  not 
only  from  contemplating  the  effects 
which  such  a  procedure  must  have 
upon  the  social  condition  of  a  very 
lai^ge  portion  of  our  population,  but 
from  a  perusal  of  the  argumenf- 
those  who  endeavour,  by  fair 
and  by  foul,  to  push  the  chan 
wards.    Whatever  our  privat 


1^6 


Mysteries  of  the  Cabinet.  [JaDuary,  1846. 


nioiu  may  be  in  regard  to  the  wisdom 
of  a  protective  s3rBtem  in  connexion 
with  the  corn-trade,  we  can  never 
consent  that  the  policy  of  £ngland*8 

Erime  mmister  shall  be  forced  upon 
im  by  the  Anti- Corn-Law  League ; 
and  we  are  inclined  to  believe  ^that 
the  mwority  of  the  aristocracy  —  of 
the  Wni^  aristocracy  not  less  than 
of  the  Tory  —  are  of  our  way  of 
thinking.  Messrs.  Cobdcn  and  Bright, 
in  the  fervour  of  their  anticioated 
triumph,  let  out  a  little  too  mncn  for 
the  good  of  the  cause  which  they 
advocate,  at  the  great  Coven  t  Garden 
meeting.  The  English  people  enter- 
tain a  profound  respect  for  the  here- 
ditary peerage ;  they  would  not  ex- 
change so  noble  an  institution  even 
fbr  Mr.  Cobden's  services,  were  he 
called  to  the  queen's  councils,  and 
invited  to  bring  in  an  abolition-bill 
as  Secretary  of  State  for  the  Home 
Department  to-morrow.  Besides,  the 
people  of  England  must  be  more 
gulfable  than  we  take  them  to  be,  if 
they  are  persuaded  to  believe  that 
an  order  of  things  can  be  very  in- 
jurious to  trade  and  manufactures 
under  which  the  great  apostle  of  the 
repeal  of  the  Corn-laws  has  contrived 
to  work  his  way  from  the  condition 
of  a  poor  farmer's  son  in  Sussex,  to 
the  ownership  of  mills,  the  profits  on 
which  are  rated  to  the  income-tax  at 
an  amount  so  enormous,  that  we  are 
really  afraid  to  particularise  it. 

And  now  a  word  or  two  to  all 
right  thinking  men, — to  those  among 
our  readers  who  value  the  country^ 
well-being  above  such  minor  con- 
siderations as  the  question  who  shall 
or  who  shall  not  preside  in  her 
majesty's  councils,  and  be  called 
prime  minister.  We  witnessed  with 
regret  the  unbecoming  haste  with 
which,  immediately  The  Times'  ru- 
mour got  afloat,  some  who  ought  to 
have  known  better  proceeded  at  once 
to  condemn  and  aenouncc  the  re- 
creant premier.  This  was  neither 
just  nor  wise.  Sir  John  Tyrrell,  and 
other  equally  respectable,  though 
somewhat  hot-tempered  gentlemen, 
have  no  ground  as  yet  —  none  with 
which  we,  at  least  are  acquainted  — 
Tor  coming  to  the  conclusions  at  which, 
vith  extraordinary  precipitation,  they 
urrived.     They  would   have   done 


better  had  they  waited,  as  we  recom> 
mended  others  of  the  party  to  da  ] 
till  Sir  Robert  Peel  and  his  col- 
leagues— ^who  continue  in  office,  and 
their  friends  who  quit  it — shall  have 
made  their  explanations.  If,  indeed, 
The  Times  be  correct  in  its  assump- 
tions, then  each  man,  whether  a 
member  of  parliament  or  not,  will  be 
free  to  take  his  own  line.  The  us- 
flinching  advocates  for  protection  will 
of  course,  resist  whatever  attmpb 
are  made  to  diminish  or  in  any  other 
way  to  interfere  with  it ;  while  socb 
of  them  as  take  pleasure  in  dealii^ 
out  hard  names  and  bitter  words  maj, 
with  a  better  grace  than  now,  pre 
license  both  to  their  pens  and  to  their 
tongues.  At  the  same  time  one  point 
there  is  peculiar  to  the  crisis  at  whicfa 
we  have  arrived,  which  seems  to 
demand  their  serious  attention.  Sap- 
posing  they  defeat  Sir  Robert  PeeL 
and  drive  him  out  of  office  (no  hard 
matter  to  do,  it  would  appear,  seein^ 
that  he  would  have  volnntarOy  re- 
signed, if  he  had  been  permitted),  are 
they  perpared  with  any  one  to  tske 
his  place,  who  shall  prove  at  ooee 
acceptable  to  the  crown,  and  of  suf- 
ficient weight,  personal  or  otherwise, 
to  go  down  with  the  constituencies ? 
They  cannot  look  to  the  Whigs,  that 
is  clear.  The  Whigs  have  done  their 
best  to  form  an  amninistration,  and 
failed ;  neither,  we  presume,  will  they 
condescend  to  make  terms  with  Mr. 
Cobden,  or  Mr.  Bright,  or  Mr.  O'Con- 
nell.  Will  the  Duke  of  Richmond 
be  invited  to  form  an  administration? 
and  if  he  do,  will  the  country  support 
him? 

We  cannot  tell,  but  this  much  we 
venture  to  hope,  that  ihe  actual 
measures  of  the  existing  cabinet  will 
be  found  much  less  alarming  than 
the  sanguine  on  either  side  antici- 
pate; and,  at  all  events,  we  advise 
our  readers  to  suspend  their  judg- 
ments, as  we  here  undertake  to  sus- 
pend our  own,  till  the  mystery  in  which 
the  proceedings  of  the  last  montli 
are  involved  shall  be  dispelled ;  anil 
there  are  some  sure  grounds  on  which 
either  to  support  or  to  condemn  the 
roan  whom,  for  ten  years  and  more, 
the  great  Conservative  party  has, 
both  in  opposition  and  m  power, 
honoured  as  its  champion. 


LcBdon :— Piinted  by  George  BucUy,  CMtle  Stnet,  Ldceeter  Sqttait. 


FRASER^S    MAGAZINE 


FOft 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 


■#  ■     >^  11^  ■     ■■ 


No.  CXCIV.       FEBRUARY,  1846.       Vol.  XXXIIt. 


AN  ILLUSTRATIVE  C1IAPT£R  OK  STRAWS. 


B£1NG  TH£  FIRST  SPfiCIMEN  OF  A  N£W  BICTIONABT. 


It 


Pleased  with  a  featberi  tickled  by  a  straw."— Pofe. 


In  one  of  Lord  63^011*8  MS.  diaries, 
begun  at  Ravenna,  May  1821,  he 
makes  this  entry, — **\Vnat  shall  I 
write?  Another  journal?  Any 
thing  that  comes  uppermost,  and  call 
it  *Mif  Dictionary.  The  project 
died  in  the  thinking.  Whether  the 
bow  was  not  well  hent,  or  the  quiver 
had  been  exhausted  in  other  K>ray8, 
we  know  not^  hut  the  author  never 
carried  his  incursion  beyond  A.  Like 
other  bold  invaders,  he  was  stopped 
by  the  elements.  The  interruption 
of  the  plan  is  certainly  to  be  regretted. 
We  should  have  received  many  bril- 
liant sayings  and  much  hardihood  of 
criticism  and  philosophy.  The  prose 
of  Byron  was  very  often  better  than 
his  verse,  more  fluent,  natural,  and 
idiomatic ;  vigorous,  yet  elastic ;  and 
masculine,  yet  musical.  Tlie  fhune- 
w^ork,  moreover,  was  well  adapted  to 
his  pencil.  He  could  stretch  or  con- 
tract it  to  his  canvass.  £very  letter 
might  b^  a  picture,  copious  and  mag- 
nificent OS  a  Veronese,  or  minute  and 
delicate  as  a  Mieris.  Lockhart  once 
recommended  a  similar  shape  to  his 
excursive  friend  Sir  EgertonBrydges. 
He  might  have  adopted  it  with  ad- 
vanta^  and  given  us,  to  our  delisht 
and  improvement,  the  gossip  of  Wal- 

TOL.  XXXUl.   NO*  CXCIY. 


pole,  the  criticism  of  Warton,  and  the 
fancy  of  Collins. 

It  seems  difficult  to  brand  any  ar- 
ticle save  otm  with  the  mark  of  utter 
exclusion,  and  that  is  dvlness,  in  every 
form  and  under  every  aspect,  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  id- 
phabet.  It  must  not  be  suffered  to 
creep  in  through  D,  or  steal  upon  us 
with  a  sweet  surprise  in  the  mur- 
murs of  S.  No  column  will  keep 
the  field  with  this  symbolical  letter  in 
the  ranks.  Miserable  in  itself,  it  is 
fatal  to  its  companions.  It  will  en- 
sure the  defeat  of  a  whole  army  of 
eloquence  and  learning.  The  most 
brilliant  music  of  the  fancy  fails  to 
attract  our  attention  when  it  has 
been  completely  benumbed.  Pope 
might  have  reaa  in  vain  the  ra^  of 
Mrs.  Termor's  lock  to  an  audience 
whom  Dennis  had  been  lecturing 
upon  poetry.  The  saying  of  Haller 
is  true  in  literature,  whatever  it  may 
be  in  physics,  and  we  are  assuredly 
deaf  wnen  we  are  yawning. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Byron 
was  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  pro- 
phetic eye  of  taste  when  he  sketched 
this  fidnt  image  of  a  new  dictionary. 
Writing  at  Ilavenna,  he  was  really 
in  Regent  Street.    The  doctrine  of 


128 


An  Illustrative  Chapter  on  Straws.  [^ebruarj, 


developement,  "with  all  its  wonders  of 
imagination,  was  present  to  bis  mind, 
and  he  felt  a  deep  but  delicious  sen- 
timent of  delight  in  the  conviction 
that  tl)^  8ugge9tion,  thus  idly  thrown 
out,  was  only  a  germ  whicn  would 
subsequently  take  root,  and  grow, 
and  blossom,  and  bear  fruit;  and 
that  while  the  first  seed — small, 
barren,  and  insignificant, — might  in- 
deed be  imbedded  in  his  own  writ- 
ings, the  verdure,  and  foliage,  and 
fragrance,  and  fruit,  would  be  found, 
after  the  lapse  of  twenty  years,  in  the 
garden  of  Praser*a  Magazi-ne.  And 
where  can  any  good  or  salutary 
thought  be  planted  with  a  richer 
profnise  and  hope  of  ripeness  and 
abundance?  Regina  is  above  all 
little  jealousies;  safe  in  the  unap- 
proached  splendour  of  her  charms, 
she  has  no  sneer  for  her  rival : — 

"  No  Rufa,  with  her  combs  of  lead, 
Whisp'riog  that  Sappho's  hair  is  red." 

The  idea  of  a  dictionarv  implies 
universality ;  in  dragging  tne  stream 
from  A  to  Z,  you  enclose  every 
thing :  the  largest  and  the  smallest. 
Homer  or  Hume,  Demosthenes  or 
Duncomb^,  the  Sophist  or  the  Son- 
neteer. And  this  variety  is  only  the 
reflection  of  every  scholar*s  expe- 
rience. It  was  the  agreeable  con- 
fession of  Gra^,  that  his  studies  ranged 
from  Pausanias  to  Pindar,  and  that 
he  mixed  Aristotle  with  Ovid ;  just 
as  the  hand  wanders  from  the  bread 
to  the  cheese,  and  provides  the  appe- 
tite with  refreshment  from  both. 
The  image  is  his  own.  But  the  habit 
can  pletul  still  higher  authority  in 
its  oehalf.  Lord  Bacon  long  ago 
urged  the  importance  of  being  able 
to  contract  or  dilate  the  eyesight  of 
the  understanding.  He  regarded  that 
power  as  essential  to  the  healthful- 
ncss  of  the  organ.  And  justly  so. 
Every  one  knows  that  the  natural 
eye  is  injured  by  gazing  too  stead- 
fastly or  too  long  upon  a  brilliant 
body ;  the  dilation,  which  that  pro- 
tracted scrutiny  occasions,  impedes 
the  necessary  and  restorative  con- 
traction. Any  reader  can  make  the 
experiment  for  himself.  Let  him, 
onsomefforgeous  summer-day,  wind 
out  gradually  from  the  beeches  of 
Knowlc,  or  the  chestnuts  of  Pens- 
hurst,  imtil  he  comes  full  upon  the 
sun,  then  riding;  in  its  state  above 
Hq  trees ;  let  him  fix  his  eye  upon 


the  burning  orb  for  an  instant,  and 
then  look  down  unto  the  grass ;  he 
will  perceive  that  every  Uade  is 
tinj^ed  with  a  reddish  glare,  and  that 
a  flickering  lustre  is  shed  over  the 
turf,  as  if  a  fairy  procession  had  jost 
gone  by.  And  this  peculiarity  will 
not  be  reallyin  the  grass,  bnt  in  hii 
own  eye.  When  it  is  refreriied  by 
the  contrast,  the  light  will  &de.  TFe 
will  endeavour  to  apply  this  phe- 
nomenoD. 

The  analogy  between  the  natnnl 
and  intellectual  sisht — the  eye  dTthe 
body  and  the  mind — ^is  very  close  and 
interesting.  If,  after  a  prolonnd 
and  earnest  examination  of  the  mm 
recesses  of  early  eloquence  or  poetir, 
the  inward  eye  of  thought  be  sud- 
denly turned  upon  the  broad,  centra], 
glowing  orbs  of  Cicero,  ShaJci^ieaie, 
Thucyoides,  or  Milton,  and  be  then 
cast  down  into  the  common  sniiaee  of 
daily  life,  and  the  lown-owUi  of  every- 
day thoughts  and  feelings,  it  beo(nnes 
not  onl^  dazaled  and  confhsed,  but 
even  pamed  by  the  discolouring  hues 
that  seem  to  float  over  every  object 
In  both  cases  the  phenomenon  ad- 
mits of  a  similar  explanation.  The 
blaze  of  light  and  the  intensity  of 
attention  have  dilated  the  eye  beyond 
the  healthful  expansion;  the  con- 
tinued exposure  of  the  nerve,  either 
natural  or  intellectual,  is  attended 
with  results  of  peculiar  inconvenience 
and  injury. 

The  nerve  of  vision  gradually  loses 
much  of  its  siiscentibility  to  the  finer 
ffradations  of  lignt  and  shade ;  and, 
for  a  transient  gratification,  undergoes 
a  permanent  damage.  On  the  other 
hand,  a  careful  education  of  Uie 
eye  refines  and  strengthens  it;  it 
makes  the  astronomer  or  the  critic, 
the  naturalist  or  the  ])ainter.  The 
Nogay  Tartar  can  resolve  what  ap- 
pear to  be  only  dark  spots  in  the 
remote  horizon  into  horses,  sheep, 
or  oxen ;  and,  throwing  himself  on 
the  ground,  the  quick  sensibility  of 
his  ear  distinguishes  the  neighing  and 
bleatin£[  of  his  own  cattle.  This  is 
the  fruit  of  instruction  and  habit 
In  like  manner,  the  intellectiuil  eye 
arranges  what  to  the  uncultivated 
faculty  seem  to  be  rude  and  unshapen 
images  into  the  elements  of  a  charm- 
ing landscape  of  poetry  and  taste. 

We  shall  not  forget  the  physiology 
of  the  mental  vision  in  our  Dictionary, 
— ^^/rom  grave  to  gay^  from  Uve^  to 


1846.] 


An  lUttSiraiive  Chapter  on  Straws. 


129 


severe,*'  id  a  wise  precaution  in  a 
moral,  as  well  aa  in  a  literazy  sense. 
We  shall  follow  it.  Things  great  and 
Finall  will  pass  before  ns,  and  after  the 
magnificence  of  the  upward  gaze  into 
the  sun,  we  shall  he  eyer  looking 
down  into  the  fragrant  sequesterment 
of  the  daisy. 

Our  philosophy  will  he  related  to 
our  yoetry — ^truth,  but  upon  its  sun- 
ny side—  as  it  is  best  calculated  to 
cheer  and  warm  the  traycller  under 
the  burden  and  storm  of  life.  Phi- 
losophy, thus  illuminated  by  poetry, 
will  be  a  powerful  shield  in  the  war- 
fare of  existence. 

He  who  cultiyates  Literature  in  a 
pure  and  trusting  spirit  will  neyer 
find  himself  forsaken  or  forlorn. 
Much  she  loyes,  if  mudi  she  be  loyed. 
Other  friends  fail  us,  she  neyer; 
alike  beautiful  and  fond,  when  the 
lamps  of  our  fortune  are  full  of  oil, 
and  when  the  embers  upon  our  hearth 
are  mouldering  away.  The  Greek 
poet's  description  of  Venus  concealing 
ner  fayourite  from  the  attack  of  the 
enemy,  is  only  the  allegory  of  Litera- 
ture protecting  her  children.  Now  as 
then,  on  a  British  as  on  a  Trojan 
field,— 

U^Mii  )t  »l  «ri<rX*i«  f«i/Hv  VTuy/i 
iJtiiXv^'ir. 

She  does  not  wrap  him  in  her  yeil, 
butonl^  interposes  it  when  the  danger 
is  immment  and  the  arrow  is  abroad. 
She,  who  helps  him  most,  teaches 
him  also  to  help  himself.  Slight 
revelations  only  of  her  beauty  and 
her  face  does  she  vouchsafe ;  a  faint 
eleam  of  her  garment,  a  vanishing 
nash  of  her  eye,  a  parting;  whisper  m 
her  voice,  that  is  all,  but  it  is  enough ; 
the  celestial  visitor  is  sooner  recog- 
nised in  her  departure  than  in  her 
approach.  Who  shall  despise  these 
glimpses  ?  In  the  stoniest  wilderness 
they  come  oftenest,  and  the  Olympian 
friends  of  the  poet  or  the  philosopher 
make  the  clouds  of  trial  to  be  their 
ladder  of  descent : — 


"  Voices  are  heard ;   a  choir  of  golden 

•trings, 
Low  winds,  whose  breath  is  loaded  with 

the  rose ; 
Then  chariot-wfaeels,  the  nearer  rush  of 

wings ; 
File  lightoing  round  th«  dark  pavilton 

glows. 


It  thunders,  the  resplendent  gates  an. 

dose; 
Far  as  the  eye  can  glance^  on  height  o*er 

height, 
Rifle    fiery   waving   winga    and    star* 

crown'd  brows, 
Rank'd  by  their  millions  brighter  and 

more  bright, 
Till  all  is  lost  in  one  supreme  nnminaled 

light." 

Who  does  not  know  the  enchantment 
of  small  drcnnutanoes,  in  any  terrible 
crisis  of  our  destiny?  When  the 
packet -shm,  Lady  Hobart,  was 
driving  before  the  tempest,  a  white 
bird,  uke  a  dore,  suddenly  hoyered 
oyer  the  mast ;  and,  amid  all  the  con- 
sternation of  the  elements,  the  hearts 
of  the  crew  were  cheered  by  the 
spectacle.  One  bright  thought  in 
our  storm  is  the  dove  upon  our  mast. 
Seek  not  great  comforts  or  great 
hopes,  but  be  content  with  nnalL 
These  blossom  under  your  feet. 
There  grows  among  the  Indian 
jungle-^rass  a  phosphorescent  plant 
that  emits  a  clear  brilliancy  in  the 
night.  ^  To  husbands,  who  rove  about 
the  Himalaya  mountains  vrith  their 
wives,  and  enter  its  cayes,  these 
plants  serve  in  the  night  as  lamps, 
burning  without  oil.**  This  is  an 
Indian  tale,  but  what  a  deep  and 
affecting  moral  it  enfolds  I  This  lu- 
minous grass  makes  green  our  En- 
glish villages  and  skirts  the  highways 
of  our  swarming  cities,  if  we  only 
look  for  it  with  the  patient  and  the 
trustinir  eye.  Every  where  has  the 
seed  of  happiness  and  hope  been 
scattered,  every  where  may  its  shining 
blade  be  seen,  slowly  rising  up 
in  the  darkest  weather.  But  men 
trample  this  grass  down  in  their 
impatience  to  reach  some  broader 
turning  of  their  road.  Thev  scorn 
their  little  and  illummating  bfessinfls, 
because  they  think  they  might  be 
favoured  with  others,  larger  and 
brighter. 

'*  To  the  man  of  the  studious  turn 
that  Tranquillus  is,  it  is  sufiSicient  if 
be  has  but  a  small  spot  to  relieve  the 
mind  and  divert  the  eve,  where  he 
may  saunter  round  nis  grounds, 
traverse  his  single  walk,  grow  fami- 
liar with  his  two  or  three  vines,  and 
count  his  little  plantation.**  Why 
should  Tranquillus  live  only  in  the 
time  of  Pliny?  We  shall  seek  to 
multiply  the  tribe ;  and  if  we  be 
aeked,— • 


130 


An  lUastraiive  Chapter  on  Straws,  [February, 


"  Where    uow    tbe    vital    energy    that 

moTed, 
Wlji!e  summer  was,  the  { ure  and  subt!e 

Ijrmph 
Through   th'  imperceptible    treaadVing 

veins 
Of  leaf  and  floiver  1" 

We  answer, — 

*'  Let  tbe  months  go  round,  a  few  short 

months, 
And  all  shall  be  restored.    These  naked 

shoots, 
Barren  as  lances,  among  which  the  wind 
Makes  wintry  music,  sighing  as  it  goes, 
ShMll  put  their  graceful  foliage  on  again. 
And   move   aspiiing,  and  with   ampler 

spread. 
Shall  boiist  new  charms,  and  more  than 

they  have  lost.' 


»f 


And  what  we  replv  of  nature,  we 
reply  alao  of  life.  Such  is  the  spirit 
of  our  Dictionary.  We  attempt  no 
conquests,  and  pretend  to  no  dis- 
coveries. Professor  Airy,  from  his 
woody  hermitage  in  Greenwich  Park, 
may  square  the  circle,  if  he  can ;  Pro- 
fessor WhcweU  may  still  go  on  filling 
an  interleaved  copy  of  the  Quarrels  of 
Authors.  The  glory  of  Mr.  Liudlcy 
Mu rrav  is  safe  from  our  rivalry.  'W'c 
shall  lead  no  famishing  band  from 
University  College  to  the  Moscow  of 
grammar,  nor  leave  them  to  perish 
on  the  frozen  roads  of  philology,  un- 
der the  blinding  snow-storms  of  con- 
jecture. Our  aim  is  practical ;  what- 
ever is  of  ^ood  report  in  poetry  or 
eloquence,  ni  history  or  morals,  in 
human  sympathies,  or  human  books, 
that  we  shall  touch  upon ;  and  hav* 
ing  the  whole  alphabet  to  walk  in, 
our  digressions  will  be  many;  an 
argument  with  Plato  or  Adam  Smith, 
a  chat  with  Armida  or  Mrs.  Norton, 
a  sketch  with  Uubensor  Maclise,  a 
ramble  in  the  fields  with  White  or 
Buckland,~-that  will  be  our  plan. 
Our  machinery  is  delicate,  as  well  as 
powerful ;  and  will  break  a  Disraeli 
ur  a  butterfly  with  equal  facility,  and 
with  the  same  crushing  completion 
of  demolition.  For  the  present  we 
iKgin  with  S.,  and  proceed,  in  some 
observations  upon  the  little  thines  in 
tlie  characters  of  men,  to  shew  liow 
they  are 

•  IMcnsed  with  a  feather,  tickled  by  a 

straw;*' 

The  subject  of  our  first  specimen, 


then,  is  straws ;  and  we  shall  illus- 
trate their  value  in  men,  in  books,  in 
pictures,  and  in  religion. 

And,  1.  with  regard  to  the  straw 
in  human  character,  it  will  be  seen 
that  it   abounds   most    ia  men  of 
greatest  genius.    Byron  sent  away  a 
Genoese  tailor  with  a  new  coat,  be- 
cause he  brought  it  home  on  a  Fri- 
day,   lie  was  also  ob8cr\'ed  to  rein 
up  lys  horse  while  passing  a  comer, 
and  to  assume  an  aspect  of  determi- 
nation and  courage,  as  if  he  expected 
to  be  charged  by  Front  de  Boeuf  on 
the  opposite  side.    But  a  more  sur- 
prising  specimen   of  this    kind   of 
straw  is  to  be  foimd  in   the    his- 
tory of  Johnson,  and  may  probably 
have  escaped  the  notice  of  readers  in 
general.    It  was  this: — He   always 
went  in  or  ottf  at  a  door,  or  pasagc, 
by  a  certain  number  of  steps  from  a 
certain  povU ;  so  that  either  his  right 
or  left  foot  (J9or,  No.  I.,  was  not 
certain  which)  should  be  the  first  to 
cross  the  threshold.     Every  thing 
depended  upon  this  question  of  pre- 
cedence. He  was  frequently  observed 
to  stop  suddenly  on  such  occasions, 
and  apparently  to  count  his  steps 
with  much   earnestness ;   when  he 
made  any  mistake  in  the  movement, 
he  would  return  and  place  himsdf 
in  the  risht  position,  and  having  sa- 
tLsfactority  performed  the  feat,  re- 
join his  companions  with  the  air  oft 
man  who  had  ^t  something  off  his 
mind.     Of  this   remarkable    halHt 
none  of  the  Doctor*8  friends  ever 
dared  to  ask  the  beginning  or  the 
motive.    Boswell  supposed  it  to  be  a 
superstitious  custom  contracted  early, 
and   from    which    Johnson    never 
sought  to  extricate  himself  by  the 
help  of  his  reason.    We  have  not  at 
hand  Mr.  Groker*s  emendations  of 
•«The   Laird   of  Auchinleck,**  and 
know  not  whether  he  has  attempted 
any  commentary.    But  the  supersti- 
tion of  Johnson  might  have  plouled 
an  antique   origin.     The    Komans, 
and  we  believe  the  Greeks  also,  al- 
ways entered  a  place  with  the  right 
fiHtt  fijremost   So  important  did  they 
deem  this  rule  of  progression,  that 
Vitruvius  gives  a  particular  direction 
for  building  steps,  so  that  the  first 
step  should  be  ascended  by  the  right 
foot.    Juvenal  alludes  to  the  prac- 
tice in  the  beginning  of  his  famous 
tenth  satire,  when,  casting  his  m 
from  Spain  to  the  Ganges,  he  la- 


1 846.] 


An  nhstrative  Chapter  m  Sfiwi. 


131 


menis  the  univenal  folly  and  igno- 
rance of  men :— 

"  Omnibus  in  torris,  qius  sunt  ■  Gwlibitt 

usque 
Auronun  et  Gangem  pauci   dignoscera 

possunt 
Vera  bona,  atque  ill  is  muUum  direraa, 

remota 
Ki'Toris  nebula  quid  :   enim  ratione  ti* 

memus, 
Aut  cupimual  quid  tarn  dtxiro  ped4  r:»n' 

eiplt,  ut  te 
Conaiut  non  pccniteat^  vatiqut  peraetL" 

Lemaire,  in  bis  edition  of  JuTenal 
(1825),  stumbles  heavily  over  this 
familiar  idiom,  and  talks  of  the  da- 
ring of  the  satirist,  eager  to  rush  in 
where  other  poetical  angels  were 
afraid  to  tread.  Now  this  was  quite 
unnecessary  in  a  professor  of  Latin 
poetry,  French  or  other.  Johnson's 
own  commencement  of  his  grand  pa- 
raphrase,— 

"  Let  observation  with  eztaustrc  view,*' 

was  scarcely  more  prosaic,  or  less  to 
the  purpose.  ^lAfVf  illastrations 
might  be  supplied.  Thus  Propcrtius 
opens  his  thini  book  of  Elegies, — 

"  Dicite  quo  pariter  carmen  tanuastia  in 
antro, 
Qiiove  ptde  ingrem,  qoamve    bibistis 
aquam." 

When  the  left  foot  commenced  any 
thing  it  was  fatal.  So  Apuleius  ni 
lacoj  as  the  commentators  affirm. 

This  straw  shews  the  peculiar  su- 
perstitionsness  of  Johnson's  mind; 
it  was  the  involuntary  indication  of 
the  hand  upon  the  dock,  and  we 
learn  more  from  it  than  from  a  long 
disquisition.  Again,  we  might  form 
some  outline  of  the  accurate  and  me- 
thodical nature  of  6ray*s  disposition, 
poet  though  he  was,  from  the  minute 
entries  of  his  journal,  with  reference 
to  his  expenses  or  his  feelings ;  the 
foot  impatient  of  the  counterpane,  or 
limping  along  upon  the  support  of  a 
stick,  bring  him  before  ns  in  his  suf- 
ferings and  infirmities.^  A  slight 
circumstance  stealing  out  from  a 
grave  treatise  often  leU  in  a  strong 
light  upon  the  history  of  the  author. 
It  will  be  recollected  that  Cicero, 


among  the  cnnsnlatinnt  of  old  a|^ 
omits  any  notice  of  wonen  and  chil* 
dren.  You  may  call  this  a  thin<r  in- 
different ;  it  ia  a  straw ;  hat  it  shews 
the  wind.  He  had  Terentia  for  a 
wife,  and  Marcos  for  a  son. 

So  ahook  is  often  read  by  the  beam 
of  some  aneedote  aecidoitally  leeo- 
vered,  and  we  are  enabled  to  convict 
the  writer  of  insincerity  by  his  own 
eonduct.  Beccaria  wrote  against  capi- 
tal punishments.  Hisservant  read  his 
hooK,  and  stole  his  watch,  llow  d  d 
the  advocate  for  abolition  illustrate 
his  argument?  He  exerted  hinvelf 
in  every  way  to  hang  the  thief.  At 
that  moment  he  was  correcting  a 
second  edition.  Thus  by  an  inci- 
dent in  his  o\m  life  we  xefute  his 
book.  Again,  we  are  accnstomed 
to  think  and  read  of  Prince  Engine 
as  a  warrior  and  num  of  renown. 
He  appears  with  ^larlboroogh  in 
the  historical  picture.  What,  then, 
is  our  astonishment .  to  find  him 
debating  with  Bolingbrdke  (who 
was  anxious  to  conduct  him  im- 
mediately to  the  ^uecn)  whether  he 
could  with  propnety  appear  in  a 
short  periwig,  his  lugnge  not  be- 
ing arrived,  and  his  efforts  to  bor- 
row that  equipment  having  proved 
ineffectual !  Or  look  at  Pepys.  We 
all  know  him  to  have  been  a  frivo- 
lous gossiper  about  the  court,  a 
thinner  kmd  of  Horace  Walpole; 
but  the  following  cireumstance  re* 
duces  him  to  smaller  dimensions  than 
any  critical  coropresskm  could  ac- 
complish. A  subject,  that  weighed 
heavily  upon  his  thonghts  during  the 
great  plague,  was  the  probable  fashion 
of  periwigs  after  it  should  have  ahated, 
seeing  that  nobody  would  dare  to  buy 
any  luir,  from  the  apprehension  that  it 
had  been  ^'  cut  off  tne  heads  of  peo- 
ple dead  of  the  pestilence.**  If  we 
we  think  very  humbly  of  Pepys  from 
this  feature,  we  confess  that  Garth, 
the  good-natured  Garth  of  Bo- 
lingbroke  and  Pope,  has  sunk  very 
low  in  our  estimation  since  we  read 
Gay's  account  of  setting  him  down 
at  the  Opera,  and  of  his  shewing  his 
gratitude  by  a  squeeze  of  the  /*>rp- 
finger.^    We  have  always  regarded 


*  In  1753,  Graj  paid  1/.  4«.  for  a  journey  to  Cobbam,  wbicb  you  now  reach  in  a 
Bummer  day  for  eighteenpence  at  the  roost ;  and  lis.  6<i.  for  a  trip  to  Richmond, 
where  any  *'  Bus  "  now  r«>joices  to  carry  you  for  a  ihillin^.  What  significaot  atraws 
these  are  in  our  popular  biatory  * 

t  ToPope,Jaly  8, 1715. 


133 


An  lilustraiivB  Chapter  oa  Straws,  [Febrnarr, 


this  mode  of  salutation  as  an  index 
of  a  cold  and  trumpery  character. 
We  wiUjust  add  that  the  laborious 
zeal  of  Coke  and  his  habits  of  rigid 
analysis  mi^^t  hare  been  discovered 
from  his  assertion  to  Lord  Bacon, 
that  he  had  taken  300  examinations 
in  the  famous  case  of  Sir  Thomas 
Overbury,  with  a  view  to  get  at 
the  truth;  that  the  tyranny  of  the 
Syracusan  Dionysius  would  have 
been  established,  even  in  the  silence 
of  history,  by  the  fact  of  his  daugh- 
ter's shaving,  or  rather  singeing lus 
beard  off  ¥ath  a  hot  walnut-shell; 
and  that  the  literary  imnatience  and 
ambition  of  Pope  neea  no  other 
illustration  than  his  calling  up  the 
female  servant,  who  waitea  on  him 
at  Lord  Oxford's,  four  times  in  one 
night  of  the  terrible  winter  of  1740. 
It  was  of  less  importance  that  she 
should  be  frozen  than  that  his  couplet 
should  be  broken.  It  is  by  these 
straws  that  the  drift  of  a  character, 
as  we  call  it,  is  ascertained.  Even 
the  dust  on  the  current  marks  its 
direction.  The  biographer,  like  the 
artist  who  sketched  the  poet  at  Prior 
Park,  must  watch  an  opportunity  for 
a  side  view,  if  he  would  catch  the 
full  outline  of  the  hump.  In  the 
letters  of  famous  men  you  get,  for 
the  most  part,  only  the  revised  MS. 

"  Metbinks,  when  1  write  to  jod/* 
said  Pope  to  Congrere,  Jao.  6,  1714, 
'*  I  am  making  a  confeetion  ;  1  have  got 
(/  eamutt  tell  how)  iueh  a  custom  of  thrown 
htg  myt§lf  out  upon  pap$r  mthout  renrve. 
You  were  not  mistaken  in  what  you 
judged  of  my  temper  of  mind  when  I 
writ  last.  My  faults  will  not  be  bid 
from  you,  and,  perhaps,  it  is  no  dispraise 
to  me  that  they  wi!I  not.  The  cleanness 
and  purity  of  one's  mind  is  never  better 
proved  thtn  in  diBcoveriog  its  own  fault 
at  first  view^  as  when  a  stream  shews 
the  dirt  at  its  bottom,  it  shews  also  the 
transparency  of  tbe  water." 

Who  does  not  see  that  the  shiver- 
ing waiting-woman  is  a  better  ex- 
positor ?  rope  knew  that  this  frank- 
ness of  communication  was  only 
rhetorical,  and  that  every  posture  he 
exhibited  to  his  correspondent  had 
been  studied  in  the  mirror. 


And  yet  once  more.  Would  the 
quick-tempered  Atterbury  be  repfe- 
sented  so  vividly  as  in  the  anecdote 
related  of  him  by  the  contemporaiy 
vicar  of  Hartley  Bow  ?  The  hiahop, 
travelling  along  the  western  road 
between  Basingstoke  and  Bagsbot, 
put  up  for  the  night  at  Hartley  Row : 
but  tne  inn  was  full.  What  was  to 
be  done?  The  perplexed  Lindlord 
procured  him  a  best  bed  at  a  ne^- 
bouring  cottage.  The  bishop  retued 
to  his  repose,  but,  after  lying  awhik, 
he  got  up,  pat  on  his  clothea,  jad:- 
boots,  and  spurs,  and  lay  down  again. 
The  catastrophe  may  he  anticipaled. 
The  sheets  in  the  morning  were  found 
in  tatters,  and  the  old  laOT  of  Hartky 
Kow  long  entertained  tier  gossips 
with  the  angry  impatience  of  an 
episcopal  lodger.  *'  I  have  fonod 
you,"  said  Pope  to  Atterbuir,  ''  sank 
a  physician  as  does  not  only  repair 
but  improve.**  Yet  this  straw  shews 
that  the  physician  had  a  patient  at 
home,  who  required  not  onfyrkitiiig 
but  medicine. 

Let  us  fetch  a  straw  from  Latin 
biography.  The  first  thought  which 
a  repeal  of  the  Corn-laws  would  sug- 
gest to  a  revived  Pliny  would  cer- 
tainly be  some  inconvenience  to  bis 
literary  pursuits ;  copv,  not  Cobden, 
would  be  the  object  of  his  solidtiide. 
At  least,  he  wrote  in  this  manner  to 
a  friend  during  a  season  of  agricul- 
tural depression.  *^  I  have  received 
the  same  bad  account  of  my  own 
little  farms,  and  am,  myself,  there- 
fore, at  full  leisure  to  write  books 
for  you,  provided  I  can  but  raise 
money  enough  to  furnish  me  with 

good  paper.  For  should  I  be  re- 
uoed  to  the  coarse  and  spungy  sort, 
either  I  must  not  write  at  all,  or 
whatever  I  compose,  whether  good 
or  bad,  must  necessarily  undergo  one 
cruel  blot.**  *  Thus  oratory  became 
a  question  of  '^  outsides,**  and  Trajan 
himself  mi^ht  have  waited  for  his 
panegyric,  if  the  ink  had  been  wa- 
tered. Any  crisis  developes  the  cha- 
racter ;  it  projects  the  true  sentiment 
with  an  immediate  impulse.    In  the 

freat  Russian  conspiracy  of  1825, 
^estel  was  suddenly  arrested  at  Moa- 


*  B.  fiii.  15.  One  is  not  surprised  to  find  tbe  same  Pliny  cautioning  tbe  orator, 
tvhen  wiping  his  forehead,  not  to  discompose  his  hair.  But  Quintiliao  goes  farther. 
He  gravely  reasons  (b.  zi.)  as  to  the  precise  time  in  the  speech  of  the  pleader  when 
it  may  be  expedient  for  him  to  ahew  the  intensity  of  his  emotional  interest  in  tbe 
cause  of  his  client,  by  letting  his  gown  almost  drop  from  his  back. 


1846.] 


An  niusfrative  Chapter  on  5/nnrf. 


133 


cow.  Incapable  of  offering  any  re- 
sistance, his  only  apprehension  was 
concerning  his  Kotutaya  pracida^  or 
work  on  Russian  junspmdence. 
Siberia  melted  before  his  book. 

We  close  this  string  of  illnstra- 
tions  by  one  that  may  be  hung  up 
with  the  story  of  Thomson  piddng 
with  his  mouth  sunny  plums  from 
the  ffarden  wall.  CuTier  tells  an 
anecdote  ofWemer,  a  name  united 
in  science  with  Saussuret  that,  in 
order  to  avoid  the  trouble  of  writing, 
he  resolutely  determined  never  to. 
open  any  letters.  This  arrangement 
succeeded  fox  some  time,  and  a  mes* 
senger,  sent  from  Dresden  by  his 
sister  to  obtain  his  ngnature  to  im- 
portant fkmily  papers,  was  obliged  to 
wait  two  months  at  an  inn  before 
Werner  could  be  induced  to  open 
the  packet.  This  straw  is  a  whole 
commentary. 

We  shall  not  linger  upon  the  im- 
portance of  these  straws  in  historical  or 
poetical  description.*  An  account  of 
them  would  fill  a  volume.  They 
tell  a  story  better  than  an  episode. 
A  Latin  writer,  speaking  of  the  fatal 
eruption  of  Vesuvius,  remarks  that 
the  chariot  in  which  he  hoped  to 
escape  was  so  agitated  by  the  heaving 
ground,  that  the  wheels  could  not  be 
kept  st^y,  even  though  large  stones 
were  placed  beneath  tncm.  Thucy- 
dides  or  Livy  could  not  have  worked 
out  so  vivid  a  description  as  this 
little  touch  of  truth  presents  without 
labour.  And  we  really  doubt  whe- 
ther the  following  picturesque  ex- 
ample of  a  straw  be  not  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  passages  in  Dryden*a 
poetry:  — 

"  This  etfafol  bosbaod  had  bten  long 

awsy. 

Whom  his  obttto  wi/e  and  litda  ebild* 

Tea  nounif 
Who  oa  thoir  fiof^ert  loarD  to  tell  the  day 
Oq  wbicb   tbeti   fatbar  preioited  to 

return/' 


iiernaps  tncsc  annpie  verses  are 
the  more  remarkaible  mm  the  gene- 
ral absence  of  the  pictorial  in  Dryden. 
Atterbury,  in  his  proposed  cpitapli, 
said  that  our  poetry  was  indeotca  to 
hun  for  its  strength  and  its  gnees 
(vim  nuxm  at  venartM  debet) ;  but  he 
broiieht  the  Minerva,  not  the  Venna. 

when  our  dictionary  is  published, 
as  it  will  be  in  about  seven  volumes 
—  a  true  ConversatioDB-Lexioon  — 
we  shall  be  able  to  follow  the 
history  of  straws  into  the  by- 
paths of  our  daily  life.  How 
slight  and  ummportant  ineideiits 
stamp  the  grace  or  defonnhy  of  s 
character  I  There  is  a  beaotinil  in* 
stance  in  the  Heart  of  Mfd-IdMam, 
where  the  two  sSsters  weep  in  eadt 
other's  arms,  in  the  presence  of  the 
turnkey  of  the  Tolbooth.  **The 
unglazed  window  of  the  miserable 
chiunber  was  open,  and  the  beams 
of  a  briffht  sun  fbll  upon  the  bed 
where  the  sufferers  were  seated. 
With  a  gentleness  that  had  some* 
thing  of  reverence  in  it,  Ratdiffe 
partly  closed  the  shutter,  and  seemed 
thus  to  throw  a  veil  over  a  scene  so 
moumful.**  The  veil  of  the  Greek 
painter  was  not  more  beautiful  than 
this.  But  a  straw  will  exhibit  the 
storm  as  well  as  the  calm  of  the 
wind ;  will  represent  the  temper  of 
the  many  as  well  as  of  the  one.  Let 
us  go  to  Scott  again.  In  the  fkmous 
riot  at  Edinburgh,  when  the  Tolbooth 
was  broken  open,  and  Porteous  was 
hanged,  while  the  rioters  were  car- 
rying him  to  the  gallows,  one  of  his 
Slippers  fell  off;  they  halted,  picked 
it  up,  and  quietly  replaced  it  on  his 
foot.  Scott  heard  tnis  singular  in- 
cident from  a  lady  who  had  seen  it, 
having  been  drawn  to  her  window 
by  the  tumult.  What  a*  still  atmo- 
sphere of  rage  must  that  have  been 
in  which  so  light  a  straw  floated! 
And  the  name  of  Scott  recalls  an- 
oUier  straw  of  a  different  kind,  U. 


^  Aod,  ia  like  manner,  »  tingle  toneb  deftcet  end  darkens  the  picture,  as  the  word 
terrttfondini  in  the  following  Hoes  of  Mr.  Wordsworth :-« 

"  Soon  as  the  ready  marge 
Was  clear'd,  I  dipp'd  with  anna  aecordant  oara 
Free  from  obatmetaoa ;  and  the  boat  advanoed 
llifoagh  erraUl  water  smoothly  as  a  hawk, 
That,  disentangled  from  the  abadv  boogha 
Of  some  thick  wood.  Iter  place  of  covert,  cleaves 
}Viik  eorrespondstU  tri'n^  tbg  abtfu  of  air" — Excursion,  b.  it. 

Much  better  is  the  classic  idiom  of  Sonthey, — 

"  The  green  bird  gnided  Tbelaba, 
Now  oaring^  with  slow  wing  hit  upland  way." 


134 


An  Ulutlralive  Chapter  on  Sirawi, 


[Vrhnari, 


the  power  of  a  minute  and  trifline 
circunuUnce  to  soothe  the  troubled 
boaotp.  We  allude  to  the  Bdmirsble 
acene  in  Pneril,  where  Sir  Geoffrey 

Byx  his  daily  visit  to  HoultreHsie 
ul,with  his  wordof  Bslutstion  and 
good-bv.  A  deep  sigh,  liometimes 
coupled  with,  "  I  thank  you.  Sir 
Geoffrey,  my  grateful  dutv  waits  on 
Lady  Pevenl,  was  generally  Bridge- 
nortn's  only  answer.  Time  eude^«d 
this  short  expression  of  sympathy  to 
the  mourner.  It  broke  his  day ;  it 
gave  him  somethioE  to  look  to  :-— 
"  The  lattice  window  was  never 
closed,  nor  was  the  leathern  easy 
chair  which  stood  next  to  it,  ever 
empty,  when  the  usual  hour  of 
the  baronet's  momenta^  visit  ap- 
proached. At  length  the  expecla- 
tioQ  of  that  passing  minute  became 
the  pivot  upon  which  the  thoughts  of 
poor  Bridgenorth  turned  during  all 
the  rest  ofthc  day."  This  is  a  beau- 
tiful and  touchmg  glance  into  the 
secrets  of  the  heart.  The  collection 
of  such  straws  shews  a  hand  that  had 
been  busy  with  the  harvest  of  hu- 
manity. 

A  sentence,  an  ima^  a  thought, 
distinguishes  and  identilies  an  author; 
a  straw  in  Milton  shews  the  air 
blowing  towards  the  paradise  of  fancy ; 
and  it  is  so  in  painting.  You  may  re- 
cognise one  of  Rafioelle's  lopes  bv 
the  ring  on  bis  finger.  Reynokfs 
used  to  say  that  the  history- pieces 
of  the  Dutch  school  were  properly 
portraits  of  themselves;  and  this  in- 
ability to  go  out  of  themselves  al- 
ways assigns  them  their  due  place  in 
the  catalogue.  If  they  build  Baby- 
lon, it  is  upon  piles.  But  the  greatest 
masters  have  also  their  little  marks 
of  peculiarity, — their  straws  in  co- 
lour or  design.  You  distinguish  Tin- 
toretto b^  the  dark  face  of  his  Moor, 
or  the  dignified  glance  of  the  Vene- 
tian nobleman,  or  the  high  birth  of 
his  dw;  whatever  may  u^  the  sub- 
ject of  the  picture,  you  are  almost 
certain  to  fUid  in  it  one  of  these  ele- 
ments, and  so  admirably  introduced 
and  managed  as  not  t«  offend  the 
eye.  Mengs  remarked  of  Titian,  that 
he  had  studied  deeply  the  character 
uid  suitableness  of  every  colour,  and 
he  exact  place  and  time  for  employ- 
ig  them.  The  science  of  selection, 
hat  is,  of  preferring  a  red  cloth 


B  possesaed  in  it*  e 


the  Venetian  s( 
his  pencil  at  once  by  the  handling 
of  these  hues.  Who  ever  dropped  a 
velvet  of  so  lustrous  a  purple  round 
the  white  limbs  of  Beauty  ?  Yon 
may  swear  to  his  Venus  by  ttni 
straw.  Could  you  hesitate  to  aaofn 
that  dewy  umbrage,  with  the  df  u- 
eious  twilight  walk,  to  Ilobbima  ?  ot 
do  you  require  a  second  glance  to  v- 
Bure  you  that  the  white  horse,  in 
yonder  corn-field,  cante  fVoni  the 
stable  of  Wouvermans  f 

Aud  passing  into  s  purer  atmo- 
sphere of  meditation,  we  still  finii 
tnat  tbe  footytepe  of  Wisdom  may  be 
tracked  by  the  light  motions  of  stran? ; 
and  that  the  doctrine  of  a  special  Provi- 
dence becomes  valuable  in  proportian 
as  we  extend  it  to  what  the  world 
calls  trifles,  to  things  of  every-day  oc- 
currence. A  violet  under  tbe  be^ 
points  the  road  to  Eden  and  angds. 
One  who  wrote  of  old*  has  put  thi! 
inquiry  in  his  own  rich  light  of  illus- 
tration when  he  described  the  Archi- 
tect of  the  universe  as  being  "  glori- 
fied in  tbe  sun  and  moon,  in  the  rare 
fabric  of  the  honeycomb,  in  tbe 
economy  of  ants,  in  the  little  houses 
of  birds ;  God  being  pleased  to  de- 
light in  tliose  little  images  and  re- 
flexes of  Himself  from  those  pretty 
mirrors,  which,  like  a  crevice  in  i 
wall,  though  a  narrow  perspective 
transmit  the  species  of  a  vast  ex- 
cellence." And  BO  one,  who  in  mo- 
dem times  fallows  the  glowine  path 
of  the  English  Chrj'sostom  witn  dis- 
tant yet  not  undienifled  steps,  hu 
happily  told  us  that  in  the  lilile 
turns  and  shinings  of  every-day 
thinzs,  in  the  tlutterings  of  leaves,  and 
in  the  falling  of  dew,  we  may  trace 
tbe  unwearied  action  of  the  Provi- 
dential oversight,  and  read  the  lesson 
which  each  and  all  teach  to  our- 
selves. "These  are  HU  glance,  tbe 
expressions  of  His  countenance,  the 
glance  of  His  eye." 

Men  go  down  into  deep  wnten  to 
bring  up  mvsteries  of  philosophy  and 
truth ;  but  the  commonest  fact  teaches 
a  higher  lesson.  Take  only  a  straw 
—the   conversation   of  two   friends. 


Acicadain  South  America  may  be 


1 846.] 


An  lUuitrativB  Chapter  on  Sirawt. 


135 


heard  a  mile  off.    The  most  inge- 
nious  of  entomoloeists,  Kirby,  baa 
calculated  that  if  the  powers  of  the 
human  voice  increased  in  the  ratio  of 
the  size  of  the  body,  it  would  be  heard 
all  over  the  world !    And  if  this  be 
BO  with  the  ordinary  five-feet-nine, 
what  would  it  be  with  six-feet-six? 
Think  of  Mr.  Cams  Wilson  in  the 
little   island  of  Jersey!    It  would 
hecome  one  enormous  bell,  with  the 
iron  tongue  rebellowing  in  frightfhl 
iteration.*    Or,  most  terrible  of  all, 
imagine  the  world  one  vast  reflection 
of  the  Conciliation  Hall ;  the  voice  of 
Mr.  0*Connell  omnipresent;  and  the 
Repeal  of  the  Union  in  every  family ! 
Then,    indeed,   the    designation  of 
"  The  Agitator  **  would  be  proper- 
ly  bestowed.     Hermetically -sealed 
apartments  would  be  advertised  in 
like  Times;  the  Royal  Society  would 
bestow  a  medal   upon  the   easiest 
method  of  promoting  deafness;  Mes- 
merists, like  postmen,  would  be  under 


the  direetioa  of  goretiimeBt;  erefj 
round  would  be  anxiously  waldied ; 
and  there  would  be  a  eorapetition  to 
pay  "  extra  **  for  an  early  delivery ! 
We  talk  of  the  delicanr  of  the 
eye,  but  the  ear  exeeeu  it  in 
quick  sympathy  and  senaitiveneff. 
The'  annoyances  endured  by  the 
sense  of  vision,  if  transferred  to  that 
of  bearing,  wmild  either  hmumb  or 
destroy  it.  Lord  Bacon  mentiana 
(Nat  HtMi.  128)  an  instance  of  this 
kind  of  suffering  endured  by  himself, 
when,  *^  standing  near  one  that  lured 
loud  and  shrilV*  he  had  suddenlv  aa 
oflenee,  as  if  somei^at  had  been 
broken  and  dislocated  in  his  ear :  he 
adds,  **  and  immediately  after  a  lood 
ringing,  not  an  ordinary  siting  or 
lusnng,  but  far  louder  and  differing 
so  as  I  feared  some  deafness;  but, 
after  some  half-ouarter  of  an  hour, 
it  vanished.**  Wonderful  power  of 
little  things!  Tremendous  agency 
of  straws! 


*  Pope  Las  not  overlooked  the  wise  proTision  for  the  tme  bsppincss  of  the  coo< 
stitotioii  of  man :  — 


«« 


No  pow'rt  of  body  or  of  soal  to  share. 

But  what  bis  nature  and  bis  state  ean  bear« 

Why  has  not  man  a  mieroscopie  eye  1 

For  this  plain  reason,  Man  is  not  a  fly. 

Say,  what  the  uie,  were  finer  optica  given, 

T'  ins peet  a  mite,  not  comprehend  the  hearen  ? 

Or  touch  if  tremblingly  ahve  all  o'er. 

To  smart  and  a^^ise  at  every  pore  1 

Or  quick  eflluvu  darting  through  the  brain, 

Die  of  a  rose  in  aromatic  pato  ? 

If  Naturt  thunder  d  in  hii  tipiniiig  cert. 

And  stunn'd  him  with  the  music  tjf  tke  ifheres. 

How  would  he  wiah  that  Hearen  had  left  him  still 

The  whisp'ring  zephyr  and  the  pniling  rill !" 


Contemporary  Orators. 


[Febfoary, 


contfmpohart  obators. 
No.  YU. 


THE  BlOOt  BON,  BtB  MUSI  flBABAU. 


Wbatbvxb  UMy  be  suggested  to  the 
contrary  by  personal  or  political  an- 
tipatbv,  it  w&l  be  very  generally  ad- 
mitted by  men  of  all  parties,  who 
ftre  coDTereant  with  the  subject,  that 
Sir  Junes  Graham  stands  next  to 
Sir  Robert  Peel  and  Lord  John  Itus- 
■ell  in  the  degree  of  influence  he  ex- 
ercises otbi  the  debates  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  It  is  not  as  an  orator, 
more  than  respectable  though  lib 
jueteniions  be,  that  he  ranks  thus 
nigh ;  for  there  arc  many,  even 
among  his  inferiors  as  Etatesmen,  nho 
in  eloquence  fartransceod  him.  Kor 
is  it  because  he  has,  in  the  course  of 
his  hmg  and  chequered  career,  de- 
veloped those  higher  qualities,  either 
of  character  or  of  intellect,  which 
lead  men  in  the  aggregate  to  wait 
upon  the  judgment  of  the  individual, 
yielding  tnemselvcs  to  his  guidance  ; 
for  the  public  life  of  Sir  Jaiues 
Graham  has  been  singularly  unpro- 
pitious  to  the  accomplishment  of  that 
slorious  distinction.  Nor  is  it  thnt 
bis  reputation  has  grown  with  the 
growth  or  identified  itself  with  the 
successes  of  any  great  national  party, 
whose  uratitude  would  have  given 
faim  a  following,  and  that  following 
BD  audience  prepossessed  in  bis  fa- 
vour; for  there  is  scarcely  a  public 
man  of  the  day  who  has  been  so 
deeply  and  irrecoverably  inconstant 
-to  poIiUcal  aliiaocea,  or  the  virulence 
of  whose  temporary  opposition  may 
with  more  precision  be  guagcd  by  the 
fervencv  of^his  former  support.  On 
none  oi  the  received  grounds,  in  fact, 
can  his  influence — popularity  it  can- 
not be  called — with  the  Ilouse  of 
Commons  be  accounted  for.  Such 
as  it  is,  it  depends  on  himself  alone. 
It  is  anomalous,  Uke  his  position. 

The  solitary,  self-created,  almost 
nndi^nted  sway  wielded  by  Sir  Ro- 
bert Peel,  one  can  understand.  He 
has  been  the  foremost  man  of  his 
time.  Always  the  leader  of,  even  in 
adreraity,  the  most  powerful  party 
of  his  countrj-men,  he  has  never, 


except,  perhaps,  ia  the  single  ■'■"ti™* 
of  the  Ileform  question,  run  coante 
to  the  feelings  of  the  nation. 

There  are  principles  kod  loili- 
ments  which,Gvea  in  the  hour  of  tbe 
uttenoost  estrangement,  be  held  ia 
common  with  his  opponeols;  then 
was  always  some  nentral  ground  &r 
reconciliation.  If  events  proved  that 
his  advocacy  could  not  alwsya  have 
been  sincere,  no  one  could  point  to 
habitual  virulence  and  acrimony  as- 
sumed to  give  the  colour  of  eamest- 
nesa.  lie  soothed,  flattered,  cajoled, 
played  off  parties  and  opinions  against 
each  other  with  delicate  finesse,  bnt 
never  directly  outraged  deep-nioted 
prejudices  or  long-established  opin- 
ions. And  so,  indeed,  it  is  with  him 
in  the  present  hour.  'While  ruling 
his  political  contemporaries  with  a 
power  so  absolute  as  to  be  almost 
without  parallel  in  representatire 
assemblies,  and,  at  the  same  time,  so 
well  masked  as  to  require  all  the 
envenomed  ingenuity  of  a  disap- 
pointed partisan  ere  it  could  be  dis- 
covered, much  less  believed  in,  Sir 
Robert  Peel  has  contrived  to  avoid 
exhibiting  roost  of  the  harsher  sym- 
bols of  his  sway.  His  despotism  has 
not  been  obtrusive,  or  his  tyranny 
odious.  He  has  made  men  enslave 
each  other,  without  himself  standing 
forth  as  the  confessed  cause  of  the 
general  degradation.  If  he  has  no 
natural  or  personal  followers,  so  also 
he  has  no  organised  opponents, — at 
least  their  organisation  melts  away  at 
his  approach ;  they  are  valiant  only 
behiiM  his  bock, 

The  more  genial,  mild,  and  na- 
tural inllucnce  of  Lord  John  Rns- 
Bell  with  his  followers  is  also  to  be 
accounted  for ;  nor  is  it  at  all  sur- 
prising that  he  should  be  a  favourite 
as  a  speaker  with  the  House  gene- 
rally.  Of  the  Whig  party,  first  the 
prol^i,  then  the  pupil,  and  now 
the  leader,  he  has  always  been  the 
firm  and  consistent  supporter.  Uf 
one  side  of  tbe  House  he  possesses 


1846.] 


The  Right  Hon.  Sir  James  Graham. 


137 


the  faronr  by  every  right  of  poli- 
tical service,  and  party  is  not  slow  to 
be  ^tefol,  however  wanting  it  may 
be  m  other  political  virtaes.  To  his 
opponents  and  the  House  generally, 
he  has  always  exhibited  a  deference 
and  respectful  consideration,  which, 
if  it  sprang  from  policy,  was  wise  in 
the  extreme,  for  it  has  secured  a  de- 
gree of  prepossession  on  personal 
f  rounds  which  is  not  enjoyed  even 
y  Sir  Robert  Feel  himself,  and  often 
acts  as  a  counter-balancing  make- 
weight for  mental  and  physiod  short- 
commgs  in  his  oratory. 

Sir  James  Graham's  influence  in 
the  representative  branch  of  the  Ic- 
giskitnre  is  not  to  be  attributed  to 
any  of  the  causes  which  have  secured 
its  favours  for  these  two  distinguished 
men.  Like  Sir  Robert  Peel,  he  has 
constantly  been  in  antagonism  with 
parties  and  opinions  to  which  he  has 
at  some  other  time,  before  or  since, 

SVen  his  most  hearty  support.  But 
a  chamres  of  opinion  and  of  policy 
We  be^  made  under  very  di^rcnt 
circumstances,  and  the  tone  and  cha- 
racter of  his  advocacy  and  opposition 
have  been  of  a  very  different  nature. 
Sir  Robert  Peers  first  great  act  of 
inconsistency,  however  it  may  have 
exasperated  uis  followers  at  the  time, 
still  Dore  the  stamp  of  statesmanship ; 
inasmuch  as  it  was  the  application  of 
a  great  and,  in  some  respects,  a  despe- 
rate remecUr  to  a  state  of  things  to 
which  the  history  of  the  constitution 
afforded  no  parallel.  It  carried  with 
it,  also,  to  most  minds  the  justifica- 
tion of  an  overpowering  necessity. 
His  subsequent  aeviations  ftom  the 
line  of  policy  professed  by  him  in 
early  life,  and  while  still  the  leader 
of  the  old  Tory  party,  have,  in  like 
manner,  been  to  a  great  extent  the 
remit  of  drcumstimces  which  he 
could  not  control.  Many  compro- 
mises of  principle  are  H)rgiven  in 
the  rc^nerator  of  a  great  party. 
And  Sir  Robert  Peel,  too,  has  alwajrs 
kept  his  motives  so  free  from  suspi- 
cions. His  ambition  is,  at  least,  ofan 
ennobling  and  exalting  character.  He 
has  never  been  the  mere  partisan,  or 
allowed  politics  to  become  a  passion 
with  him,  but  has  preserved  his  dig- 
nity afioddst  all  the  heats  of  party 
Ktnfk.  Personal  motives  are  sef- 
doo^  assigned  to  him  when  he  sees 
fit  to  change  his  policy.  He  has 
preserved  iu  m  «mment  degree  the 


respect  both  of  parliament  and  the 
public. 

Not  so  Sur  James  Graham;  and 
the  fact  affects  his  position  with  the 
House  of  Commons,  or  it  would  not 
be  so  broadly  stated  in  this  paper, 
which,  with  the  others  of  the  series, 
treats  of  public  men  with  reference 
to  their  personal  position  and  their 
influence  as  speakers,  and  not  with 
any  political  bias.  Upon  the  same 
prmciple  that  high  praise  has  been 
^iven  to  Lord  John  Russell  or  to 
Mr.  Macaulay,  although  Whigs,  be- 
cause they  are  fairly  entitled  to  it, 
the  faults  in  the  cnaracter  of  Sir 
James  Graham,  and  the  flaws  in  his 
position,  will  be  dealt  with  without 
reserve,  notwithstanding  that  he  is  so 
distinguished  and  so  useful  a  member 
of  a  Conservative  government.  Sir 
James,  we  repeat,  has  not,  amidst  his 
many  changes  of  opinion  and  party, 
preserved  the  same  high  character, 
the  same  freedom  from  the  imputa- 
tion of  partisanship,  the  same  pre- 
sumption of  stainless  motive,  that 
have  upheld  Sir  Robert  Peel,  and 
retained  for  him  the  personal  favour 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  even  in 
the  most  critical  and  dangerous  pe- 
riods of  his  fortunes.  Still  less  naa 
he  observed  that  steady  devotion  to 
early  received  and  professed  opinions, 
that  tolerant  and  liberal  appreciation 
of  principles  and  views  entertained 
ana  professed  by  opponents,  that 
gently  repulsive  retirement  fVom 
stage  to  st^e  of  party  defence  in  the 
face  of  the  advancing  enemy,  which, 
together  with  many  personal  quali- 
ties of  an  amiable  cnaracter,  have 
secured  for  Lord  John  Russell  so 
much  of  the  regard  of  foes  as  well  as 
of  friends.  Sir  James  Graham  has 
acted  on  wholly  opposite  tactics. 
There  has  been  more  ^ao  to  speak^  of 
brigands^,  more  of  tne  loooe  policy 
of  the  Free  Lance,  in  his  political 
life.  His  attacks  have  always  been 
fierce  and  virulent  in  inverse  propor- 
tion to  what  has  proved  to  be  the 
depth  of  his  conviction?,  and  to  the 
apparent  necessity  of  the  case ;  his 
defences  have  always  been  distin- 
guished by  a  blind  and  passionate 
obstinacy ;  his  compromises  and 
abandonments  of  professed  opinions 
have  always  been  sudden.  These 
are  great  defects  of  character  in 
the  eyes  of  Englishmen,  and  they 

react   upon  Sir   James    Graham, 


ConteKporary  Oraiort, 


[February, 


'*  eoiuajneiiee  u  ■ 
lis  hour,  m  ipite  of  his 
JeuU  uid  great  posi- 

nbam  hu  made  ene- 
every  pftity  in  tlie  le- 
has  not  been  becBUse 
d  them  fVom  time  to 
r  men  who  are  much 
have  for  many  years 
iftetually.  Uutithas 
Dt  of  the  extreme  vi- 
ippoution.  His  fight- 
Deen  A  Toutrance.  He 
prone  to  disdain  the 
titical warfare;  fictions 
«.  yet  agreeable  oneg 
ng.  He  bos  always 
port  his  passions  into 
,  as  though  he  were 
ghting  the  battle  of 
alKi  maintaining  his 
quarrel.  And  yet  he 
Deeded  in  impressing 
idea  of  his  being  in 
,  would  have  rendered 
nguage  otherwise  too 
arangues  while  in  op- 
indeed  all  bit  party 
:r  seem  the  elaborate 
laviug  little  real  sym- 
\  themes  he  is  discuss- 
!WB  he  is  urging,  but 
id  himself  up  to  a  state 
thusiasm  or  moral  in- 
rdcr  the  more  effectu- 
tolitical  vindictiveness, 
eraonal    ambition,  by 

3Iause  of  audiences 
ed  undercover  of 
nding  pretences.  But, 
ated  or  real,  some  of 
lere  more  particularly 
and  to  which,  it  must 
nc  could  listen  without 
'ilh  admiration  at  their 
and  sustained  enern' 
ely  reconcilable  witn 
d  charitalile  intcrprc- 
motives  of  opponents, 
of  the  first  duties  of 
each  other.  Nor  has 
ham,  while  condacting 
this  spirit,  bAsn  at  all 
reapons  he  used.  Any 
roe  to  hand  was  hurled 
yatthefoe.  Nocpithet, 
its  imputation  ^al  ways, 
g  that  it  is  parhamcnt- 
Dt,  however  bitter  or 
vbethcr  to  individuals, 
opinions,  or  even  to 


whole  natioo*;  tu>  geocral  chai^ 
however  grave  as  against  the  policj 
of  a  party,  or  however  damnator)- 
of  the  motives  of  bis  opponents 
in  their  conndls  or  their  conduct: 
and,  finally,  no  manceuvre  tbii 
could  by  any  stretch  of  license 
be  accounted  not  inconsistent  with 
parliamentary  honour,  eren  to  the 
extent  of  partial  statements  of  oppo- 
nents' opinions,  or  partial  quo- 
tations or  withholdings  of  jua- 
tificalory  matter;  not  one  such 
expedient,  however  little  to  be 
approved  in  fair  tuid  free  public 
discussion,  by  which  a  temporaiv 
triumph  could  be  won,  or  a  rival  for 
the  hour  put  down,  was  ever  re- 
jected by  Sir  James  Graham  from 
any  delicacy  of  temperament;  or  from 
any  high  and  fastidious  sense  of  hon- 
our, such  OS  restrains  some  men  from 
grasping  the  victory  which  is  tbeiri 
on  such  conditions;  or  even  from  that 
constitutional  love  of  fair  play  and 
open,  stand-up  fighting  which  is  the 
Englishman's  boast,  aud  which  i» 
covertly  the  guiding  principle  in  ail 
the  debates  in  parliament. 

It  will  be  observed  that  blame  is 
imputed  to  Sir  James  Graham,  not 
merely  because  in  the  course  of  a 
lone  and  very  stonny  political  life 
he  lias  channel  liis  opinions.  Men 
have  always  Deen  hclu  at  liberty  to 
do  that ;  and  of  late  it  is  becoming 
quite  a  fashion.  It  is  on  account  of 
tlie  extreme  virulence  and  unscrupu- 
lousnesa  with  which  he  has  from 
time  to  time  advocated  the  opinion 
or  the  party  object  of  the  hour,  and 
the  suddenness  with  which  he  ha* 
changed  those  opinions  and  objecLs 
that  ne  has  fail^  to  secure  his  fair 
share  of  the  respect  of  his  contempo- 
raries, at  least  for  more  than  nis 
great  talent.  A  very  cursory  glance 
at  his  speeches  will  fully  confirm  the 
view  here  put  forward.  Look  at  hi<) 
earlier  political  career,  when  as  "  the 
Cumberland  Baronet,"  he  frighted 
the  isle  from  its  propriety,  by  the 
violent  and  unconstitutional  tendency 
of  his  writings  and  speeches,  ^^'bo 
could  have  suspecteu  that  a  man 
whose  sentiments  breathed  so  much 
of  the  very  spirit  of  license,  would  in 
comparatively  few  yearp  stand  before 
the  world  one  of  the  favoured  leaders 
of  the  party  he  was  then  denouncing 
BO  violently,  and  as  the  most  arbi- 
trary home- secretary   the    countiy 


1846.] 


The  Right  Hon.  Sir  James  Orakam. 


isd 


bad  kiio\ni  for  many  yean  ?   Again, 
his  attacks  upon  the  landed  interest 
in    the   earlier   part  of  his  career 
vrere   so   harsh  and  virulent,   that 
one     can   scarcely  believe,   though 
the  fact  stares  one  in  the  face,  that 
the  same  man  has  been,  for  twelve 
or   fourteen  years,  one  of  the  chief 
counsellors  and  leaders  of  those  >vhom 
he  then  treated  as  the  pests  and  ene- 
mies of  their  country.  Furthermore, 
let  us  look  at  the  zealous  partisan- 
ship with  which,  when  he  was  a 
member  of  the  Whig  government, 
he  attacked  on  the  one  hand  the  Ra- 
dicals, of  whom  at  least,  in  opinion, 
he  might  once  have  been  accounted 
a  leader ;  and  on  the  other  the  Con- 
servatives, in  whose  ranks  he  was  so 
soon  to  hold  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished posts.    Nor  can  it  be  forgot- 
ten how  when  in  power  as  a  Con- 
servative minister,  he  has  stood  out 
in  marked  relief  from  his  colleagues, 
in  the  virulence  of  his  attacks  on 
those  with  whom  he  had  so  lately 
held  office,  and  towards  whom  he  at 
least,  and  Lord  Stanley,  should  have 
been  restrained  in  resorting  to  the 
more  envenomed  hostilities  of  party. 
It  cannot  be  attributing  too  much 
importance  to  the  effects  of  this  con- 
stant antagonism  on  his  part  to  the 
convictions  or  the  self-love  of  his 
contemporaries,  when  we  say,  that 
they  detract  very  materially  from 
the  estimation  in  which  he  is  held, 
and  preclude  the  possibility  of  his 
being  popular  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, however  much  his  eloquence, 
his  debating  powers,  or  his  extraor- 
dinary aptitude   for  business,  may 
cause  him  to  be  admired,  and  ren- 
der him  valuable  as  a  minister  and  a 
statesman. 

It  has  been  in  the  face  of  all  these 
self- created  obstacles,  in  spite  of 
drawbacks  and  disadvantages  which 
would  have  long  since  consigned  an 
ordinary  man  to  oblivion,  ttiat  Sir 
James  Graham,  after  having  deserted 
his  post  in  the  van  of  one  party  ^  the 

{>arty  with  whom  his  early  political 
ife  was  spent,  and  to  whom  he  was 
indebted  for  his  position — has  forced 
his  way  to  the  very  leadership  of 
another ;  of  a  party  distinguished  for 
the  possession  of  talent,  legiumately 
occupying  its  ranks  and  not  at  all 
dependent  upon  chance  recruits  for 
the  fiffare  it  makes  before  the  coun* 
try.  Without  a  Mowing,  after  hav- 


ing violently  discarded  the 
fnendships  of  his  youth  and  man* 
hood,  and  in  spite  of  an  hafaitiia], 
almost  a  studied  avoidance  of  all  the 
ordinary  arts  of  popularity,  which  mi 
times  has  almost  sone  the  length  of 
courting  public  odium,  we  finl  Bkr 
James  Graham  the  right  hand  uid 
confidential  counsellor  of  the  moat 
powerful  minister  this  country  has 
Known  since  Pitt;  the  absolute  dic- 
tator of  all  the  internal  admimatratioiii 
and  of  much  of  the  internal  policy, 
and  the  originator,  or  at  all  events 
the  arbiter,  of  the  internal  IcffMa- 
tion,  of  this  mat  kingdom.  More 
than  of  any  otner  living  statesman  it 
may  be  said  of  him  that  he  has  made 
his  own  position.  It  was  probably 
the  object  of  his  early  ambitKm ;  yet, 
if  we  look  at  his  career,  how  nnpro- 
pitious  was  its  commenoemeat  for 
such  a  close!  So  much  the  more 
merit,  thai,  in  an  intellectual  point 
of  view,  is  due  to  him  who  ooold 
thus  compel  dreumstanees  to  his 
purposes.  It  is  to  his  talents  alone 
that  he  is  indebted  for  the  high  posl 
he  holds,  and  the  distinguished  posi* 
tion  he  enjoys  amonghis  contemns 
raries.  He  nas  literally  fouffht  nis 
way  up ;  and  a  hard  fight  ne  has 
had.  If  he  has  multiplied  the  natn* 
ral  ohstaclet  of  such  a  career,  so 
much  the  greater  is  the  talent  and 
the  determination  of  porpoae  by 
which  they  have  been  overeome. 
What  Mr.  Macaulay  has  won  by  his 
eloquence  and  capacity  for  states- 
manship.  Sir  James  Graham  has  at- 
tained oy  the  same  spirit  of  self- 
dependence,  working  out  its  Duaswn 
in  the  more  active  and  stormy  scenes 
of  political  excitement,  by  more  bold 
and  dangerous  ventures,  and  more 
skilflil  and  darinff  pilotage. 

Sir  James  Graham  has  always  been 
equal  to  his  position.  Vanons  as 
have  been  the  parts  he  has  played  in 
the  political  drama  of  his  time,  be 
has  always  glided  naturally  into 
them,  ana  distinguished  himself  as 
one  of  the  first  actors,  rising  natu- 
rally to  the  top.  His  speeches  ftom 
time  to  time  afforded  an  accunte 
barometer  of  his  political  position. 
On  whichever  side  of  politics  they 
were  made,  they  have  always  been 
marked  by  great  aptitude,  ruidiness, 
tact,  vigour,  and  power.  Except 
Lord  jBrodgham  and  O'Conoell,  he 
has  been,  perhaps,  the  most  acliyely 


140 


ConiemporarylOraiars. 


[February, 


militant  orator  of  his  day.  When  he 
was  down  he  attackea  those  who 
were  uppermost;  now  he  is  in  power, 
he  wages  perpetual  war  with  those 
who  are  out  Whether  attack- 
ing institutions  or  defending  them, 
however,  he  has  shewn  equal  abi- 
lity and  determination  to  conquer  at 
all  hazards.  When  he  was  a  Ra- 
dical, or  at  least  so  very  ultra  a 
Whig  that  the  steady  ones  of  the 
party  were  almost  ashamed  or  at 
least  afraid  of  him,  he  was  so  tho- 
roughl^r  uncompromising  in  his  de- 
nunciations, that  Mr.  Duncombe, 
whom  he  is  now  nightly  striving  to 
extinguish  with  all  me  awful  terrors 
of  law  and  order,  would  have  been 
by  his  side  but  a  mere  wretched  sha- 
dow of  a  demoeo^e.  In  fact,  we 
have  no  such  Kauicals  now  as  Sir 
James  was  then.  They  are  all  fat, 
jocular  men,  growing  wealthy  upon 
coronerships,  and  suchlike  abomina- 
tions; or  blasS  dandies  in  search  of 
an  excitement.  Some  of  the  speeches 
of  Sir  James  Graham,  whether  in 
parliament,  at  the  hustings,  or  at 
public  meetings,  at  the  time  referred 
to,  would  in  tne  present  day  be  ac- 
counted almost  too  bold  for  the  most 
determined  aspirant  for  the  honours 
of  political  martyrdom.  For  they 
were  unredeemed  bv  the  philosophy 
of  liberalism ;  they  had  not  even  the 
dignitj^  and  tone  of  Chartism.  They 
were  simple,  unadulterated,  partisan 
speeches,  made  to  serve  a  purpose, 
and  forgotten  as  soon  as  uttered. 
But  about  their  talent  there  was 
no  mistake.  It  was  not  that  they 
were  distinguished  for  hieh  elo- 
quence,  but  for  power  and  down- 
right hard  hitting.  They  gave  the 
speaker  a  claim  on  the  rising  party 
of  the  time ;  and  in  a  few  years  the 
guon-demagogue  shot  up  into  a  mi- 
nister. 

And  a  capital  minister  he  made. 
His  most  determined  enemies  do  not 
dei^  this.  Whatever  may  be  thought 
of  Sir  James  Graham  as  a  politician, 
no  one  hesitates  to  admit  that  he  is  one 
of  the  best  administrative  officers  this 
country  has  for  many  years  produced. 
The  same  talent,  the  tact  and  apti- 
tude, which  had  made  him  so  clever 
an  assailant  of  the  former  govern- 
ment, rendered  him  immediately  fit 
for  office.  He  was  here,  as  before, 
equal  to  his  position.  As  a  speaker 
on  behalf  of  the  govenunenty  too,  he 


proved  himself  a  most  valuable  ally, 
— turning  the  flank  of  his  quondam 
Kadical  associates  with  provoking 
skill  and  unerring  precision.  But 
the  prior  claims  of  those  who  were 
dready  designated  as  the  succesBora 
to  the  chief  posts  in  the  A\liig  party 
still  kept  Sir  James  in  the  back- 
ground, and  forbade  the  ho]^  of  his 
taking  that  distinguished  position  for 
which  hb  talents  and  ambitioa  alike 
indicated  him.  The  reorganisation 
of  the  party  at  that  time,  and  their 
adoption  of  a  policy  of  dangerous 
progress,  afforded  an  opportumty  for 
a  chanp;e ;  and  accordingly,  in  a  reiy 
short  time  we  find  Sir  James  Graham 
(after  a  short  time  spent  in  a  chxy- 
salis  state)  a  full-blown  Conserva- 
tive. Here,  again,  he  was  fully  equal 
to  his  position ;  and  as  it  was  during 
the  long  and  glorious  struggle  of  the 
Conservative  opposition  neaded  by 
Sir  Robert  Feel,  Lord  Stanley,  and 
Sir  James  Graham,  that  the  latter 
made  his  best  speeches,  a  better  op« 
portunity  cannot  be  taken  to  treat  of 
his  peculiarities  as  an  orator — which 
was  the  part  he  then  laid  himself  out 
to  fill — before  attempting  to  describe 
him  as  he  now  is  in  his  new  charac- 
ter of  repressor- general  of  the  insub- 
ordinates  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
or  "  crusher*'-in-chief  to  the  ministry. 
The  Conservative  speeches  of  Sir 
James  Graham,  made  when  fightioff 
side  by  side  with  Sir  Robert  Feu 
and  Lord  Stanley  against  the  Whigs, 
were  admirable  specimens  of  what 
may  be  done  by  highly  cidtivated 
powers,  extensive  aoquamtanoe  with 
the  best  models  of  eloquence,  perse- 
vering care,  and  elaborate  prepara- 
tion, without  oratorical  genius,  or 
that  earnestness  and  sincenty  of  par- 
pose  which  will  often  advantiif;e- 
ously  supply  its  place.  Assuming 
them  to  nave  been  deliberately  got 
up  to  serve  a  certain  purpose,  it 
would  be  impossible  to  withhold  ad- 
miration from  the  power,  tact,  and 
aptitude,  with  which  the  means  were 
made  subservient  to  the  end.  Upon 
the  supposition  that  the  speaker  was 
really  sincere,  it  was  difficult  to  ac- 
count for  the  absence,  even  in  the 
most  solemn  appeals  to  the  religious 
feelings  of  the  auditory,  or  to  their 
cherished  constitutional  preposses- 
sions, of  those  touches  of  deep  feel- 
ing which  are  the  utterances  of  the 
soul,  not  the  promptings  of  art,  and 


1846.] 


Tke 


JEEh.  Sir  J^aus  G^utzn^ 


which  act  like  a 
sympathies-  Tlie  «pwchfi  irCrtud 
to  were,  manj  of  them,  Humiui  «s 
compodtiooB  to  thoK  of  Sir  Bo- 
bert  Peel  or  Lord  Stanler,  coBE!a» 
ing  more  of  the  gieit  sfjgiiBXBt  en 
which  the  whole  moreiBeDt  of  the 
ConaernitiTe  party  was  haxd.  F«r. 
although  Sir  James  Gxafaun  eviaoB 
80  little  readinets  to  boid  his  wu«  to 
thoae  arooiidhim,  he  shews  an 
chameleon-like  power  of  _ 

their  sympathies,  opnmns.  or  pRjn* 
dices.  They  woe  m  thknapect  ad- 
mirable manuals  for  the  party,  aad 
no  donbt  did  good  aerrioe  la  ihs 
conntiy.  But  the  impetooof  ei{>- 
quence  of  Lord  Stanley,  and  the  ad- 
mirable persoasive  azt  of  Sr  Koben 
Feel,  enabled  them  to  achieve  mcne. 
with  materials  whidi  in  jutioe  to 
Sir  James  Graham  ve  mait  aJmk 
were  not  saperior  to  those  vLkli  se 
to  be  fonnd  in  hb  speerfies  of  ihst 
period.  AVhat  detracted  from  the 
effect  of  the  dedamslory  pasn^ef 
was  a  somewhat  pompons  and  sdked 
tone,  a  too  efidoit  affipclatinn  of  so- 
lemnity and  eamertness;  which  migln 
haye  been  partly  natural,  aiiang  Iran 
physical  canf^fi  and  thenfiwe  wcA 
mirly  the  object  of  critidsm,  thou«^ 
materially  marring  the  effect  of  the 
speeches.  Bat  allowiqg  for  all  thcK 
defects,  they  were  yet  remadcafale  ef- 
forts of  oratorical  duD,  whic^  raisBd 
Sir  James  to  a  level  with  the  heit 
speakers  in  the  House  of  ComoMna. 
The  exordiums  and  neroiatiiM  al- 
ways  bore  mariu  of  tne  most  carcf ni 
preparation,  and  were  usually  models 
of  hne  composition;  the  qnotatiaas 
were  most  i^  and  often  finom  re- 
condite sonrces ;  the  poetical  passages 
deliyered  with  a  fine  fmpliasii  and 
full  appreciation  of  the  ihytha.  As 
a  debater,  rising  at  a  late  hour,  per- 
haps, to  reply  suddenly  to  the  ax* 
guments  of  a  pierious  nieakff  or 
speakers,  where  ihe  noTefty  of  the 
topics  precludes  all  prepaiatiaB,  and 
the  real  powers  of  the  orator  are 
therefore  tried  to  the  utmort.  Sir 
James  shewed  himself  the  posstssir 
of  the  very  h^est  order  of  talent, — 
in  readiness  of  aignment,  retenttre- 
ness  of  memory,  suddenness  of  qua* 
tation,  quickness  of  retort,  in  invec- 
tive, sarcasm,  repartee,  defiamatifin, 
he  was  seldom  or  never  at  &alt,  and 
was  always  the  anti^gnaist  most 
tJrpjMJpd  bv  the  ministen.    Pcihans 


■CQE 


zuc 


numiurn 


Ul£ 


HiiDfle  £if  L  imnDms  n  tm^  ccanc  t» 
ihiSi  of  Sir  i^  1  j^  sr  Iaitl  -SsixL 
B.THWP-T-.  T rr  -LnLuamt  nc  uhbf 
9ta^  fchSpTLri.  s-  ^i£^  &K  nf  uL 

h  it  BKiR  OTri^tniiC  It  tatat  x  u 
sorrcL.  gggnr  liuc  zbsst  m  la  m 

cxklt:  yupuLuz  is^^onr  'Zimn  S» 
Gn^usoL.    lioucsiur  taca  si  J» 
wijjt  junir,.  jfaof^  iif  ok  Ci 

d£T&:^:i;it  isiL'  titt:  sm  of 
he   iutf    r;tiiimfd 

xreOETT.  Prominent 
tii€n  viWE.  he 
Boxixm'  of  jieT^j  uoEb  leberwiBe:  he 
■eTeraBBCBiecibiiaktxhe  jcad.  bfsS^ 
kss  woiac^  TVB  haie  ■a|niMed  thsa 
be  ircnuc  iiare  had  ttK  wiidwi  lo 
flout  iLf:  iioufit  afE  ht  hm  moat  daaie; 
or  b^  asuaaumons}  V  ic  dt!f  t  the  sb'vo' 
nagu  peo}ue  iktruugi  tndr  aqaaa^ 
aemai:  V  e&.  ^  1  L  uuuur  v^  tarn  for  his 
OMira^  txioD^'i!  i:  Ji%ht  havt.  hem 
nfrriw;fl  iu  a  iit^saer  ransf  It  is 
hee&use  Sir  James  ^^ndam  aflicts,«r 
reuir  ied^  an  iudiflereaw  to  the 
^/ooio^UiMm  of  tbt  iiouMf:.  that  thef 
submit  fio  K^iaziitil'liiLe  U/  hit  eujCMH^ 
or  his  Ftudied  ouidness  and  indifliov 
enoe,  aad  par  so  much  atteoUon. 
oiien  bo  much  dtderenoty  lo  iiii 
optukui. 

A  hardness  and  inqnsiuuility  of 
temperameut,  whidi  i^  to  tamw^  or 
obloquy'  as  adauiMMrt  or  rhinoofvas^ 
hide,  ^oiiit^  tu  a  wondtarf itl  knov' 
ledge  oi'  human  naturt.  great  taksDle, 
cletf  perct^itioQ,  ruidiijbw,  detacmi^ 
nation  of  purjiofie.  and  a  stead/  re* 
sedation  to  at;i»  tih.  opportunities  and 
>ield  none,  gi^  e  iiiui  great  advaa^ge 
in  an  assrinbly  v  uere  the  avemge  of 
ability  is  not  aUn^e  mediocrity,  and 
where  there  art  nu  Usm  who  have  the 
courage  or  ltd  the  anclinalion  to 
stand  forth  a»  rltaMijiwait'.  ^Mtb 
the  eiflcftifla  rf  Ux*  DiwtsmAWj  Jdr^ 


14^ 


Contemporary  Oratori. 


[Febniary, 


Ferrand,  and  Mr.  Wakley,  the  mem* 
bers  generally  bend  before  his  con- 
sistent will  and  determination  of  pur- 
pose, which,  in  such  a  place,  are 
almost  tantamount  to  a  strong  or 
superior  mind.  If  they  would  say 
the  truth,  they  are  not  a  litUe  afraid 
of  him.  At  the  same  time,  it  must 
not  be  forgotten  that  such  a  man  as 
Sir  James  is  in  these  times  parti- 
cularly useful.  Utilitarianism,  on 
which  are  grafted  some  of  the  colder 
and  harsher  doctrines  of  political 
economy,  has  become- the  political 
reli^on  of  our  public  men.  Cen- . 
tralisation,  with  its  train  of  paralysing 
evils,  has  become  the  fashionable 
machinery  of  gOTemment.  The  far- 
ther the  ear  and  eye  are  removed 
firom  the  actual  scene,  the  less  chance 
there  is  of  the  evil  being  seen  or  the 
complaint  heard.  The  selfishness  of 
classes  needs  excuses.  It  thinks  to 
hide  its  naked  hideousness  in  sys- 
tems. Weaker  natures  fear  to  lay 
down,  still  more  to  carry  out  prin- 
ciples, which  this  selfisnncss  would 
fam  see  adopted.  A  firmer  spirit, 
which,  perhaps,  because  it  has  faith 
in  such  principles,  asserts  them 
broadly  and  mamtains  them  in  act, 
through  good  and  evil  report,  be- 
comes a  powerful  and  valuable  ally. 
A  Sir  James  Graham  will  be  clung 
to,  in  an  instinctive  deference  for  his 
vigour  of  mind  and  boldness  of  pur- 
pose. Such  a  man  serves,  to  rule. 
Less  remote  causes  of  his  influence 
may,  however,  be  found ;  causes  on 
the  surface  quite  sufficient  in  the 
present  state  of  things  to  account  for 
nis  contradicting  all  the  usual  calcu- 
lations on  which  ministerial  popu- 
larity is  based. 

His  demeanoiir  in  the  house  is  a 
study.  As  he  enters  below  the  bar, 
his  red  despatch-box  in  hand,  his 
figure  towers  above  most  of  the 
members,  notwithstanding  that  of 
late  years  he  has  contracted  a  slight 
stoop.  Extreme  hauteur,  tempered 
by  a  half-sarcastic  superciliousness,  is 
his  prevailing  characteristic ;  and,  as 
he  slowly  drags  along  his  tall  and 
massive  frame,  which  still  retains 
much  of  the  fine  proportion  of  youth, 
in  his  heavy-measured,  almost  slip- 
shod tread,  towards  his  seat  at  the 
right  of  the  Speaker's  table,  there 
is  a  self-satisfied,  almost  inane  ex- 
pression on  the  counten^mce,  pro- 
duc^  by  a  peculiar  fall  of  the  nether 


lip  and  a  distorted  elevation  of  tbe 
eyebrows,  that  does  not  by  any  means 
prepossess  you    in    his    favour,  or 
suggest  any  high  idea  of  his  intellect. 
He  rather  Iooks  like  some  red-tape 
minister  of  the  Tadpole  school,  or 
some  pompous  placeman,  conceited 
of  his  acres.     ]But  by  and  Inr  yon 
learn  to  separate  the  more  fixed  Inbit 
of  the  features  from  this  odd  expres- 
sion of  the  countenance,  till  yoa  see 
that    the    superciliousness   is  real, 
though  exaggerated  by  the  phyacal 
pecuuarity.    There  are  no  traces  of 
ul-nature  in  the  face ;  but,  on  tbe 
other  hand,  there  is  nothing  to  en- 
courage.   Meanwhile  he  has  seated 
himself,  placed  his  red  box  on  the 
table  before  him,  stretched  hunself 
out  to  his  full  length,  and  awaits, 
with  arms  folded  and  hat  slouched 
over  his  face,  the  questioning  to  which 
he  knows  he  will  oe  subjected  at  this 
particular  hour,  from  half-past  four 
to  half-past  five.     He  is  not  left  long 
in  his  moodjr  silence.     Some  one  h«s 
put  a  question  to  him.    It  is  Mr. 
I>nncombe,  who,  if  one  is  to  judge 
by  the  malicious  twinkle  in  his  eye 
and  his  affected  tone  of  moral  indig- 
nation, has  got  hold  of  some  ^evance 
— some  letter-opening  delinquency, 
o^  some  case  or  magisterial  cmeltv 
and  Home-Office  indifiTerence,  with 
which  he  has  worked  upon  the  mem- 
bers who  do  the  "  Bntish- public 
part  in  these  little  political  dranias, 
for  they  are  crying  *•  hear,  hear! 
with   a   forty  -  John  .  Bull    power. 
Does  the  home-secretary  start  up  to 
answer  P    Is  he  indignant  at  the  in- 
sinuations thrown  out  by  his  smart 
and  ready  antagonist  P    Does  he  burn 
to  relieve  himself  of  the  odium  oi 
having  sanctioned  a  system  of  es- 
pionage or  of  having  neglected  to 
redress  some  wrong — as  he,  tbe  voor 
man*s  ex-officio  trustee,  is  bound  to 
doP    Oh,  no!  he  is  in  no  hurry. 
The  breath  of  the  questioner  has  fwj 
time  to  cool,  and  tne  voice  of  moral 
indiffuation    to    abate    its    enei]gy> 
ere  ne  stirs.    Then  he  uncoils  him- 
self,  rising  slowly  to  his  full  height, 
and  confronting  his  antagonist  with 
a  well-assumed  consciousness  of  the 
extreme  absurdity  of  his  question, 
and  the  absolute  impregnability  ^ 
the  defence ;  if,  indeed,  he  shall  eon-, 
descend  to  make  any  answer  at  all  ^ 
for  you  are  left  in  doubt  a  momeo^ 
whether  he  will  not  allow  his  sop^* 


1846.1 


The  Ifsni  aj  Ge 


-•x. 


cilions  expresskm  to 
contemptuous  laugfa,  mnd  so  \ 
again.  However,  sudi  tlii^gi 
being  allowed  by  the  wmuga 
pie,  and,  as  ministeis,  bomrMH 
]>otically  disposed,  most  aaswi 
tions,  me  next  thii^  to  be 
plished  is  to  gire  as 
dose  of  iniVmnation  as  pasabfe. 
veyed  in  the  laigest  pcsabSe 
of  indifierenoe,  soperaliooBi 
wholesome  parljamentair  mtrrnpt. 
There  are  stereotyped  ianaa.  11k 
initiated  know  amxst  the 
The  cool,  phk^;malic.  im|wiwit 
is,  of  oouise,  peculiar  to  the 
lar  Home  Seczetaiy  of 
speak.  His  idea  of  the  fimrtingw  of 
his  offiee  seems  to  be,  tlm  he  is  to 
exercise  the  utmost  powihif  power 
with  the  least  possiUe  aeooimtaliilitT. 
He  is  to  know  nothing,  see  ««^i«^g:t 
do  nothing,  but  what  he  is  ahsoliitt^T 
compellalMetoknow,8ee,ordoL  If  the 
enemy  can  ierreC  out  a  £Kt  and  prare 
it,  so  much  the  better  lor  his  caae. 
Then,  perhaps,  it  nuu^  he  admtted. 
But  the  usual  course  is  for  Sir  JaaK&. 
in  his  low,  monotonoos  Toaee,  and 
steady  determined  manner,  to  grre 
an  elaborate  formal  riat^und  of 
words,  with  as  lew  lacts  as  posaUe, 
and  leaving  the  matter  as  neariy  as 
XKissible  where  he  Ibond  it.  lUs 
course  has  its  adranlage;  ibr  the 
questions  put  are  often  iiiiim  wmw^^ 
and  even  detrimental  to  the  psbLc 
service.  Sometimes,  hov^ra;  nat- 
ters grow  UKHV  serknuL  Tlie  oool, 
hard,  impassible  fimrtinwaiy  is  oam- 
pelled  by  a  sense  of  daty  to  sake  a 
more  elaborate  ytalftncnt,  and  then 


M  S 


hiBL  pr«Trrw^M.TlT-  fipeakin^  hrtrf  br 
II  mapmade  mm  ffffra 

Kuned  to 
nd  to 
he  hK  is  his 
career  djspib^'ed.  ihon^  now 
he  rare]  V  exercises  tiiem.  an:  ^uhe 

wind}  we  hare  aacribfsd  lo  iiim ;  in 
the  mbsence  ufiifarsonal  reapecl  whidiy 
general] T  appaking.  1m.  dow  vst  vam^ 
mand;  or  of  ytartr  gratitude,  wiiidi 
he  has  done  littk'lo  deserve  on  the 
one  hand,  asd  so  motk  lo  fasAk  om 
the  other. 


THE  LX^GETB  Of  GlXTBArSEV. 
nOX  TltB  HKTQKT  07  THE  TWflUTB  CfVTlYT. 


It  was  a  beautiful  and  geoial  noon* 
tide  hour  in  J^la^r,  a^  the  bdb- 
beams  poured  ^onoosly  in  through 
the  narrow  Gothic  lattices  of  a  castle 
in  Wettenivia,  and  bri^rteaed  and 
gladdened  a  darkly  panelled  room, 
idomed  with  all  tike  neavy  nagnifi* 
cence  suitable  to  the  abode  of  a 
German  prince  in  the  twelfth 
tury.  Tne  massive  dbaini, 
and  armories,  were  elabomteiy  and 
grotesquely  carved;  the  taaestiy 
was  ample,  and  of  brilliant  ootoum ; 
there  were  some  chased  alver  v«Meb 

VOL.  XXXIH.  KO.  CXCIV. 


asnd  canddafara,  a  iewportrails  (snob 
as  in  these  dim  wir  idKmld  eall 
danbs),  ln*^ti<  ^nni  Hr  aaaour  and 
dames  grim  in  jev^els  and  minever* 
himg  about  the  walk:  but  there 
were  no  trophies  ol'  war  or  ol  tha 
chase.  Some  flowers  in  vases,  a 
lute,  and  two  or  thnsc  amall  and 
beaotifuliy  iUttmioaied  Alb^.  of  the 
German  Mimiestngere  iviug  open 
OB  a  table,  idiewod  that  tht;  prasidif ig 
gemns  there  was  feminine.  JLu  the 
middle  of  the  room  ateod  a  tapestnr 
ficaune,  and  the  aabjset  «tf '  the  wott 


140 


Vontemporaryyrators. 


[rebrttary, 


militant  orator  of  his  day.  When  he 
was  down  he  attackea  those  who 
were  uppermost ;  now  he  is  in  power, 
he  wages  perpetual  war  with  those 
who  are  out  Whether  attack- 
ing institutions  or  defending  them, 
however,  he  has  shewn  equal  abi- 
lity and  determination  to  conquer  at 
all  hazards.  When  he  was  a  Ra- 
dical, or  at  least  so  very  ultra  a 
Whig  that  the  steady  ones  of  the 
party  were  almost  ashamed  or  at 
least  afraid  of  him,  he  was  so  tho- 
roughly uncompromising  in  his  de- 
nunciations, that  Mr.  Duncombe, 
whom  he  is  now  nightly  striving  to 
extinguish  with  all  tne  awful  terrors 
of  law  and  order,  would  have  been 
by  his  side  but  a  mere  wretched  sha- 
dow of  a  demagogue.  In  fact,  we 
have  no  such  Kadicals  now  as  Sir 
James  was  then.  They  are  all  fat, 
jocular  men,  growing  wealthy  upou 
coronerships,  and  suchlike  abomina- 
tions; or  olas^  dandies  in  search  of 
an  excitement.  Some  of  the  speeches 
of  Sir  James  Graham,  whether  in 
parliament,  at  the  hustings,  or  at 
public  meetings,  at  the  time  referred 
to,  would  in  tne  present  day  be  ac- 
counted almost  too  bold  for  the  most 
determined  aspirant  for  the  honours 
of  political  martyrdom.  For  they 
were  unredeemed  by  the  philosophy 
of  liberalism ;  they  had  not  even  the 
dignity  and  tone  of  Chartism.  They 
were  simple,  unadulterated,  partisan 
speeches,  made  to  serve  a  purpose, 
and  forgotten  as  soon  as  uttered. 
But  about  their  talent  there  was 
no  mistake.  It  was  not  that  they 
were  distinguished  for  high  elo- 
quence, but  for  power  and  down- 
right hard  hitting.  They  gave  the 
speaker  a  claim  on  the  rising  party 
of  the  time ;  and  in  a  few  years  the 
^uoM-demagogue  shot  up  into  a  mi- 
nister. 

And  a  capital  minister  he  made. 
His  most  determined  enemies  do  not 
deny  this.  Whatever  may  be  thought 
of  Sir  James  Graham  as  a  politician, 
no  one  hesitates  to  admit  that  he  is  one 
of  the  best  administrative  officers  this 
country  has  for  many  years  produced. 
The  same  talent,  the  tact  and  apti- 
tude, which  had  made  him  so  clever 
an  assailant  of  the  former  govern- 
ment, rendered  him  immediately  fit 
for  office.  He  was  here,  as  before, 
^ual  to  his  position.  As  a  speaker 
m  behalf  of  the  government,  too,  he 


proved  himself  a  most  yaluable  ally, 
— turning  the  flank  of  his  quondam 
Radical  associates  with  provoking 
skill  and  unerring  precision.  Bat 
the  prior  claims  of  those  who  were 
already  designated  as  the  successon 
to  the  chief  posts  in  the  AMiig  partjr 
still  kept  Sir  James  in  the  oadL- 
ground,  and  forbade  the  ho^  of  hie 
taking  that  distinguished  poaition  for 
which  his  talents  and  ambitioii  alike 
indicated  him.  The  reoiganisatioa 
of  the  party  at  that  time,  and  their 
adoption  of  a  policy  of  dangerous 
progress,  afforded  an  opportanity  £ar 
a  cnanp^e ;  and  accordingly,  in  a  very 
short  time  we  find  Sir  James  Graham 
(after  a  short  time  spent  in  a  chry- 
salis state)  a  full-blown  Consen^- 
tive.  Here,  again,  he  was  fully  equal 
to  his  position ;  and  as  it  was  during 
the  long  and  glorious  struf^le  of  the 
Conservative  opposition  neaded  by 
Sir  Robert  Peel,  Ix)rd  Stanley,  and 
Sir  James  Graham,  that  the  latter 
made  his  best  speeches,  a  better  op- 
portunity cannot  be  taken  to  treat  of 
nis  peculiarities  as  an  orator — which 
was  the  part  he  then  laid  himself  oat 
to  fill — before  attempting  to  describe 
him  as  he  now  is  in  his  new  charac- 
ter of  repressor- general  of  the  insub- 
ordinates  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
or  *•*•  crusher*'-in-chief  to  the  ministry. 
The  Conservative  speeches  of  Sir 
James  Graham,  made  when  fighting 
side  by  side  with  Sir  Robert  Fed 
and  Lord  Stanley  against  the  Whigs, 
were  admirable  specimens  of  wmU 
may  be  done  by  highly  cultivated 
powers,  extensive  acquamtance  with 
the  best  models  of  eloquence,  perse- 
vering care,  and  elaborate  prepara- 
tion, Mrithout  oratorical  genius,  or 
that  earnestness  andsincenty  of  pur- 
pose which  will  often  advanta^- 
ously  supply  its  place.  Assummg 
them  to  nave  been  deliberately  got 
up  to  serve  a  certain  purpose,  it 
would  be  impossible  to  withhold  ad- 
miration from  the  power,  tact,  and 
aptitude,  with  which  the  means  were 
made  subservient  to  the  end.  Upon 
the  supposition  that  the  speaker  was 
really  sincere,  it  was  difficult  to  ac- 
count for  the  absence,  even  in  the 
most  solemn  appeals  to  the  religious 
feelings  of  the  auditory,  or  to  their 
cherished  constitutional  preposses- 
sions, of  those  touches  of  deep  feel- 
ing which  are  the  utterances  of  the 
soul,  not  the  promptings  of  art,  and 


1846.] 


The  Right  Hon.  Sir  Jatnes  Graham, 


141 


iviiicb  act  like  a  taliamaii  upon  the 
sypapatbies.    The  speeches  referred 
to  "vrere,  many  of  tnem,  soperior  aa 
cotnpositioiifi   to  thoae  of  bir   Bo- 
l>ert  Feel  or  Iiord  Stanley,  contain- 
ing more  of  the  great  ai^^ent  on 
wliich  the  whole  moyement  of  the 
Conaerratiye  party  was  baaed.    For, 
although  Sir  Jamea  Graham  evinces 
so  little  readiness  to  bend  his  will  to 
tliose  around  him,  he  shews  an  almost 
cliameleon-like  power  of  reflecting 
tbeir  sympathies,  opinions,  or  preju- 
dices.   They  were  m  this  respect  ad- 
xxiirable  manuals  for  the  party,  and 
no  doubt  did  good  service  m  the 
country.     But  the  impetuous  elo- 
quence of  Lord  Stanley,  and  the  ad- 
mirable persuasive  art  of  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  enabled  them  to  achieve  more, 
with  materials  which  in  justice  to 
Sir  James  Graham  we  must  admit 
vrere  not  superior  to  those  which  are 
to  be  found  in  his  speeches  of  that 
period.     What  detracted  trom.  the 
effect  of  the  declamatory  passages 
vraa  a  somewhat  pompous  and  stilted 
tone,  a  too  evident  affectation  of  so- 
lemnity and  earnestness ;  which  might 
have  l)een  partly  natural,  arising  from 
physical  causes,  and  therefore  not 
fairly  the  object  of  criticism,  though 
materially  marring  the  effect  of  the 
speeches.    But  allowing  for  all  these 
uefects,  they  were  yet  remarkable  ef- 
forts of  oratorical  skill,  which  raised 
Sir  James  to  a  level  with  the  b^t 
speakers  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
3.  he  exordiums  and  perorations  al- 
ways bore  marks  of  tne  most  careful 
preparation,  and  were  usually  models 
of  fane  composition ;  the  quotations 
were  most  apt,   and  often  from  re- 
condite sources ;  the  poetical  passages 
delivered  with  a  fine  emphasis  and 
full  appreciation  of  the  rhythm.    As 
a  debater,  rising  at  a  late  hour,  per- 
haps, to  reply  suddenly  to  the  ar- 
guments of  a  previous  speaker  or 
speakers,  where  the  novelty  of  the 
topics  precludes  all  preparation,  and 
the  real  powers  of  the  orator  are 
therefore  tried  to  the  utmost,  Sir 
James  shewed  himself  the  possessor 
of  the  very  highest  order  of  talent, — 
in  readiness  of  argument,  retentive- 
neas  of  memory,  suddenness  of  quo« 
tatiou,  quickness  of  retort,  in  invec- 
tive, sarcasm,  repartee,  declamation, 
he  was  seldom  or  never  at  &ult,  and 
was   always    the    antagonist    most 
dreaded  by  t|ie  miaiat^nu    F^rliaps 


one  reason  for  (his  might  be  the 
virulence  of  tone,  and  nnscmnulous- 
ness  in  the  use  of  weuxms,  or  which 
mention  has  already  been  made,  aa 
one  of  the  chief  fiiults  of  Sir  James 
Graham. 

But  all  these  successes  as  a  politi- 
cian, and  all  these  triumphs  as  a 
speaker,  will  not  account  for  or  justify 
the  assertion  with  which  thete  ob- 
servations commenced,  —  that  Sir 
James  Graham^s  influence  over  the 
House  of  Commons  is  only  second  to 
that  of  Sir  R.  Peel  or  Lord  John 
Russell.  For  influence  he  does  pos- 
sess, although  in  the  face  of  all  that 
has  been  here  said  to  his  disadvanta^ 
it  is  most  diflicult  to  trace  it  to  lU 
source,  seeing  that  there  is  no  uum 
in  the  house  who  appears  lesa  to 
court  popular  favour  than  Sir  James 
Graham.  Looking  back  at  his  career 
while  Joint  leader  of  the  Conservative 
opposition,  it  was  certainly  then  im* 
possible  to  predict  that  he  would 
dcvclope  into  the  sort  of  character 
he  has  exhibited  as  minister  and 
home  -  secretary.  Prominent  as  hk 
position  then  was,  he-  was  rather  the 
servitor  of  party  than  otherwise :  he 
never  assumed  to  take  the  lead*  Still 
less  would  you  have  supposed  that 
he  would  have  had  the  boldness  to 
flout  the  house  as  he  has  since  done ; 
or  so  ostentatiously  to  defy  the  sove- 
reign people  through  their  repre* 
sentati ves.  A 11  honour  to  him  for  hia 
courage,  though  it  might  have  been 
exercued  in  a  better  cause.  It  ia 
because  Sir  James  Graham  affects,  or 
really  feels,  an  indifference  to  the 
good  opinion  of  the  house,  that  they 
submit  so  spaniel-like  to  his  caprices 
or  his  studied  coldness  and  inmffer* 
ence,  and  pay  so  much  attention, 
often  so  much  deference,  to  hia 
opinion. 

A  hardness  and  impassibility  of 
temperament,  which  is  to  censure  or 
obloquy  as  adamant  or  rhinoceros* 
hide,  joined  to  a  wonderful  know- 
ledge of  human  nature,  great  talents, 
clear  perception,  readiness,  determi- 
nation of  purpose,  and  a  steady  re- 
solution to  seize  all  opportunities  9ad 
yield  none,  give  him  great  advantage 
m  an  assembly  where  the  average  of 
ability  is  not  above  mediocrity,  and 
where  there  are  so  few  who  have  the 
courage  or  feel  the  inclination  to 
stand  forth  as  champions.  With 
the  ej^ptk)n  of  Mr.  DuACombe,  Mr. 


1 846.] 


The  Legend  of  Gelnhausen, 


143 


cilious  expression  to  expand  into  a 
contemptuous  laugh,  and  so  sit  down 
again.  However,  such  things  not 
being  allowed  by  the  sovereign  peo- 
ple, and,  as  ministers,  however  des- 
{>otically  disposed,  must  answer  ques- 
tions, the  next  thing  to  be  accom- 
plished is  to  give  as  homoeopathic  a 
dose  of  information  as  possible,  con- 
veyed in  the  largest  possible  amount 
of  indifference,  superciliousness,  and 
wholesome  parliamentair  contempt. 
There  are  stereotyped  forms.  The 
initiated  know  almost  the  words. 
The  cool,  phlegmatic,  impassible  style 
is,  of  course,  peculiar  to  the  particu- 
lar Home  Secretary  of  whom  we 
speak.  His  idea  of  the  functions  of 
his  office  seems  to  be,  that  he  is  to 
exercise  the  utmost  possible  power 
with  the  least  possible  accountability. 
He  is  to  know  nothing,  see  nothing, 
do  nothing,  but  what  he  is  absolutely 
compellable  to  know,  see,  or  do.  If  the 
enemy  can  ferret  out  a  fact  and  prove 
it,  so  much  the  better  for  his  case. 
Then,  perhaps,  it  imy  be  admitted. 
But  the  usual  course  is  for  Sir  James, 
in  his  low,  monotonous  voice,  and 
steady  determined  manner,  to  give 
an  elaborate  formal  statement  of 
words,  with  as  few  facts  as  possible, 
and  leavius;  the  matter  as  nearly  as 
possible  where  he  found  it.  This 
course  has  its  advantage;  for  the 
questions  put  are  often  unmeaning, 
and  even  detrimental  to  the  public 
service.  Sometimes,  however,  mat- 
ters grow  more  serious.  The  cool, 
iiard,  impassible  functionary  is  com- 
pelled by  a  sense  of  duty  to  make  a 
more  elaborate  statement,  and  then 


it  is  you  perceive  his  superiority  as 
a  minister.  The  clearness,  firmness, 
extent  of  information,  and  sound 
knowledge  of  his  duty  he  displays, 
shew  him  to  be  not  deficient,  either 
in  act  or  in  explanation,  when  he 
thinks  it  necessary.  His  questioner 
is  then  put  hors  de  combat,  and  he 
himself  gets  a  sort  of  license  for  that 
superciliousness  and  apathetic  indif- 
ference to  popular  censure,  which  are 
so  fatally  ur^ed  to  his  prejudice.  In 
still  more  dubious  cases,  as^  for  in- 
stance, in  that  of  Mazzini,  Su:  James 
Graham  has  carried  this  impassibility 
and  indifference  to  an  insultmg  extent. 
If  he  believed  himself  right,  of  course 
he  shewed  great  moral  courage ;  but 
moral  coura^  in  a  bad  cause  is 
scarcely  distmguishable  from  ob- 
stinacy; and  Sir  James  Graham's 
conduct  in  that  case  laid  him  open 
to  great  obloquy,  much  of  which  was 
deserved.  Yet  the  determination  he 
shewed  under  such  circumstances 
rather  increased  than  diminished  his 
influence  with  the  house.  If  it  made 
him,  politically  speaking,  hated  by 
many,  it  also  made  nim  feared.  Sucn 
steady  self-possession,  joined  to  such 
talents  and  information,  and  to  such 
debating  powers  as  he  has  in  his 
former  career  displayed,  though  now 
he  rarely  exercises  them,  are  quite 
sufficient  to  account  for  that  influence 
which  we  have  ascribed  to  him ;  in 
the  absence  of  personal  respect  which» 
generally  speaking,  he  does  not  com- 
mand ;  or  of  party  gratitude,  which 
he  has  done  little  to  deserve  on  the 
one  hand,  and  so  much  to  forfeit  on 
the  other. 


THE  LEGEKD  OF  GELNHAUSEN. 


FROM  THE  UISTOBY  OF  THB  TWELFTH  CEKTUBT. 


It  was  a  beautiful  and  genial  noon- 
tide hour  in  May,  and  the  sun- 
beams poured  gloriously  in  through 
the  narrow^  Gothic  lattices  of  a  castle 
in  Wctteravia,  and  brightened  and 
gladdened  a  darkly  panelled  room, 
adorned  with  all  the  heavy  magnifi- 
cence suitable  to  the  abode  of  a 
German  prince  in  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury. The  massive  chairs,  tables, 
and  armories,  were  elaborately  and 
grotesquely  carved;  the  tanestry 
was  ample,  and  of  brilliant  colours ; 
there  were  some  chased  silver  vesselfl 

YOL.  XXXIU.  no.  CXCIY. 


and  candelabra,  a  few  portraits  (such 
as  in  these  days  wft^^hould  call 
daubs),  knights  grim  iflP  armour  and 
dames  grim  in  jewels  and  minever^ 
hung  about  the  walls;  but  there 
were  no  trophies  of  war  or  of  the 
chase.  Some  flowers  in  vases,  a 
lute,  and  two  or  three  small  and 
beautifully  illuminated  MSS.  of  the 
German  Minnesingers  lying  open 
on  a  table,  shewed  tnat  the  presicUng 
genius  there  was  feminine.  In  the 
middle  of  the  room  stood  a  tapestry 
frame,  and  the  subject  of  the  work 

L 


144 


The  Legend  of  Getnhdusen. 


[February, 


was  the  election  of  Frederic  (siir- 
named  Barbarossa),  when  Duke  of 
Swabia,  to  the  German  throne  of 
empire.  Beside  the  frame  sat  two 
fUir  crabroideresses,  but  neither  of 
them  working.  A  theme  of  interest 
had  absorbed  them  both,  and  they 
sat  with  the  needles  and  worsted  un- 
employed in  their  hands.  They 
were  Adelaide,  daughter  of  the 
reigning  Margrave  of  Vohberff,  and 
Gela,  her  attendant  and  friend,  nlling 
such  office  as  among  the  Grermans 
was  formerly  called  hammer  jungfer, 
and  among  the  French  dame  de  com- 
pagniej  for  Gela  was  the  daughter 
of  the  Margrave's  chief  forester,  and 
had  been  brought  up  with  the  prin- 
cess from  a  chud. 

Both  were  young,  but  the  princess 
was  a  year  or  two  the  elder;  both 
were  handsome,  but  Gela  was  the 
loveliest.  Adelaide  had  a  noble  pre- 
sence, she  felt  that  illustrious  blood 
flowed  through  her  veins,  and  she 
looked  "  every  inch  a  princess."  Her 
form  was  majestic,  her  eye  bright 
and  piercing,  her  beautiful  mouth 
Arm,  her  fine  forehead  open ;  she 
was  a  brilliant  and  lofty  brunette. 
Gela  was  all  grace,  all  symmetry, 
all  gentle  and  winning  beauty;  she 
did  not  command,  but  she  attracted ; 
her  eyes  were  blue  and  soft,  her  hair 
fair  and  wavy,  her  Avhite  forehead 
serene,  her  air  mild,  pure,  and 
holy.  She  had  not  the  majesty  of 
the  princess,  but  fthe  preserved  the 
aspect  of  Self-respect,  wnich  demands 
and  obtains  the  respect  of  others. 
She  was  sweetly,  touchingly  beauti- 
ful. The  princess  was  made  to  be 
admired,  but  Grela  to  be  loved.  He 
who  gazed  first  on  Adelaide  said  to 
himself,  **  Splendid,  glorious  woman !" 
But  when  he  turned  to  Gela  he 
said,  '*  Sweetest  and  loveliest  of  crea- 
tures !" 

The  tapestry  before  them  was  a 
favourite  task  df  Adelaide's,  but  they 
had  now  been  talking  too  intentlv  to 
work ;  their  theme  admitted  of  no 
concomitant  occupation.  It  was  the 
theme   of  deepest  interest  to   the 


young,  unshackled,  unwearied  spirit, 
for  it  was  of  love — ^it  was  the  tale  of 
Gala's  first  and  only  love. 

Those  are  happy  days  when  the 
young  fresh  affections  of  the  heart 
are  our  vil  of  life,  our  all  of  interest 
— when  our  study  is  not  wise  bo<^ 
but  living  looks  and  gesture  and 
we  become  ver^  learned  in  expres- 
sion, and  can  discriminate  its  yaziom 
shades ;  when  a  flower  is  a  treasure, 
an  hour  of  meeting  a  lifetime ;  when 
we  first  learn  the  poetry  of  life ;  when 
we  live  in  a  world  of  our  own  and 
people  it  with  our  own  cieations: 
then  we  are  so  easily  pleased,  so  un- 
selfish, so  benevolent ;  then  the  heart 
guides  the  head.     Alas,  how  ill-ex- 
changed for  later  times,  when  the 
head  controls  the  heart!  the  cool 
plodding  head,  perhaps  a  safer  guide 
than  the  warm  impulse-full    heart 
but  surely  a  less  amiable  one.     Ah ! 
we  are  to  be  pitied,  if  we  would  but 
own  it,  when  we  grow  old,  and  cold, 
and  wise — too  wise  to  be  pleased  with 
what  was  our  happiness  before,  when 
we  say  of  our  warm,  young,  kind 
feelings,  "  what  nonsense !"    and  of 
our  hoarded  relics,  "  what  ruhbish !" 
Then  the  world,  with  its  gnawing 
cares,  its  heartless  counsels,  and  its 
withering  experiences,  has  seared  as 
as  with  a  hot  iron ;  the  poetry  of  life 
has  fled.    We  think  ourselves  much 
wiser,  but  are  we  half  as  happy  ^ 
Nay,  are  we  half  as  amiable  ?  Traly 
and  touchingly  has  Schiller  sung, — 

*^  O  zarte  Selinsucht,  susses  HofieD, 
Der  ersten  Liebe  goldoe  zeit. 
Das  A  age  sieht  den  Himmel  ofien, 

£s  schn'elgt  das  Hertz  ia  SeligkeiL 
O,  dass  sie  ewig  grunea  bliebe. 
Die  schone  Zeit  der  jungen  Liebe.'** 
Das  Lied  um  der  Glockt. 

But  the  romance  of  life  was  only 
begimiing  for  Adelaide  and  Gela. 
The  one  was  pouring  out  the  secrets 
of  her  young  heart  to  the  other, 
who  was  worthy  of  the  confidence 
because  she  received  it  with  in- 
terest and  with  candour.  It  was 
when    they     had    sat    down     to 


*  "  Oh !  fondest  wishes,  sweetest  hopes  ! 

First-love's  own  golden  age  is  this ; 
When  on  the  eye  all  heaven  opes, 

And  the  heart  revels  in  iU  bliss. 
Oh  !  that  it  ever  green  could  pro?e« 
The  joyous  spring  of  early  lote.** 


1846.1 


The  Legend  of  Otlnhausen. 


US 


work    that    day   that    Gela,    with 
painfully  hurning  cheeks,  and  avert- 
ed   eyes,   and   stammering   uncon- 
nected words,  had  hegged  ner  noble 
mistress*  and  friend*s  attention;  she 
had  something  to   say  which  her 
conscience  told  her  ought  not  to  he 
concealed ;  it  was  a  great  exertion 
to  speak  of  it, — ^indeed  she  could  not 
to  any  other  but  to  one  to  whom  she 
owed  so  much  as  the  Princess  Ade- 
laide, and  to  her  she  felt  that  she 
owed  the  confession.    It  was  a  fort- 
night since,  a  warm,  beautiful  even- 
ing ;  she  had  gone  out  alone  to  enjoy 
the  balmy  air;   she  wandered  to  a 
favourite  spot — the  princess  knew  it 
well— the  outskirt  or  the  neighbour- 
ing forest,  where  the  little  rountain 
played.     She  had  sat  down  under  the 
shadow  of  a  tree,  and  she  knew  not 
how  long  she  had  been  there  when 
she  heard  a  brisk  footstep  in  the 
forest,  a  rustling  among  the  under- 
wood, a  light  half-hummed  song.   A 
man  in  the  garb  of  a  hunter,  fol- 
lowed   by  a   powerful    dog,   burst 
through  the  trees  and  came  towards 
the  fountain.    She  thought  at  first 
it  was  one  of  the  foresters,  but  a 
glance  shewed  her  it  was  a  stranger, 
a  handsome,  young,  and  gallant-look- 
ing man.     When  he  approached  her 
he  removed  his  hunter  s  cap  with  a 
graceful  courtesy,  and  went  to  the 
fountain  to  drink.    He  was  about  to 
take  the  water  from  the  hollow  of 
his  hand,  but  she  thought  it  were 
churlish  not  to  shew  him  where  the 
wooden  bowl  for  the   use   of  the 
wayfiirer  was  deposited  in  a  niche. 
He  thanked  her — it  was  in  courtly 
phrase,   not  like  the   pliun  coun- 
try speech;  and  she  was  sure  he 
must  be  a  stood  man,  for  he  re- 
membered  tne   need  of  his  pant- 
ing dog,  and  save  it  drink  irom  the 
bowl  also.     He  asked  her  of  the 
country,  as  a  stranger  would ;  of  its 
fertilitv,  of  its  beauties;  of  the  no- 
bles, tneir  castles,  and  their  towns ; 
of  the  peasants  and  their  villages ; 
were  the  people  happy,  their  feudal 
yoke  light,  and  their  wants  supplied. 
She  saw  that  the  strai^ier  was  m  tone 
and  air  superior  to  all  whom  the  had 
seen ;  even,  she  thought— she  said  it 
with  hesitation — soperior  to  the  no- 
bles who  came  to  the  Margrave's 
eistle;    none  ^   even   theaiy   sbe 
thought,  had  so  lofty  a  bearing.   She 

ym  sure  he  was  aooie  gdhmt  war* 


rior ;  and  be  Was  very  handsiMDe,  fair, 
and  ruddy,  with  open,  speaking,  bine 
eyes,  an  expansive  forehead,  laige 
and  nobly  formed  nose,  full  and  firm 
mouth,  but  the  sweetest,  the  most 
eloquent  of  smiles.     They  parted, 
and  she  knew  not  whither  he  went; 
and  by  some  means,  she  could  not 
tell  how — certsmly  it  was  not  by 
agreement,  it  was  by  a  strange  aeci- 
dent — ^the  next   evening  they  met 
agam  at  the  same  spot,  and  then  the 
next  evening,  and  again  the  next; 
and  then  she  owned  it  seemed  as  if 
there  was  a  tacit  understandhiff  that 
they  should  thus  meet,  though  in- 
deed, in  very  truth,  such  appointment 
was  never  made  in  words;  and  now 
she  confessed  they  lingered  long  to- 
gether.   He  told  her  of  fonngn  lands, 
he  sang  to  her  in  a  melodious  voice 
the  lays  of  the  Minnesinsers,  and  be 
began  to  talk  to  her  of  love ;  but  it 
was  so  delicately,  it  seemed  at  first 
more  by  implication  than  in  expreas 
terms;  and  his  look,  his  empfaaaia, 
his  voice,  they  had  sunk  into  her 
heart,  and  fixed  themselves  on  her 
memoiy,  as  never  aught  bad  done 
before  or  oonld  again.     Tea,  even- 
ing after  evening  they  had  aat  toge- 
ther beside  the  fbnntain,  sometimes 
speaking  from  full  and  outponrine 
hearts,  sometimes  in  a  sflenoe  whien 
in  itself  was  eknnenoe — ^a  stlenee  in 
which  it  seemea  to  each  that  the 
other  read  their  rapid  and  voaodeas 
thon^ta,  and  understood  them  better 
than  if  they  had  been  obscnred  and 
impeded  by  inadequate  speech. 

**Tes,  Gela,  now  I  am  sure  you 
are  lovers.  Yon  have  both  learned 
a  great  mystery  in  love ;  it  is  that 
the  moments  yon  spend  tMKther  in 
silence  are  not  wasted.  They  are 
moments  of  conoeDtratioD,  and  devo- 
tion, and  earnest  feeling,  that  knit 
hearts  more  closely  together  than  a 
fluent  stream  of  the  dioieest  woids. 
Ay,  and  memory  loves  to  dwell  on 
such  silent  heartfelt  momenta  better 
than  on  the  moat  aideot  vows.  Bat 
rtho  Is  the  stranger?  7%a^  c^toaxwe, 
he  has  told  you  long  ere  tins.** 

Gela  looked  down,  and  crimsoned, 
and  heatated.  ** Do  not  chide  me; 
but  in  sooth  I  know  not.** 

•'Footidi  girir  said  die  prineea^ 
in  some  dimeaaure.  **Wcis]d  yon 
riak  your  nappiacaa,  perii^  your 
good  feme,  with  an  unknown  wlw 

mybcall  fomettkr yvu-^m  iA> 


146 


The  Legend  of  Gelnhausen. 


[February, 


venturer,  an  outlaw,  or  the  husband 
of  another?'* 

*'Nay,  hear  me,"  expostulated 
Gela.  *'  I  have  striven  to  learn  his 
name,  and  state,  and  lineage ;  but  he 
has  repelled  my  questions,  mildly 
and  courteously,  vet  firmly.  He  says 
time  will  reveal  him  to  mc,  when  I 
need  not  blush  for  my  lover ;  but  he 
says  the  time  is  not  yet.  Unworthy  I 
am  sure  he  is  not,  for  his  brow  is 
serene.  Ids  eve  is  cloudless ;  he  bears 
no  mark  of  painful  thought  or  ap- 
prehension ;  his  step  is  free,  his  au: 
undaunted.  I  think  myself  he  looks 
like  some  gallant  warrior,  who,  if  not 
now,  will  yet  become  a  hero.** 

**Ah,  &ela,**  said  the  princess, 
"  all  is  not  well  here !  The  very  first 
thing  that  true  love  establishes  be- 
tween two  innocent  hearts  is  a  full 
and  unrestrained  confidence.  I  am 
sure  you  have  poured  out  to  him  all 
your  simple  history,  and  that  of  your 
grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  to 
say  nothing  of  all  your  pets  dead 
and  living.  I  suspect,  greatly  sus- 
pect this  man,  who  would  g^ain  your 
ueart  and  will  not  tell  you  in  whose 
keeping  it  may  be.  Love  brin^  not 
only  confidence  but  often  indiscre- 
tion ;  and  if  he  had  not  some  weighty 
secret  to  conceal,  under  the  softening 
influence  of  lovers*  interviews  his  re- 
serve must  have  relaxed.  Has  he 
dropped  nothing  by  which  you  can 
learn  at  least  his  name  ?** 

**  He  bade  me  call  him  Hermann.** 
And  Gela  thrilled  as  she  repeated 
the  name,  which,  like  a  miser,  she 
had  hoarded  up  for  her  own  gratifi- 
cation alone. 

"  Hermann  ?    What  else  ?*' 

"  I  know  not.  Forgive  me,  but  I 
know  only  that  I  have  never  seen 
one  like  huu,  never  heard  one  whose 
voice  is  such  music  to  my  ear,  nor 
ever  can  again.** 

The  princess  sighed;  she  deeply 
feared  for  Grela*s  peace ;  and  she  au- 
gured no  good  from  the  mysterious 
lover,  who  might  in  those  days  have 
been  believed  to  be  Btibezahl,  the 
mountain  demon,  or  some  forest 
spirit,  who  came  in  semblance  of  a 
hunter  at  the  sunset  hour  to  mock 
the  credulous  mortal  maiden.  Long 
and  earnestly  did  Adelaide  reason 
with  the  playmate  of  her  childhood, 


the  companion  of  her  riper  years, 
beseeching  her  to  take  heed  bow  she 
too  lightly  bestowed  her  afifections  on 
one  who  might  leave  her  to  sorrow 
and  to  blight.  She  added  that  she 
would  stretch  her  authority  to  save 
her  friend ;  and  by  that  authority 
she  commanded  Gela  to  dismiss  bt^r 
mysterious  lover  from  her  presence, 
and  even  from  her  thoughts,  unles 
he  at  once  consented  to  discover  him- 
self to  her.  And  it  was  arranged 
that  Gela  should  once  more  meet 
him  that  evening  at  the  accustomed 
place — once  more,  and  for  the  last 
time,  if  he  continued  enveloped  in 
the  same  cloud  of  mystery.  Never 
again  could  Gela,  the  young,  the 
pure,  the  beautiful,  look  upon  an 
unknown  and  unconfiding  suitor. 

Gela*s  instinct  told  her  that  her 
noble  mistress  judged  rightly;  her 
tender,  feeling  heart  gained  strength 
from  rectituae,  and  she  determined 
on  the  sacrifice  of  her  love,  if  sacri- 
fice was  necessary  to  her  duty. 

There  was  a  pause  for  awhile  be- 
tween these  two  noble  maidens ;  the 
one  noble  from  birth,  and  both  from 
mind.    At  length  the  princess  spoke. 

"Think  not,  Gela,  that  I  am 
cold  and  stern  to  you  because  I  have 
no  sympathy  with  your  feelings. 
Your  confidence  in  me,  dear  maiden, 
deserves  a  return,  and  I  will  own  to 
ou  that  I  have  loved.     I  do  love. 

ut  sec !  I  do  not  crimson  or  hesi- 
tate as  you  did,  silly  Gela ;  for  mine 
is  a  hiffh,  a  proud  love,  worthy  of 
my  birtli  and  ancestry,  such  as  the 
world  may  hear  from  me  Mdthout  a 
blush.  It  is  no  love  for  hawthorn 
glades,  and  lovely  vales,  and  rivulets* 
banks — it  is  a  love  for  courts  and  pa- 
laces. I  have  been  silent  over  it, 
not  from  shame, — that  fits  not  with 
the  love  of  such  as  I  am ;  but  be- 
cause I  delighted  to  brood  over  my 
glorious  and  honourable  love  ahme — 
uninterrupted,  undivided,  undisturb- 
ed. Grela,  I  love  no  tributary  prince, 
no  mere  feudal  lord,  no  mere  half- 
proud  noble — my  love  is  given  to 
Frederic  Barbarossa,*  the  young,  the 
brilliant,  the  glorious  emperor,  and, 
let  me  proudly  say  it,  my  cousin.*' 

Gela  looked  up  with  a  gesture  of 
suri)rise.    Adelaide  continued : — 

"Ay,  girl,  I    love  the  imperial 


***  Sv  called  by  Uii  Italian  snbjectf,  from  t)je  golden  colour  of  bis  beard  and  bair. 


1846.] 


The  Legend  of  OelnhauseM* 


147 


Prederic.    It  is  not  for  his  person, 
handsome  though  he  be ;  it  is  not  for 
his  accomplishments,  tliough  a  grace- 
ful knight  in  the  tonmay  and  the 
dance,    a    keen   hunter,   a    skilful 
troubadour ;    it  is  for  his  statesman- 
like genius,  his  warrior  deeds,  his 
gallant  daring,  his  noble  mind,  the 
Frpirit  to  conquer  kingdoms,  and  the 
intellect  to  sway  them.    Gela,  I  was 
at  Frankfort  when  Emperor  Conrad 
called  together  the  Stat^  and  caused 
them  to  elect  to  the  throne  Frederic 
duke  of  Swabia,  his  nephew,  in  pre- 
ference to  his  own  son,  because  he  was 
the  greatest,  the  most  gifted  of  the  Ger- 
man princes^     Can  there  be  higher 
t€stimony  to  his  merits  than  that  a 
father  elevated  him  above  his  son? 
I  saw  the  all-acknowledged  hero,  and 
I  loved  him, — not  as  love-smitten 
maidens  of  low  degree  profess  to  love 
a  man,  for  himself  alone ;  I  loved 
him  not  merely  for  what  he  was,  but 
for  what  he  had  achieved — not  as 
Frederic  of  Hohenstauffen,  but  as 
Frederic  the  Emperor.    There  were 
/ikes  followed  that  election ;  my  im- 

Srial  cousin  was  often  at  my  side* 
e  rode  by  my  palfrey's  rein  in 
stately  pageants;  he  wore  my  co- 
lours in  the  lists.  I  bestowed  on  him 
the  prize  of  the  jousts ;  we  held  to- 

f^ther  high  and  proud  communings, 
thought  his  spirit  understood  mine ; 
I  thought  he  recognised  in  me  one 
who  would  encourage  him  along  the 
paths  of  glory,  and  be  eager  to  do 
iiomage  to  his  genius — one  who  would 
forget  herself  to  study  his  fame,  and 
whose  never-relaxing  aim  should  be 
to  have  it  inscribed  upon  her  tomb 
that  she  had  been  the  war&iy  wife  of 
Frederic  the  Emperor.  Ah,  Gela! 
in  those  happy  oays  of  our  inter- 
coune  I  thought  that  he  loved  me. 
I  think  so  still;  for  I  felt  that  I 
alone  of  all  the  simpering,  smooth- 
faced damsels  assembled  there — I 
alone  was  worthy  of  him ;  and  his 
instinct  must  have  told  him  so.  Yes, 
I  still  believe  that  he  loved  me  then, 
and  he  may  love  me  again.  Though 
the  cares  of  empire  may  have  over- 
clouded my  remembrance  for  awhile, 
yet  he  \oUl  recollect  me,  and  will 
come  to  seek  me.  Look  at  the 
tapestry  on  which  we  have  both 
worked  !  I  loved  to  portra;^  that 
gorgeous  scene  when  Frederic  my 
cousin  was  named  emperor.  I  live 
in  an  exciting  dream  of  empire,  of 


nations  wisdyaw^  ofipe^  made 
happy  and  virtuous,  of  «^«^ 
eonnselsy  josi  wars,  unsullied  vic- 
tories. Such  a  dream  is  my  birth- 
right, and  its  realisation  is  due  to  my 
own  energetic  spirit.  And  it  is  tbe 
more  my  due,  that,  loving  Frederic  as 
I  do — believing  as  I  do  that  I  coukl 
add  to  his  splendonr  abroad  and  his 
happiness  at  nome,  yet,  were  it  need- 
ful to  his  wel&re,  1  feel  thai  I  eonld 
relinquish  him,  even  in  the  midst  of 
saocessful  love  and  gratified  ambition, 
— in  the  midst  of  joy,  pride,  hap- 
piness, and  splendour.  But  cOt 
Gela,  go  meet  your  lover — lor  the 
last  time,  if  it  most  be  so;  and  be 
yon  as  prompt  as  I  would  be  to 
sacri^e  love  for  hoooor.  It  is  nol 
merely  the  high-born  from  whom 
high  feeling  is  xequired:  eveiy  wo- 
man, whatever  be  her  rank,  ought  to 
be  princess  and  heroine  to  herself;  if 
not,  she  is  only  saved  from  laUii^  by 
the  absence  of  temptation.  Go,  Gela, 
and  if  you  mmd  renounce  your  lover, 
remember,  the  more  beloved  the  more 

meritorious  is  the  sacrifice  !** 

«  »  •  * 

The  sun  was  near  its  settmg;  there 
was  a  ioyotts>  ||olden  lu^t  shed  all 
over  tne  beaatifiil  lan&ape.  The 
background  was  a  forest,  mi  not  a 
breaSi  stirred  the  fresh,  yonng,  green 
leaves  of  the  fine  old  trees — ^not  a 
breath  disturbed  the  straight  otdumn 
of  thin  blue  smoke  that  revealed 
where  the  forester's  lodne  la^  hid- 
den amid  the  foliaee  in  the  distance. 
In  the  foregrounS  the  trees  stood 
more  apart  and  shewed  thelnxnriant 
grass  beneath  them,  where  myriads 
of  wild  hyacinths  made  their  deep 
blue  the  predominating  colour,  edips- 
ing  the  green  of  the  natural  carpet. 
To  the  right  the  ground  rose  hi^h 
and  rocky,  and  was  crowned  with 
ancient  pine-trees;  and  there,  in  a 
sheltery  nook,  a  crystal  rill,  welling 
from  among  mossy  cra|^  fell  with  a 
soft,  g^gling  murmur  mto  a  reser- 
voir of  rudely  hewn  stone,  and  thence 
stole  away,  amid  sedges  and  water- 
flowers,  to  mingle  vrith  the  river 
Kinzig,  whose  waters  glittered  in  the 
distance.  Behind  the  little  rustic 
fountain  was  a  stone  cross»  and  beside 
it  rude  stone  seats  covered  with  moss 
and  lichens.  And  there  were  over- 
hanging trees  above,  and  grass  and 
primroses  below,  and,  scattered  near, 
a  few  magnificent  old  hawthom^treeflt 


148 


The  legend  of  Oelnhausen. 


[Febrntry, 


one  sheet  of  snowy  blosaom,  and 
loiyding  the  air  ¥rith  their  most  ex- 
quisite fraffrance. 

Beside  tne  fountain  sat  Gela,  beau- 
tiful as  its  guardian  Naiad.  But, 
like  a  damsel  of  the  earth,  she  was 
nwking  a  semblance  of  employment, 
for  her  fingers  held  a  distan,  but  the 
thread  was  often  broken  and  en* 
tangled,  as  with  furtive  glances  she 
was  w^^ching  the  neighbouring  glade. 

There  was  a  rustling,  crashing  step 
in  the  forest.  GeWs  heart  beat 
Quick,  her  cheeks  crimsoned,  her 
lingers  trembled  on  the  distaff;  a 
dear,  sweet  voice  hummed  a  lively 
song,  and  in  a  moment  more  Her- 
mann emerged  from  the  trees.  His 
step  was  elastic,  his  figure  graceful, 
his  air  alert  and  eager ;  but  with  all 
his  even  boy- like  buoyancy  there 
was  an  air  of  greatness  about  him 
that  caused  the  nassing  peasant  to 
doff  his  cap  to  tne  stranger  in  his 
jfiger  garb.  He  came  to  the  fountain, 
took  Gela*s  hand  in  his ;  the  greeting 


a  silent  one.  He  turned  to  the 
pellucid  water,  drank,  and  scattered 
a  few  drops  on  the  ground. 

^  Thus,  my  Gela,"  said  he, ''  thus 
I  pour  a  grateful  libation  to  the  ge- 
nius of  the  place  where  I  first  beheld 
you!" 

The  dog,  as  he  spdce,  sprang  upon 
Gela,  fawned  on  ner,  and  shewed 
that  he  had  made  acouaintance  with 
her.  Gela  and  her  lover  sat  down 
i^n  the  stone  seat ;  for  awhile  they 
were  silent.  Gela  tried  to  conquer 
her  blush  and  tremor  by  caressing 
the  dog;  Hermann  gazed  on  her 
with  earnest  and  admiring  eyes.  How 
often  an  eloquent  silence  is  broken 
by  some  awkward  and  unbefitting 
phrase,  the  offspring  of  embamuBS- 
ment  I  And  Gela*s  first  words  were 
oommonplaoe  enough,— 

"  How  beautiful  is  this  spot !  how 
■weet  tiiis  hour ! " 

<' Beautiful,  beautiful  I"  he  re- 
plied, but  looking  at  Gela  rather 
than  at  the  landscape.  "  It  u  a 
sweet  lumr,  a  beauteous  scene ;  and 
such  alone  are  meet  for  the  time  and 
place  of  the  birth  of  Love.  Love 
will  not  spring  into  life  amid  com- 
monplaces. Who  can  fimcy  the  birth 
>f  LK>ve  amid  miry  or  dusty  streets, 

Tdid  habitations,  or  the  haunts  of 

'mmon  ?    Love  mat/,  indeed,  exist 

mch  places  (for,  well  tended,  he 

live  any  where),  but  his  cradle 


must  be  in  far  different  scenes, — in 
such  oiUv  as  the  poet  and  the  painter 
would  select.  Amid  the  drab  colours 
of  life,  some  half-brother  or  kinsman 
of  Love  (with  a  strong  family  resem- 
blance) may  be  brought  forth,  such 
as  LiMng,  Fancy,  Preference ;  but 
not  the  true  divinity  himself."" 

"  I  fear  me,"  said  Gela,  as  some- 
thing of  a  jealous  pang  shot  through 
her  heart,  "  I  fear  me  you  are  even 
over-well  skilled  in  the  science  of 
love!" 

"  You  mean,  Gela,  that  you  think 
me  false, — that  I  have  been  a  suitor 
to  many  a  fair  one  ere  now !  Hear 
me,  and  believe  me.  I  may  have 
fiuttered  among  the  lovely  and  the 
young ;  I  have  admired,  I  have  pre- 
ferred; but  I  have  never  loved  till 
now — never  have  I  knelt  with  true 
devotion  but  at  the  altar  of  my  Ha- 
madryad, my  forest  nymph.  Will 
you  not  believe  me,  Grela?" 

"  How  can  I  believe  without 
proof?" 

"  Demand  your  proof." 

"I  do."  Ste  looked  down.  '^The 
proof  is  this :  tell  me,  at  least,  who 
you  are." 

"  Grela,  do  not,  do  not,  in  pity  to 
me  and  to  yourself,  ask  me  yet.  I 
vjUI  reveal  it,  but  not  yet." 

'*  Alas,  alas ! "  sighed  Gela,  wring- 
ing her  hands. 

"  Nay,  it  is  no  dishonourable  se- 
cret. The  time  will  come  when  yoa 
wHl  be  proud  of  your  lover,  l  do 
but  conceal  myself  until  you  have 
become  accustomed  to  me — let  me 
hope,  attached  to  me — too  long,  too 
wol  to  renounce  me." 

'^  Ah,  then  I  should  renounce  you 
iflknew^rou?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  knew  me  ere  you 
loved  me  well.  An  idle  punctilio 
might  nip  a  budding  hope.  When 
you  can  and  will  promise  to  love  me 
for  ever,  then  I  will  reveal  mysdf."* 

Gela's  recUtude  was  all  awakened, 
and  she  r^[)lied, — 

*'  It  were  unmeet  for  an  honour- 
able maiden  to  make  such  promise  to 
a  stranger,  in  the  brain-sick  hope 
that  he  might  prove  to  be  the  dis- 
guised prince  of  some  minstrd  ro- 
mance. Stranger,  since  stranger  you 
must  and  will  be  to  me,  here,  then, 
we  part ! " 

"  Ay,"  said  Hermann,  with  some 
bitterness,  **  I  knew  that  curiosity— 
the  curse  our  mother  Eve  has  left 


1346,] 


The  Legend  of  O^lnhausen, 


149 


nQpn  her  daii|hters — ^wonld  tempt 
you  to  the  fruit  of  knowledge,  and 
like  her  you  sacrifice  your  &en  to 
curiosity  f " 

''Do  not  pall  a  maiden's  self- 
respect  curiosity/'  replied  Gela, 
gravely  but  gently.  "  Cqnic,  let  us 
reason  upon  it ;  and,  if  you  love  me, 
you  will  not  be  unjust  to  me." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his,  yet  with 
timidity,  and  spoke  earnestly  with 
him,  in  soft,  and  sweet,  and  tender 
tones.  She  told  him  of  her  obliga- 
tions to  the  Princess  Adelaide,  ana  of 
the  just  authority  by  which  that 
noble  lady  forbade  her  farther  inter- 
course with  a  mysterious  suitor.  She 
spoke  to  him  the  language  of  her 
own  pure  feelings;  she  pleaded  the 
cause  of  her  own  honour ;  she  ap- 
pealed to  his.  AVould  he  value  her 
affections  were  they  won  as  a  maiden's 
ought  not  to  be  ?  So  firmly  yet  so 
sently  did  she  speak,  that  Ilermann 
felt  he  must  yield.  Yet  he  grieved, 
and  a  keen  pang  mingled  with  his 
passionate  love.  He  icared,  he  ex- 
pected to  lose  her  by  the  revelation ; 
out  he  saw  that  he  should  equally 
lose  her  by  concealment. 

*'  If  you  will  it  so  absolutely,  Gela, 
it  must  be  so,  and  you  shaU  know 
your  lover.  But  think  a  moment. 
Wm  you  not  give  me  a  little  time  ? 
Do  you  not  know  that  mystery  is  an 
attendant  upon  love  ?" 

"  Mystery  to  the  world,  perhaps," 
said  she, ''  but  not  to  each  other.  I 
have  ever  deemed  that  the  greatest 
charm  of  love  was  tlie  fullness  of 
confidence,  the  entire  oneness  between 
those  whom  love  unites." 

Hermann  sighed,  and  there  was  a 
pause.    Gela  rose  to  leave  him. 

''  Farewell,  Hermann !  Here  we 
first  met,  and  here  we  must  part. 
In  your  path  of  life,  whatever  it  may 
be,  but  necessarily  more  full  of  occu- 
pation than  mine,  yoii  may  look  back 
sometimes,  amid  the  pleasures  and 
the  toils  of  your  career,  upon  these 
last  few  evening  hours  as  an  amuse- 
ment, but  I  must  learn  tp  believe 
them  but  a  dream." 

Hermann  started  up,  and  walked  a 
short  space  in  deep  thought.  Gela 
lingcreu  still.  At  last  he  turned  to 
her, — 

^  Gela,  have  yon  ever  heard  the 
story  of  Semele?" 

"  I  have.  The  princess  and  I  have 
worked  it  }n  tapestry ;  and  when  we 


begap  the  work,  slie  read  it  to  me 
Euns  it  not  somewhat  thus?  —  Se- 
mele  was  beloved  by  Jupiter  in  dis- 
guise, but  she  desired  to  behold  him 
m  his  own  due  resemblance ^" 

"  Ay,"  interrupted  Hermann, 
"  and  when  he  appeared  as  she  com- 
pelled him,  in  his  proper  majesty, 
the  celestial  fire  that  played  around 
him  consumed  the  indiscreet  and  too 
curious  Semele." 

Gela  laughed,  for  she  thought  Her- 
mann spoke  too  vauntingly,  and  was 
tryins  to  intimidate  her. 

"  n  were  better  to  plunge  into  the 
waters  of  this  fountain  than  to  abide 
the  consuming  fire  of  your  unveiling." 
But  she  added,  ipore  gravely,  "  If 
Semele  had  been  always  true  to  her- 
self, she  would  have  borue  about 
with  her  a  talisman  that  would  have 

f  reserved  her  through  the  fiery  trial, 
await  your  revelation.'* 

"  No,  Gela,  not  here.  I  will  not 
tell  you  where,  but  it  shall  be  to- 
morrow evening,  and  about  this  hour* 
You  have  vowed  never  to  see  me 
here  again  as  the  Unknown,  but  when 
I  have  ceased  to  be  a  stranger,  you 
nuut  come  here  once  more,  if  it  be 
but  owes." 

He  went  to  the  trunk  of  a  tree 
overgrown  with  ivy;  he  gathered 
the  fairest  spray,  wreathed  it  into  ^ 
chaplet,  and  returned  to  Gela. 

*^  My  Gela !  my  own  and  only 
love !  take  this  wreath,  the  only 
offering  that  the  obscure  Ilermanu 
may  make  to  you :  the  time  will 
oomc  when  I  can  present  a  gift  more 
worthy  of  you  and  of  myself;  but 
take  this  now,  and  wxar  it  round 
your  brows  at  this  hour  to-morrow 
evening.  I  trust  in  it  as  a  talisman 
that,  vmen  next  we  mucet,  it  will  re- 
mind you  of  the  favourite  spot  where 
it  was  gathered,  the  happy  hours 
that  we  have  spent  together,  the  deep 
and  earnest  love  of  him  who  pre- 
sented it  to  you.  The  remembrance 
will,  perlians,  influence  your  heart, 
and  you  wul  still  love  me  as  Her' 
mann  would  be  loved." 

Gela  took  the  wreath  and  made  a 
gesture  of  compliance,  but  her  eye? 
were  full  of  tears,  and  she  felt  that  if 
she  spoke  her  voice  would  falter. 
Hermann  took  her  hand,  and  sunk 
upon  his  knee  before  her.  One  long 
kiss  he  impressed  upon  her  hand ;  it 
was  the  furat,  and  she  did  not  repel  it, 
for  she  felt  it  might  be  the  last.    F 


150 


The  Legend  of  Oelnhausen. 


[February, 


sprang  up,  turned  away,  and  plunced 
hastily  into  the  forest  glade,  while 
Gela  returned  sadly  and  slowly  to 
the  castle. 

♦  41  ♦  « 

Again  the  bright  noon-day  sun 
illuminated  the  stately  apartment  of 
the  princess.  Again  Adelaide  and 
Gela  sat  together,  and  the  em- 
broidery-frame stood  beside  them, 
but  unemployed.  Gela  had  told  her 
noble  friend  all  that  it  imported  her 
to  know,  that  the  mysterious  Her- 
mann had  promised  to  make  himself 
known  to  her  on  the  evening  of  that 
present  day,  but  how  or  where  she 
Knew  not.  Of  all  else  that  had  passed 
between  them  she  said  nothing — no- 
thing of  the  ivy  wreath,  nothing  of 
the  allusion  to  Semele ;  but  her  re- 
serve sprang  from  delicacy  of  feeling, 
not  from  want  of  candour :  that 
which  is  disingenuousness  in  friend- 
ship is  but  delicate  reserve  in  love. 
The  princess,  with  a  cordial  interest, 
was  pondering  over  the  promised  re- 
velation. 

"  He  is  a  strange  man,  Gela.  Will 
he  suddenly  appear  in  the  castle-hall 
mounted  on  a  winged  fiery  dragon, 
like  an  enchanter  of  romance?  or 
will  he  come  an  armed  knight,  with 
vizor  down,  and  bid  us  guess  his 
name  and  lineage  by  the  device  on 
his  shield  and  the  crest  on  his  helmet  P 
May  he,  at  least,  nrove  worthy  of 
the  smile  of  his  laay  fair !  But,  in 
sooth,  Gela,  you  look  as  sad  as  if  you 
thought  never  to  smile  again  !'* 

At  that  moment  a  page  entered, 
and  presented  a  letter  to  the  princess 
with  all  the  due  ceremonials  of  re- 
spect. She  hastily  cut  the  silken 
string  that  was  knotted  around  it; 
as  she  read  her  eyes  sparkled,  her 
colour  heightened ;  she  sprans;  from 
her  chair,  sat  down  again,  and  made 
gestures  of  a  a  joyful  emotion. 

**  He  is  coming,  Gela !  he  is  coming ! 
I  am  so  happy !  I  jessed  rightly ; 
I  have  deserved  him,  and  he  has 
remembered  me,  even  among  all  the 
cares  of  an  empire.  He  is  coming, 
and  surely  it  is  for  my  sake  he  comes. 
I  am  so  happy !  "Vvhy  do  not  you 
rejoice  mth  me,  girl  P" 

Poor  Gela,  utterly  confounded, 
could  just  utter, — 

"  Who  P" 

**  Who,  dull  one !  but  the  emperor  ? 

t  roe  proudly  say  my  cousin ;  and, 

I,  perhaps,  soon  to  say  more  proudly, 


my  Frederic!  But  I  must  collect 
myself  and  speak  coherently.  This 
letter  is  from  the  margrave,  my 
father,  now  at  the  temporary  court 
at  Mtihlberg.    My  father  tells  me, 

greeting,  that  the  emperor  has  sud- 
enly  signified  his  pleasure  to  visit 
this  castle,  and  that  this  evening— 
this  happy  evening,  Gela,  he  comes 
hither,  accompanied  by  my  father, 
and  attended  by  a  small  train !  This 
evening !  Ah,  a  gleam  of  light  shoots 
across  my  mind  I  Is  it  not  tkix  even- 
ing your  Hermann  has  promlsK?d  to 
reveal  himself P  I  have  it!  he  be- 
longs to  the  imperial  court,  and  comes 
hither  in  Fre^eric^s  train ;  and  if 
so,  he  must  be  an  honourable  man, 
and  one  deserving  of  you,  Gela^ 
Let  us  congratulate  each  other,  we 
shall  both  be  happy  together." 

And  she  kindly  clasped  the  hand 
of  her  humble  friend,  who  stood 
trembling  and  pale,  for  her  emotion 
had  in  it  less  of  confident  feeling 
than  that  of  the  princess.  Adelaide 
hoped  every  thing,- but  GeltL /eared 
much.  Then  they  separated,  the 
princess  to  give  orders  for  the  em- 
peror's reception,  and  Gela  to  retire 
to  her  own  apartment  to  muse  on 
the  approaching  event.  She  felt 
little  doubt  that  she  should  see  her 
unknown  lover  in  the  imperial  train ; 
but,  alas!  he  might  be  one  whose 
haughty  lineage  would  forbid  their 
union;  and  she  recollected  with 
terror  that  the  young  Prince  of 
Arenberg,  a  new  kinsman  of  the 
Margrave  of  Vohberg,  had  a  hunt- 
ing-seat in  the  neighbourhood,  and 
was  himself  attached  to  the  emperor's 
court.  He  might  have  come  thither 
privately,  might  have  met  her  at  the 
foiintain,  and  would  certainly  desire 
to  conceal  his  misplaced  attachment. 
Then,  indeed,  she  had  loved  in  vain. 
She  thought  of  the  indignation  of 
the  illustrious  families  of  Vohberg 
and  Arenberg,  of  Adelaide's  friend- 
ship converted  into  contemj^t  and 
disgust,  of  the  dangers  to  which  her 
own  humble  father  would  be  ex- 
posed from  powerful  and  indignant 
magnates;  sne  felt  that  she  roust 
renounce  for  ever  her  ill-assorted 
lover ;  yet  she  resolved,  at  whatever 
cost,  to  keep  his  secret  from  the 
princess,  who  would  contemn  her 
too  condescending  kinsman  for  his 

frovelling  love.     Gela  remembered 
(ermann's  allusion  to  the  classic  tale, 


1846.] 


The  Legend  of  Oelnhausen, 


151 


and  fflghed,  ^  Mine  is,  perhaps,  the 

fate  of  Semele.** 

•  *  *  # 

The  san  was  declining,  and  all 
within  and  without  the  castle  were 
in  preparation  to  receive  the  sove- 
reign. The  great  hall  of  state  was 
in  its  proadest  array.  It  was  deco- 
rated with  suits  of  armour,  trophies 
of  war  and  chase,  waving  hanners, 
blazoned  scutcheons,  silver  candel* 
abra  with  sno^vy  waxen  tapers  ready 
for  lighting  up,  elaborate  tapestries, 
chairs  of  state  and  crimson  cushions, 
and  vases  of  marble  and  of  silver 
filled  with  flowers.  At  the  head  of 
the  vast  apartment  was  a  raised  plat- 
form or  oais,  with  a  table  for  the 
evening  meal  of  those  early  times, 
decked  with  massive  silver  vessels; 
a  throne -like  seat  with  crimson 
canopy  for  the  emperor,  and  two 
lower  chairs  for  the  margrave  and 
his  daughter.  In  the  centre  of  the 
hall  was  the  table  for  the  emperor*s 
officers  and  chief  attendants,  and  for 
the  more  privileged  members  of  the 
margrave*8  household.  Banged  in 
order,  at  each  side  of  the  hal^  stood 
vassals  and  retainers ;  and  on  the  dais 
the  princess,  with  Gela  and  three  other 
female  attendants.  Adelaide  had  ar- 
rayed herself  in  a  stately  robe  of 
crimson  silk,  embroidered  with  gold ; 
her  beautiful  arms  and  neck  were 
adorned  with  gems,  and  a  jewelled 
coronet  sparkled  from  amid  her 
luxuriant  raven  hair.  Gela  wore  a 
simple  dress  of  white  lawn ;  on  her 
neck  a  golden  chain  and  cross,  the 
gift  of  Adelaide ;  the  green  ivy  wreath 
of  her  mysterious  lover  bound  the 
braids  of  her  fair  and  sunny  hair. 
She  was  pale  from  repressed  emotion ; 
but  she  was  simply,  touchingly,  ex- 
quisitely heautiful. 

Without  the  drawbridge  was  heard 
to  fall,  and  the  portcullis  to  rise ;  the 
trumpets  sounded  a  majestic  salute ; 
the  trampling  of  many  horses  came 
nearer  and  nearer,  then  ceased ;  there 
was  a  rustling  sound  close  at  hand ; 
the  door  flew  open,  and  a  crowd  of 
persons  entered.  The  first  was  the 
emperor,  magnificently  dressed;  in 
his  hand  his  small  purple  velvet  cap, 
with  its  hlack  plume  fastened  in  hy 
a  diamond,  and  his  sword  suspended 
from  a  broad  and  rich  belt.  At  his 
left,  and  a  little  behind  him,  came 
the  venerable  old  margrave ;  and,  in 
their  rear,  a  number  of  nobles  and 


officers.  The  emperor  approached 
the  dais ;  Gela,  witn  a  natunl  curio- 
sitv,  glanced  at  him ;  but  she  started, 
coloured  violently,  glanced  again,  and 
involuntarilv  murmured  half  aloud, 
"  Hermann  r  Fortunately  she  was 
not  overheard,  for  her  mysterious 
lover  was  indeed  the  Emperor  of 
Grermany,  the  far-famed  Frederic 
Barbarossa!  And  he  —  he  saw  his 
humble  love  half  hidden  behind  the 
princess ;  and  he  gave  her  one  quick, 
emphatic  glance  of  recognition,  and 
then  withdrew  his  eves.  She  saw 
nothing,  distinguished,  nothing,  for 
she  had  cast  down  her  eyes  the  mo- 
ment they  met  his.  She  heard 
nothing  of  his  courteous  greeting  of 
the  prmcess,  nothing  of  the  mar- 
gravels  presentation  of  various  nobles 
to  his  oaughter,  nothing  of  the  ani- 
mated conversation  that  ensued  be- 
tween Adelaide  and  her  imperial 
guest.  Poor  Gela!  the  ivy- wreath 
on  her  head  oppressed  her  like  an 
iron  crown  of  torture ;  she  now  knew 
that  she  had  loved  but  to  lose  and 
sufibr.  There  she  stood,  a  part  of 
the  pageant  prepared  to  do  nonour 
to  her  lover,  unregarded  by  all,  for- 
gotten by  her  illustrious  friend  in 
tne  ecstasy  of  her  own  delight,  un- 
noticed by  her  lover,  who  was  de- 
voting himself  to  her  whom  Gela  felt 
attgki  to  be  her  successful  rival.  She 
knew  it  was  right  that  he  should 
not  expose  her  by  his  notice  there^ 
yet  to  be  thus  overlooked  was  a  pang 
to  woman's  heart.  She  remained  as 
in  a  disturbed  and  painful  dream,  till 
there  was  some  movement  taking 
place,  some  changes  of  position,  as 
the  assembly,  according  to  their  dif- 
ferent degrees,  were  about  to  seat 
themselves  at  supper.  Then  the 
princess  snatched  the  opportunitv, 
turned  round,  and  whispered  hastily 
to  Gela,— 

'^  Is  he  in  the  imperial  train  P** 

Happy  was  Gela  that  she  could 
conscientiously  answer, — 

"  No  I" 

"  Poor  Gela,  I  pity  you  I  Ah,  you 
look  deadly  pale!  you  are  ill,  and  it 
is  no  marvel.  I  will  not  be  so  cruel 
as  to  detain  yon  here.  Yon  have 
my  permission  to  retire.** 

With  a  most  grateful  heart  Gela 
availed  herself  of  the  welcome  per- 
mission, and  glided  silently  away 
fVom  the  gay  scene.  The  emperor  s 
eye  watched  her  furtiyely;  and 


The  Leffand  of  Qelnianm. 


[Febmarv, 


aadGelabrcattied 
she  was  suiTering 
and  minglfid  feel- 
ovc  hopeless,  and 
t  time  or  chance 
obstacles  of  birth 
ror  and  the  forea- 
)reaxl  lest  the  cen- 
)ver  the  misplaced 
le  had  been  wooed 
B  views  (for  with 
an  emperor  Beck 
ingmtitnde  to  the 
ccpting  the  heart 
Iieeu  hers ;  yet 
HtB  the  one  honied 
I  the  cup,  however 
■  holds  to  woman's 
self  beloved.  She 
imaments,  the  ivy 
old  crosfc  for  they 
;  her;  they  were 
■er  and  her  friend, 
bit,  to  have  been 
)he  stood  between 
d  a  noble  Tcsolu- 
lerself  by  a  silent 


iig  Uclu  sat  onec 
juntain.  She  had 
meet  her  jiakuowtt 
he  knew  Lini  now, 
she  went  to  meet 
nc  there.  She  was 
er  conjecture  that 
,  She  soon  licard 
in  the  forest,  but 
silent,  llectiiergcd 
1  stood  beside  ucr 
le  hunter  garb — 
rmann.    But  now 


tUc  emperor,  at 
lu  know  me  now, 

soon.  Yet  let  it 
'by  should  we  part 
't  some  low-born 
ild  we  part  because 

and  can  lay  trea* 

at  your  feel?" 
id  Gela,  with  a  re- 
9 J  "honours  with- 


"  It  is  your  due,  aire,  and  it  is  rigbt 
that  I  use  it  to  remind  ua  both  of 
our  duties.  Sire,  you  must  renounce 
mo  for  ever!  To  loye  me  is  un- 
worthy of  your  pride  ;  to  love  jun 
is  unworthy  Hii'iie .' " 

But  it  were  long  to  tell  the  earned 
colloquy  that  ensued  between  Gela 
and  Tier  exalted  lover,  Frederic 
besought  her  love  with  all  the  elo- 
quence of  passion  ;  he  addressed  her 
affections,  strove  to  awaken  her  am- 
hitiou,  promised  wealth  and  rank  fur 
herself  and  her  father,  pledged  an 
eleroal  secrecy  to  guard  her  name 
from  reproach,  but  all  in  vain.  Gek 
was  true  to  herself. 

"  Sire,"  she  said,  "  1  am  hut  m 
humble  maLdcn  to  you,  but  I  ap 
to  myself  a  prince^  and  never  will 
I  consent  to  sully  my  owDlinca^of 
whose  honest  fame  lam  duly  proud. 
Speak  not  to  me  of  concealment  froo 
the  world :  my  world  is  in  my  own 


take 


me,  for  that  is  the  proof  of  love. 

"  I  may  not,"  she  replied,  " 
of  the  ofierinKs  due  to  heaven  to  li; 
t|icui  on  an  inol's  altar." 

Frederic  saw  that  he  gained  d» 
ground,  tliat  Gela  could  never  te 
more  to  him  than  she  was  then;  1)"i 
his  love  for  her  was  so  real,  thai  iti 
truth  began  to  purify  its  warmth,  aau 
be  loved  her  the  better  the  more  he 
saw  her  worthy  of  true  love.  H^ 
began  to  feel  that  he  could  be  content 
and  happy  with  her  love  sheim  W 
bim  as  to  a  brother;  if  she  wnum 
but  consent  to  sec  biin  still  sonu- 
times,  aod  let  him  live  over  a  blamf 
less,  a  peaceful  hour  in  her  tm- 
V>^J,  to  Icam  holy  and  aootlung 
leelmgs  from  her  sweet  voice,  and  W 
store  up  treasures  for  future  memorj'' 
Gela  consented  to  see  him  agsi"  '' 
times  tfor  indeed  such  interview* 
were  necessary  to  the  determiaBt"*" 
she  had  ibrmed),  but  she  would  Dt'-^ 
again  meet  him  alone,  or  besiils  tlic 
fountain. 

"  I>Mk  yonder !"  she  Bud ;  "  1*^* 
at  that  little  rustic  church  ou  l°' 
banks  of  the  Kinzig.  It  is  alwaj'^ 
open  to  invite  the  chance  wajf^^'' 
to  say  a  prayer  before  its  buml''^ 
altai-.  There  will  I  meet  yon,  ^ 
cause  there,  In  that  holy  place-'* 


-    I 


1846.] 


The  legend  of  Gelnhausen* 


\si 


holy  though  unseeii  presence— we 
are  safe  eren  from  the  ready  sneer 
of  the  evil  thinker. 

Before  they  parted  Frederic  told 
her  that  he  had  heen  fi)r  awhile  with 
some  train  at  Miihlberg,  but  lovinff 
the  luxury  of  a  soliti^  hour  and 
release  from  state,  he  had  often  rode 
out  with  scarce  any  attendants  to  a 
small  hunting-lodge  within  a  few 
miles,  and  thence  had  loved  to  ramble 
out  alone,  and  thus  he  had  met.  He 
had  concealed  his  rank  the  better  to 
gain  her  confidence;  hut  when  she 
forced  him  to  discover  himself,  he 
chose  to  do  it  in  a  manner  that  he 
hoped  would  impress  her  imagina- 
tion, and  make  her  proud  of  her 
illustrious  lover. 

"  But,  GeW  Mid  he,  "  I  did  vou 
injustice ;  you  are  not  to  be  dazzled, 
or  bought,  or  flattered  from  the  right 
path.*'  He  told  her  that  it  cost  him 
some  trouble  that  evening  to  steal 
from  the  margrave's  castle  and  meet 
her  where  his  heart  told  him  he 
would  find  her.  That  the  next  morn- 
ing he  would  return  to  Muhlbeig, 
ma.  thence  would  come  alone  thrice 
in  every  week  (while  he  covid  linger 
at  Huhlberg)  to  meet  her  in  ulq 

rustic  church. 

«  *  ii"  * 

It  was  an  humble  place  for  an 
imperial  visitor,  that  lowly  church. 
On  its  plain  oaken  altar  were  a  rudely 
sculi>tured  crucifix  and  brazen. can- 
dlesticks. The  only  ornaments  of  its 
grey  st<Nie  walls  were  a  few  coarse 
pictures  of  saints,  and  some  faded 
garlands  hwas  up  in  fond  remem- 
brance of  Uie  dead,  whoae  names  and 
ages  were  inscribed  on  a  parchment 
fiisteo^  to  each  garland.  There 
were  rough  wooden  benches  and  a 
few  rush  chairs,  and  the  sun  slanted 
in  through  long  and  narrow  windows. 
And  many  an  evening  Gela  and  the 
young  and  glorious  emperor  met, 
and  Uiere  sat  down  together  on  the 
steps  of  the  altar,  as  it  were  under 
the  protection  of  that  cross;  and  near 
them  sat  Gek's  young  sister,  as  lovely 
and  as  gentle  as  6eia*s  self,  but  deaf 
and  dumb ;  and,  as  she  sat  or  knelt, 
telling  her  beads  with  a  laous  look, 
she  seem«d  like  a  guardian  angel 
wsitchii^  and  praying  for  their 
wcUare.  Gela's  purpose  in  con- 
senting ever  again  to  meet  him  whom 
she  loved  too  well  for  her  own 
happiness,  but  not  for  her  own  peace 


(for  peace  is  ever  the  ally  of  int^- 
rity),  was  to  use  all  her  innocent  ar- 
tifices to  gain  him  as  a  suitor  for  her 
illustrious  and  beloved  mistress ;  and, 
steady  to  her  purpose,  she  always 
made  Adelaide  the  principal  theme 
of  their  conversation.  She  eul(^i8ed 
her  beauty  and  her  virtues,  the  lofti- 
ness and  ffrandeur  of  her  sentiments, 
befitting  ner  for  the  wife  of  a  hero, 
whose  mind  she  would  understand, 
whose  acts  she  could  appreciate.  In 
fine,  Gela  represented  toe  prinoess  as 
one  who  would  shed  a  lustre  on  his 
public  career,  and  ensure  happiness 
to  his  private  life.  By  degrees  she 
insinuated  to  him  as  much  of  Ade- 
laide's sentiments  for  himself  as  sti- 
mulated his  curiosity ;  and  vdiea  he 
was  prepared  to  be  sufficiently  inter- 
ested in  the  discovery,  then  she  ac- 
knowledged to  him  that  the  princess 
had  centred  upon  him  all  her  noble 
affections.  Then,  indeed,  he  began 
to  listen,  and  to  talk  of  her  with  in-, 
terest  and  animation,  for  nothing  is 
more  interesting  to  our  nature  than 
that  which  gratifies  our  vanity  and 
self'Coinplacence. 

Still  Frederic  loved  Gela  too  well« 
though  so  hopelessly,  to  be  yet  able 
to  play  the  suitor  to  another.  Still 
he  Kept  aloof  from  the  margrave's 
castle,  and  haunted  incognito  that 
lonely  and  lowly  church. 

*  *  *  il^  * 

But  the  destinies  (^Frederic  would 
not  long  suffer  him  to  remain  inac- 
tive and  obscure.  The  Milanese,  his 
subjects  in  Italy,  displayed  a  rebel- 
lious spirit;  and  the  emperor  was 
called  to  the  seat  of  his  empire,  to 
meet  his  old  and  trusty  counsellors. 

The  evening  before  his  departure 
he  met  Gela  m  the  church  by  the 
Kinzig ;  and  now  on  the  eve  of  ab- 
sence, nis  love  for  her  burned  with 
redoubled  strength.  He  would  hear 
nothing  of  Adelaide  :  he  declared 
that  his  love  for  Gela  was  so  deep, 
so  enduring,  that  while  she  lived  he 
could  never  offer  his  hand  to  another ; 
that  since  she  never  could  be  his,  no 
other  should  ocoupy  her  place  in  his 
bosom ;  that  he  would  live  a  life  of 
celibacy,  free  to  love  her  with  a 
faithful  though  hopeless  attachment. 
And  Gda's  heart  leaped  for  a  mo- 
ment wi^  a  womanly  joy  to  see  how 
fondly  she  was  beloved ;  but  her  m^ 
nsA^  purity  in  a  mcMuent  after  re- 
(rretted  the  pertinacity  of  that  very 


The  Legend  of  Getnkauten. 


[FebruarT, 


r  iwrted;  bnt 
while  Mhe  U*<d 
uiotber,  tank 
tnd  she  nw 
>n  to  a  further 
solution. 


the 


ing  OT 
I  Gelft 


'b  respite 
itenea  tt 
tered  with  an 
Xiked  round  ; 
!.    Her  Bister, 

I  oTer  her 

Hi8 

me  ecsrce  de- 
le  deadP  He 
imb  girl,  and 
ivotiona.  The 
ni,  tprang  np, 
ut  it  was  with 
e  seemed  like 
lesolate.  The 
ised ;  be  ques- 
Hm  dumb  girl 
to  Tollow  her, 
th.  Frederio 
man  trembled 
;  dreaded  lest 
to  her  grave. 
Bt  the  church- 
ey  reached  a 
edietines  near 
(rii  the  por- 
!  wicket.  At 
Inmb  girl  tbe 
Frederic,  lost 

tc  stood  Gela, 
the  full  habit 

reel,  be  gazed 
eyes;  and  at 

ave  yoD  done 

,ppy,"  she  re- 
re  you  to  tbe 

Your  empire 
arry;  a  noble 
tits  yon.    But 

enei^ies,  and 
ins.  And  yon 
ed  you  would 
ly  emperor,  I 

Sister  A  gadm. 
my  dirge  was 
e  world  and  to 
yon  mnst  for- 
marry  for  tbe 


sake  of  your  own  happiness,  for  your 
empire's  interests,  and  in  jnstice  to 
your  illustrions  cousin,  whoae  affec- 
tions you  have  inToluntarily  won. 
Bemember  me  only  to  think  that  I 
lored  yon  well  euough  to  nerve  my- 
self to  this  act.  Remember  me  only 
to  fulfil  my  anitouB  wish." 

"  Oh,  my  Gela  I  my  Gela !  thb  in 
loo  much.  You  have  been  cruel  to 
younelfand  me." 

"  Fear  not  for  me,"  she  said,  in  her 
soft,  low  voice.  "  It  is  a  woman's 
btrtfaright,  her  privilege,  her  glory, 
to  make  sacrifices.  What  I  think 
you  all  heroism  is  confined  to  men  ? 
Not  so;  our  heroism  is  more  fre- 
quent, is  greater,  for  it  is  leaa  re- 
garded, less  rewarded  by  the  workL 
You  men  can  sacrifice  to  the  world, 
and  demand  its  plaudits ;  we  women 
sacrifice  on  the  unseen  shrine  of  our 
own  hidden  hearts.  You  sacrifice  a 
part ;  but  we,  our  all.  You  think  it 
a  ^reat  trial  when  a  sacrifice  is  re- 

Juired  from  you ;  but  we  women 
lank  Ileaven  that  we  possess  ausbt 
worthy  to  be  accounted  a  sacrifice, 
and  deem  it  a  privilege  to  have  mch 
accepted  from  us.  I  conld  have 
lived  in  the  world  as  hap[uly  as  falls 
to  the  lot  of  most  mortals,  for  I 
loved  the  fair  face  of  nature,  I  loved 
my  kindred  and  my  friends ;  bnt  I 
have  relinquished  all  to  seclude  my- 
self for  ever  within  these  narrow 
walls,  for  the  sake  of  your  welfare, 

Sur  glory.    My  emperor,  will  you 
so  cruel  as  to  let  my  sacrifice  be 

Many  a  heart  is  caught  at  the  re- 
bound :  so  Adelaide  gained  the  em- 
peror's when  he  saw  nimself  cut  off 
Gela,    wholly  and  for  ever. 


with  her;  and  wh( 
left  her  be  was  a  prey  to  a  thousand 
emotions.  Hope  was  extinct,  love 
rejected,  even  friendly  interoounie 
was  interdicted.  His  heart  felt  an 
aching  void  which  he  could  not  bear. 
The  void  must  be  filled, — who  so 
worthy  as  Adelaide  P  She  toved  him. 
Their  marriage  was  poor  Gels's  wish, 
theumofhersacriiice.  Could  he  be 
less  generous  than  Gela  in  self-con- 
quest? No!  let  him  at  least  try  (o 
equal  in  nobleness  of  spirit  his  hum- 
bfe  love. 

Proudly  and  joyfiilly  did  Adelaide 


1846.] 


The  Legend  of  Gelnhausen* 


155 


of  Vohber^  learn  from  the  mar- 
grave that  Frederic  had  made  for- 
msd  proposals  for  her  hand.  And 
after  the  first  ecstasy  of  triumph  had 
subsided,  she  flew  to  the  Ben^ictine 
convent  to  share  her  joy  with  her 
never-forgotten  friend,  tlie  cloistered 
Gela.  Adelaide  had  never  marvel- 
led at  Gela*s  sudden  resolution  of 
taking  the  veil ;  she  thought  it  the 
natural  result  of  her  disappointment, 
for  she  believed  that  Gela  s  mysteri- 
ous lover  had  never  reappeared  to 
fulfil  his  promise  of  discovering  him- 
self. And  now  Gela,  as  Sister  Agatha, 
received  her  joyous  friend  with  an 
emotion  she  little  guessed.  But  she 
kept  her  secret,  which  coiild  but 
have  pained  the  princess.  She  could 
not  tell  that  proud  and  exulting 
lady,  that  to  the  generosity  of  her 
humble  attendant  she  owed  her  im- 
perial suitor. 
*  «  ♦  *  * 

The  Emperor  Frederic  espoused 
the  Princess  Adelaide.    And  while 
he  gave  to  Gela  this  proof  of  his 
obedience  to  her  will,  he  determined 
on  erecting  a  memorial  to  her  ho- 
nour.   The  convent  where  she  was 
professed  stood  in  an  isle  of  the  Kin- 
zig,  in  a  charming  valley,  varied  with 
wood,  and  hill,  and  water,  and  pro- 
tected by  a  chain  of  hills  uniting 
with  the   mountains    of  Franconia, 
and  with  the  Vogelsberg  of  Wetter- 
avia.    In  that  i^e,  and  beside  that 
convent,  lie  built  a  magnificent  ]^- 
lace,  of  which  the  interesting  rums 
are  still  visited  by  travellers,  who 
explore  with  admiration  its  facades, 
its  pillared  arcade,  its  chapel  and 
towers,  and  hall  of  justice,  tne  spa- 
cious court,  with  the  statue  of  the 
emperor.    In  that  valley,  too,  and 
round  that  convent,  he  built  a  city, 
and  gave  it  the  name  of  Grela  hauscn, 
that  is,  Gela's  town  (now  corrupted 
into  Gelenhausen,  or  Gelnhausen), 
that  the  memory  of  Gela's  blameless 
^d  noble  sacrifice  might  live  for 
ever  in  her  native  country.    When 
Adelaide  inquired  with  surprise  why 
the  new-built  city  was  called  after  a 
Jowly   and  humble   nun,  Frederic 
revealed  to  her  the  story  of  his  love 
and  of  Gela's  purity.    And  Adelaide 
felt  no  jealous  pang.    Gela  acquired 
&  lustre  in  her  eyes  for  having  been 
heloved  l^  the  emperor. 
/^Y^*"  she  said,  when  he  finished 
Ais  recital,  **  a  city  is  a  befitting  m«« 


morial  of  an  emperor*8  esteem,  and 
Gela  well  deserves  that  her  memory 
should  be  preserved  in  the  legends  of 

the  founding  of  Grelnhausen. 

#  *  «  *  • 

Time  passed.  Adelaide  was  blest. 
She  had  obtained  the  summit  of  her 
wishes ;  but  human  happiness  is  mu- 
table, and  wishes  fulfilled  do  not 
alwa3's  secure  it.  Adelaide  was  child- 
less. Fredericks  hereditary  subjects 
were  loud  in  their  desire  of  an  heir. 
His  position  became  an  anxious  one. 
The  Milanese  rebelled  against  him. 
llis  interference  became  necessary 
between  Roger,  kin^  of  Sicily,  and 
his  oppressed  subjects.  He  was 
obliged  to  resist  the  encroachments 
of  the  pope  on  his  imperial  preroga- 
tives. He  required  fresh  allies  and 
powerful  connexions.  In  brief,  Ade- 
laide, the  quick-sighted,  the  noble, 
the  imselfisn,  saw  with  a  woman's 
penetration  in  the  interests  of  the  be- 
loved, that  if  he  were  freed  f^om  her 
to  make  a  more  brilliant  connexion, 
to  gratify  his  subjects  with  an  heir, 
to  daunt  his  enemies  by  a  new  and 
powerful  alliance,  his  star  would  gain 
the  ascendant  in  Europe;  and  she 
nerved  herself  to  relinquish  him  Tas 
she  once  said  she  could)  in  the  miast 
of  gratified  love,  ambition,  splendour, 
and  enjoyment.  She  proposed  the 
divorce  between  two  hearts  that  un- 
derstood and  appreciated  each  other. 

Adelaide  reasoned  with  her  reluc- 
tant husband,  and  obtained  firom  him, 
not  without  great  exertion,  the  ful- 
filment of  her  last  desire — the  wreck 
of  all  her  own  happiness,  save  the 
happiness  of  self-approval.  Their 
consan^inity  provided  the  pretext 
for  their  divorce,  and  Adelaide  be- 
came once  more  only  Frederic's  cou- 
sin. 

«  «  *  41  * 

Again  Adelaide  visited  Gela  in  the 
convent,  now^  become  spacious  and 
splendid  by  Frederic's  bount3r,  and 
a  conspicuous  object  in  the  city  of 
Gelnhausen.  She  had  come  tnere 
a  happy  bride,  but  now  more  deso- 
late than  a  widow.  She  poured  out 
her  bleeding  heart  to  Gela.  She 
told  her  of  the  pang  of  parting  for 
ever  with  her  nero,  her  imperial 
husband.  "You,  Gela,"  she  said, 
"you  can^feel  for  me,  for  you  have 
known  something  of  the  pang  of  se- 
paration from  him ;  but,  oh,  not  so 
deeply,  so  keenly,  as  I  hare  fdt  it. 


166 


The  Legend  of  Getnhausen, 


[February, 


for  he  haa  never  been  to  you  what 
he  has  been  to  me.  And  truly  I  be- 
lieve, that  I  never  could  have  brought 
myself  to  this  mightv  sacrifice  but  for 
your  bright  example,  which  guided 
me  like  a  star  in  the  paths  of  dutv.*' 
And  now  Adelaide*s  chief  enjoy- 
ment in  life  was  to  repair  to  Geln- 
hausen  (whenever  Frederic  was  far 
away)  to  visit  Gela,  and  walk  with 
her  in  the  convent-garden,  and  talk 
of  the  increasing  fame  of  the  em- 
peror; and  sometunes  Adelaide  would 
beg  the  gentle  nun*s  indulgence  while 
she  sat  down  on  a  grassy  bank,  with 
her  eyes  upturned  to  the  setting  sun, 
and  sang  a  little  lay,  dictated  to  her 
by  her  fond  remembrance  of  her 
cousin,  and  some  time  lover : — 

*'  Tboagh  Fortune's  gifts  on  others  flow, 
Though  scenes  of  joy  impart, 

A  glimpse  of  bliss  I  ne'er  can  knoir, 
To  mock  my  bankrupt  heart ; 

Unenried  shall  their  pleasures  be, 

While  thus  I  can  remember  thee. 

Not  all  the  glare  of  tinsel  stale, 
Were  worth  one  smile  of  thine , 

But  since,  dirided  thus  by  Fate, 
That  smile  can  ne'er  be  mine, 

One  solace  still  remains  for  me. 

That  thus  I  can  remember  thee.'"* 


In  1 156,  when  Frederic  was  thirty- 
five  years  of  ase,  he  married  Beatrix 
the  neiress  of  Burgundy,  and  an- 
nexed that  important  country  to  his 
dominions.  1  wice  was  his  happiness 
founded  on  the  sacrifices  of  women : 
he  married  Adelaide  by  the  self-de- 
votion of  Gela,  and  Beatrix  by  that 
uf  Adelaide,  inspired  by  Gela  s  ex- 


ample. But  this  is  no  uncommon 
case.  Men  are  often  far  more  indebted 
to  the  devotion  of  women  than  their 
pride  or  their  justice  will  confess. 
Beatrix,  the  empress,  became  the 
mother  of  several  children,  and  the 
partner  of  a  brilliant  destiny.  She 
often  visited  with  Frederic  the  i»- 
lace  at  Gelnhausen ;  for  he  loved  to 
breathe  the  same  air  as  Gela,  the 
still  beloved,  because  ever  honoured 
Gela ;  and  to  perform  some  of  his 
princely  and  munificent  acts  within 
the  sphere  of  her  own  knowledge. 

We  have  chosen  to  extract  the 
tale  of  Gela's  love,  and  the  origin  of 
Gelnhausen,  from  the  obscurer  parts 
of  history,  because  it  is  so  dissimilar 
from  what  chroniclers  usuallv  tell  us 
of  the  Beloved  of  Monarchs.  We  read 
so  much  of  women  who  have  bar- 
tered female  honour  for  titled  ho- 
nours ;  who  have  flaunted  abroad 
decked  in  all  jewels,  save  one ;  who 
have  paraded  their  meretricious  in- 
fluence at  court ;  who  have  deemed 
vice  excused  if  well  gilded ;  and 
whose  names  blot  the  record  of  their 
sovereigns'  lives.  History  has  so 
widely  blazoned  forth  the  Pompa- 
dours and  the  Castlcouunes  in 
its  most  noted  chapters,  that  it 
is  refreshing  to  reverse  the  pic- 
ture, and  to  draw  from  the  more 
neglected  pages  the  memory  of  one 
woman,  who,  though  the  beloved  of 
an  emperor,  young,  handsome,  and 
brilliant,  still  continued  blamelcs?, 
simple,  modest,  yet  heroic,  and  whose 
name  reflects  a  cloudless  light  on  bis 
that  is  associated  with  it. 

M.  E.  M. 


*  We  fear  the  reader  will  not  find  the  above  song  among  the  remains  of  tbe 
Minnesingers  —  not  even  in  the  copious  collection  made  in  the  fourteenth  century  by 
Rudiger  yon  Menasse,  of  Zurichi  and  since  edited  by  Bodmer. 


1846.]         Priiicipal  Campaigns  in  ike  Rise  of  Napoleon, 


l5* 


PRINCIPAL  CAMPAIGNS  IN  Tll£  RISE  OF  NAFOL£ON. 


No.  U. 


TH£  ITALIAN  CAMPAIGNS. 


Chapter  III. 


The  Freoch  enter  Milan,  and  are  received  as  Liberators. — Excesses  committed  bj  the 
Republican  Trcops.^ln8urrection  of  Benasco  and  Pavia. — Napoleon  turns  against 
the  Austrians  ;  forces  the  Passage  of  theMincio,  and  invests  Mantua— Armistice 
with  Naples  ;  the  French  invade  the  Territory  of  the  Church,  and  oblige  the  Pope 
to  sue  for  Peace. — Napoleon  at  Florence,  and  treacherous  seizure  of  Leghorn. 


THfi  victory  and  spoil-breathing 
host,  which,  like  a  torrent  of  laya, 
had  burst  from  the  Apennines,  and 
swept  with  resistless  rapidity  over 
Piedmont,  now  prepared  to  rest  from 
its  toils,  and  to  enjoy,  for  a  brief 
space  at  least,  the  reward  of  so  many 
hardy  actions.  Abandoning  the  pur- 
suit of  the  Austrians,  relmquishinff 
the  prospect  of  finding  Mantua,  which 
had  been  looked  upon  as  beyond  the 
reach  of  danger,  unprepared  for  de- 
fence, the  conqueror  leaving  a  corps 
at  Cremona  to  observe  the  retiring 
enemy,  retraced  their  steps,  turned 
upon  Milan  and  Pavia,  and  extended 
themselves  over  the  flertite  plains  of 
Western  Lombardy. 

The  Archduke  Ferdinand  find  his 
consort  had  left  Milan  immediately 
after  the  passage  of  the  Fo.  A  vast 
crowd  assemble  to  witness  their  de- 
parture ;  but  though  the  princess  was 
in  tears,  not  a  single  voice  was  raised 
to  express  a  word  of  sympathy  for 
her  sufferings :  the  multitude  were 
dark  and  silent.  The  only  mark  of 
respect  they  evinced  to^vards  rulers, 
who,  at  least,  had  been  kind  and 
gentle,  was  to  refrain  from  open  in- 
sult, so  deeply  were  all  imbued  with 
the  spirit  of  republicanism.  On  the 
14th  of  May,  the  yonthlbl  conqueror 
held  his  entry  into  the  capital  of  the 
Lombard  kings.  He  was  received 
with  boisterous  demonstrations  of 
joy;  triumphal  arches  were  raised 
on  his  passage;  streets,  palaces,  tern- 


Eles,  were  decorated,  the  tree  of  li- 
erty  was  planted,  and  public  depu- 
tations hailed  him  as  the  harbinger 
of  peace,  happiness,  and  prosperity. 
AVhat  impression  this  reception  maae 
on  Napoleon,  we  have  no  means  cHT 
knowing,  but  that  it  left  no  very 
dee})  trace  of  gratitude  in  his  breast, 
is  sufficiently  attested  by  the  result; 
No  sooner  had  the  citadel,  Which  was 
still  in  possession  of  the  Austrians^ 
been  formally  invested,  ahd  the  mi- 
litary occupation  of  the  city  secured, 
than  a  contribution  of  twenty  tail- 
lions  of  francs  was  imposed;  all 
church -plate,  all  public  fdnds,  eveil 
those  belonging  to  hospitals  and 
charities,  were  seized.  Thirty  of  the 
finest  pictures,  besides  vases,  manu- 
scripts, and  other  works  of  art,  were, 
in  like  manner,  taken  possession  of 
and  sent  to  Paris.  Sueh  were  the 
first  marks  of  Republican  gratitude 
conferred  on  the  Milanese. 

While  the  general  was  making  the 
necessary  arrangements  for  the  go- 
vernment of  the  conquered  provinces, 
imposing  contributions,  levying  re^ 
quisitions,  the  spirit  of  hostility  to 
the  new  guests  was  already  spread- 
ing with  extraordinary  rapidity.  Th^ 
licentious  conduct  of  the  troops  ek« 
ceeded,  indeed,  all  bounds.*  The 
clergy  were  openly  insulted,  the 
churches  desecrated,  the  peace  bf 
families  destroyed  ^  the  lawless 
conduct  of  armed  ruffians ;  the  pro^ 
perty  of  individuals  seized  at  the  will 


*  On  the  9th  May  General  Dallemagne  thos  writes  to  the  commander.in-chiefi 
"  I  have,  in  vain,  nsed  every  effort  to  arrest  the  pillage.  The  guards  1  place  are  of 
no  atail,  and  disorder  is  at  its  height. 

"  Some  tettible  examples  wottid  be  necessary  3  bat  I  know  not  whether  I  hav% 
authority  to  make  them. 

"  A  man  of  honour  suffers  and  feels  biduelf  disgraced  by  conmuidiog  a  eoips 
m  which  the  worthless  are  so  nofflerons." 


\ 


158 


Pnnctpal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon,  [February, 


of  the  soldiers,  or  called  in  at  the 
dictates  of  any  {jetty  chief  who  thought 
himself  authorised  to  levy  contribu- 
tions at  pleasure.  Many  armies  have 
since  swept  over  the  fertile  plains  of 
Lombardy ;  but  even  to  this  day  the 
most  frightful  tales  are  told  of  the 
brigand  conduct  pursued  by  the  first 
Republican  invader  of  the  countiy. 

The  blame  of  this  misconduct  does 
not,  however,  rest  altogether  with 
Napoleon,  or  the  army,  it  falls  prin- 
cipally on  the  French  government, 
who  left  their  troops  without  money 
or  supplies,  and,  without  these,  dis- 
cipline cannot  possibly  be  maintained. 
It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  soldiers, 
^vith  arms  in  their  hands,  will  suffer 
want  and  famine  when  they  see 
plenty  around,  and  in  the  possession 
of  those  whom  they  deem  their  ene- 
mies. They  feel  that  they  have 
power,  and  naturally  use  it;  and 
though  thousands  may  use  it  with 
moderation,  hundreds  will  abuse; 
and  the  misconduct  of  the  few  will 
not  only  blacken  the  fame  of  the 
many,  but  will  gradually  entice  others 
to  follow  the  criminal  example ;  till, 
from  the  minor  excesses  of  the  smaller 
number,  the  majority  become  fami- 
liar with  every  species  of  guilt  and 
depravity.  The  Trench  are  neither 
a  cruel  nor  blood-thirsty  people ;  on 
the  contrary,  no  people  are  more 
easily  excited  to  sentiments  of  gene- 
rosity and  good  feeling,  and  every 
rank  of  their  army  is  full  of  men 
distinguished  as  much  for  humanity 
as  for  valour;  but  the  very  men 
who  would  rush  fearlessly  upon  any 
danger  in  the  field,  will  repress  the 
best  emotions  of  the  heart,  rather 
than  face  the  coarse  jest  of  some  ruf- 
fian comrade  deriding  humanity  in 
war,  as  a  weakness  unworthy  of  a 
soldier,  and  as  only  a  fit  attribute 
for  a  Parisian  muscacUn  during  the 
idle  hours  of  peace  and  pleasure ;  so 
that  in  the  end  a  callous  indifference 
to  human  suffering  is  considered  a 
necessary  proof  and  accompaniment 
of  the  true  esprit  militaire, 

Lombardy  suffered  from  the  ef- 
fects of  these  fatal  causes:  and  it  was 
not  till  the  heavy  contributions  le- 
vied on  the  country  itself,  had  ena- 
bled more  regular  supplies  to  be 
J«aed  to  the  invaders,  that  discipline 
in  some  degree  restored ;  in  the 
,  instance  the  excesses  of  the  troops 
the  inbaUtants  to  open  reyolt. 


Napoleon  had  left  Milan,  and  was 
again  at  Lodi  on  his  march  towards 
the  Mincio,  when,  on  the  23d  of 
May,  news  reached  him  that  an  in- 
surrection had  broken  out  at  Favia, 
where  three  hundred  French  troops, 
forming  the  garrison  of  the  castle, 
had  been  forced  to  surrender.  Re- 
ports of  the  arrival  of  large  Austrian 
armies  were  circulated  amon^  the 
people,  the  tocsin  was  sounded  m  the 
villages,  and  a  rising  was  hourly  ex- 
pected to  take  place  at  Milan.  The 
army  was  immediately  counter- 
marched, and  Napoleon  placing  him- 
self at  the  head  of  a  brigade  of  ar- 
tillery, some  battalions  of  infantry, 
and  three  hundred  horsemen,  pro- 
ceeded directly  to  the  capital.  His 
reception  was  very  different  from 
what  it  had  been  ten  days  before: 
no  resistance  indeed  was  offered,  but 
the  streets  were  crowded  with  dark- 
browed  men,  whose  gloomy  aspects 
bore  ample  testimony  of  the  hatred 
that  lurked  within  their  breasts.  But 
their  preparations  had  been  tardy,  and 
the  French  exertions  were  quick.  All 
who  were  considered  as  ringleaders, 
or  found  to  be  armed,  were  seized 
and  shot ;  hosta^  were  taken  from 
the  principal  families ;  and  the  clergy, 
nobility,  and  municipality,  informed 
that  they  would  be  held  responsible 
forpublic  tranquillity. 

Tnis  settled.  Napoleon  directed  bis 
march  towards  Favia.  At  Bcaiasco 
some  seven  or  eight  hundred  armed 
peasants  attempted  to  oppose  further 
progress;  they  were  instantly  at- 
tacked and  routed,  and  all  who  were 
taken  put  to  the  sword,  and  the  vil- 
lage given  to  the  fiames  after  being 
duly  sacked.  On  the  morning  of 
the  26th,  the  French  appeared  before 
Favia,  and  vainly  summoned  the  in- 
surgents to  submit.  The  first  attempt 
to  force  the  gate  also  failed ;  but  aa 
the  peasants  had  no  artillery,  they 
were  soon  driven  from  the  walls  by 
grape-shot ;  the  gate  was  then  burst 
open,  the  nearest  houses  seized  and 
occupied,  and  the  cavalry  sent  in  to 
clear  the  streets.  Submission  soon 
followed,  and  its  consequences  also. 
The  members  of  the  municipality 
were  ordered  to  be  shot,  the  garrison 
decimated,  the  town  set  on  fire  in 
several  places,  and  some  given  over 
to  plunder,  and  to  the  license  of  the 
troop. 

Tnese  were  the  first  of  the  many 


1846.] 


The  Italian  Campaigns. 


i5d 


acts  of  unheaitatuu^  ferocity  that 
blacken  ihe  name  of  Napoleon.  To 
order  the  cold-blooded  execution  of 
men  who  had  taken  arms  in  their 
country's  cause,  who  had  respected 
the  lives  of  the  three  hundred  French 
prisoners  that  fell  into  their  hands, 
was  nothing  short  of  deliberate  mur- 
der. Committed,  too,  at  a  moment 
when  the  most  splendid  success,  at 
the  very  outset  of  his  career,  might 
have  been  expected  to  create  some 

generous  feelings  in  the  most  callous 
eart,  or  called  forth  some  high  and 
gallant  disdain  of  feeble  adversaries  ; 
but  not  a  single  exalted  sentiment 
could  be  awakened,  or  one  spark  of 
noble  flame  kindled,  in  the  worthless 
clay  of  which  the  heart  of  Napoleon 
was  composed.  When,  in  1814,  the 
throne  of  this  ignoble  man  was  threat- 
ened, when  his  own  possessions  were 
in  danger,  he  then  taunted  the  pea- 
santxy  of  the  south  of  France  with 
their  want  of  patriotism,  their  inert- 
ness in  the  cause  of  the  country, 
in  refraining  to  sweep  the  British 
invaders  Irom  the  soil  of  the  great 
nation :  when  his  own  cause  was  at 
stake,  he  called  upon  the  foresters 
of  the  Yofi^es  to  "  hunt  the  sdlied 
soldiers  to  ueath,  even  like  wolves," — 
called  upon  the  people  to  repeat  the 
very  deeds  for  which  ne  had  butchered 
the  unkappy  Lombards. 

The  Austrian  troops  had  not  be^i 
pursued  after  the  battle  of  Lodi; 
they  had  retired  behind  the  IVIincio, 
and  Beaulieu  having  thrown  twenty 
of  his  best  battalions  into  IVIantua, 
and  received  some  reinforcements 
from  Germany,  resolved  again  to  try 
the  fate  of  arms,  and,  if  possible,  to 
defend  the  passage  of  the  river. 
Measures,  however,  were  badly  taken; 
the  troops  were  dispersed  along  the 
banks,  and  on  the  30th  May,  the 
French  forced  the  passage  alter  a 
brief  action,  in  which  little  loss  was 
experienced. 

It  is  a  curious  circumstance  that 
both  the  adverse -commanders  were 
nearly  taken  on  this  occasion;  and 
both  at  the  same  place,  and  firom 
similar  causes.  Beaulieu  was  unwell 
at  the  villf^e  of  St.  Giorgio,  near 
Borghetto,  and  had  only  time  to  es- 
cape from  the  French  cavalry  when 
they  forced  the  passage  of  the  bridge. 
Napoleon,  seeing  the  Austrians  in 
full  retreat,  ailer  the  action  at  Vil- 
^HS&Ot  thought  the  affair  waa  at  an 

TOL.  XXXIU.  KO.  CXCIV. 


end,  and  having  a  severe  headaoh, 
retired  to  St.  Giorgio  to  take  a  foot- 
bath. While  he  was  thus  engaged, 
Sebottendorf's  hussars  arrived,  and 
the  few  French  who  were  with  their 
general  had  only  time  to  close  the 
gates  of  the  inn  and  help  the  futuia 
emperor  to  fly  through  the  garden, 
ana  mount  his  horse  with  only  one 
boot  on :  Massena^s  division  bdi^ 
dose  at  hand,  security  was  soon 
restored* 

Thus  ended  the  passage  of  the 
IVIincio,  where  entire  divisions,  with 
numerous  batteries  of  artillery  and 
6(][uadrons  of  cavalry,  remained  inac- 
tive within  reach  and  hearing  of  the 
scene  of  action,  while  a  single  batta- 
lion, with  one  piece  of  artiUery,  sus- 
tained against  a  whole  army  a  com- 
bat, in  the  result  of  which  the  most 
important  consequences  depended. 

it  is  worthy  of  renuu*k,  nerhaps, 
that  the  unfortunate  Beauueu  lost 
Piedmont  and  Lombardy  without 
being  present  in  any  of  the  actions 
fougnt  by  his  troops.  As  he  was  a 
man  of  the  highest  personal  courage, 
this  could  only  be  matter  of  accident ; 
but  the  events  of  the  campai^^  shew, 
nevertheless,  how  important  it  is  for 
a  general  to  be  on  the  point  nearest 
the  enemy,  so  as  to  be  in  readiness  to 
take  advantap;e  of  every  turn  of  for- 
tune ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  say  what 
the  face  of  the  world  might  be  at 
thb  day  had  Beaulieu  been  present 
in  every  battle-field,  and  ready  to 
gather  all  his  forces  around  him 
the  moment  the  time  to  strike  had 
arrived. 

It  was  during  some  part  of  the 
campaign  here  attempted  to  be  de- 
scribed, that,  as  biographers  assure 
us,  Napoleon  entered  into  conversa- 
tion with  an  old  Hungarian  officer, 
who  had  been  taken  prisoner,  and 
asked  him, "  What  he  thought  of  the 
state  of  aifairs  ?"  *'  Nothing  can  bo 
worse,'*  replied  the  old  gentleman, 
who  did  not  know  he  was  addressing 
the  French  general ;  "  here  is  a  young 
man  who  knows  absolutely  nothing 
of  the  rules  of  war ;  one  da,j  he  is  in 
our  rear,  next  day  on  our  flank,  and 
then  aoiun  in  our  front.  Such  viola- 
tion of  the  principles  of  the  art  of 
war  is  intolerable/*  It  is  generally 
believed  that  the  art  prescribes  the 
striking  at  the  flank  and  rear,  at  the 
weak  points  of  an  army ;  and  it  was 
in  their  conetant  attempts  to  strike  in 


lou  rrmapai  vw^mi^Rj  in 

this  nuuiner  that  the  Anstriuu  ex> 
poacd  themselTM  to  the  direct /aeer* 
— ttf  use  B  pagiligtic  tcim  —  th&t 
Nkpoleon  dealt  them.  The  story, 
however,  origuiated  with  hiniKlf,  end 
should  have  been  characterised  by 
thote  who  repeated  it  as  a  very  poor 
device  of  his  own  invention. 

Napoleon, havingallowed  the  Ans- 
triana  sinple  time  to  retire,  followed 
on  the  3d  of  June.  On  the  4th  he 
invested  Mantua  on  both  sides  of  the 
Mincio,  the  suharb  of  St.  Giorgio,  at 
tbe  head  of  one  of  the  causeways 
leading  from  the  fortresa  to  the  main- 
land, and  protected  only  by  field- 
works,  was  taken  by  the  French. 
Verona,  having  three  bridges  over  I  he 
Adigc,  was  next  taken  possession  of; 
those  who,  (luring  the  campaign,  had 
without  liesitation  violated  the  neu' 
trality  of  Genoa,  Fanna,  and  Modetta, 
vfcre  not  likely,  when  victorioua,  to 
be  checked  by  the  neutrality  of  Ve- 
nice ;  particularly  as  in  tbeir  case  the 
Austnans  had  set  the  example  by 
the  eeimre  of  Peschiera. 

llie  Count  of  Provence,  after- 
wards J^nis  XVIII.,  had  resided 
some  time  at  Verona,  but  was  forced 
to  leave  it  on  the  advance  of  the 
French ;  and  Napoleon,  writing  to 
the  directory,  says,  "  I  did  not  con- 
ceal from  the  inhabitants,  that  if  the 
King  of  France,"— as  the  Republican 
general  styles  him, — "  had  not  lefl 
tJie  town  before  I  passed  the  Po,  I 
should  have  burned  to  the  ground  a 
city  audacious  enough  to  believe  it- 
self the  capital  of  the  Trench  em- 
pire." The  "prauks"  that  vulgar 
insolence  dressed  in  brief  authority 
will  play  before  high  heaven,  were 
never,  perhaps,  niorc  strikingly  illus- 
trated than  by  this  conduct;  tor  it  is 
not  easy  to  see  how  the  residence  of 
an  exiled  prince  within  its  walls, 
could  make  a  provincial  town  of  Italy 
fancy  itself  the  capital  of  France. 
Unfortunately,  however,  the  mean- 
ness of  old-established  authority  will 
Bonietimes  equsi  the  insolence  of 
newly-gained  power  ;  and  the  last 
acts  of  the  Venetian  government, — a 
Kuveniment  that  boasted  of  thirteen 
hundred  yean  of  rule  and  {jlory, 
were  all,  even  in  trifles,  of  a  singu- 
larly ignoble  character.  When  the 
Count  of  Provence  was  ordered  to 
leave  the  Venetian  territory',  he 
protested  indignantly  against  the 
bicwh  of  hospitality,  tud  desired 


:  «j  Lupuie. 


■    l*""' 


that  the  "Golden  Book"  ibooM  be 
brought  to  him,  that,  with  bis  own 
hand,  he  might  strike  ont  his  nante 
from  the  list  of  Venetian  nobles; 
claiming  at  the  same  time  the  sor- 
rcnder  of  the  sword  which  his  aoces- 


The   ] 


have  replied,  "  that,  on  the  priiice's 
application,  the  aenate  would  not 
object  to  strike  his  name  out  of  the 
'  Golden  Book ;'  and  as  to  the  sword 
of  Henri  IV.,  it  woald  be  returned 
whenever  the  Itvelvc  million  oflivrcs 
which  that  monarch  had  borrowed 
from  the  Bepublic  were  repaid."  An 
answer  that  certainly  helps  to  lessen 
any  reETct  which  might  be  enter- 
tained lor  the  fall  of  the  government 
whence  it  emanated. 

Tlie  retreat  of  the  Anstrians  into 
the  Tyrol  enabled  Napoleon,  aAer  be 
had  pushed  some  troops  up  tbe  val- 
ley of  the  Adige  to  watch  their  mo- 
tions, to  turn  hiB  attention  in  another 
direction. 

The  military  fate  of  Upper  Italy 
having  been  decided  for  the  moment, 
the  course  of  policy  to  be  adopted 
towards  the  Southeni  States  had  to 
be  determined  upon.  While  at  Lodi, 
Napoleon  had  already  received  some 
intimation  of  an  intended  expeditioa 
beyond  the  Po.  In  a  letter  of  the 
7tn  May,  tbe  Directory  acquaint  him 
that  it  is  iu  "  conlemplati(»i  "  to 
divide  the  army  into  two  sepsrate 
commands ;  to  send  him,  witn  one 
half,  to  Kome  and  Naples,  while,  with 
the  other  half,  General  Kellennan 
should  continue  to  blockade  Uaataa 
and  keep  the  Austrian!!  in  check.  To 
augment  the  confusion,  certain  to 
reiult  from  such  an  arrangement,  the 
Directory  proposed  to  increase  the 
power  of  the  "  Hepresentatives  of  the 
People"  with  the  armies,  so  as  to 
enable  either  of  these  functionaries 
to  call  for  reinforcements  from  the 
army  of  his  coadjutor  whenever  cir- 
cumstances should  render  it  neces- 
sary. That  the  French  government 
already  dreaded  Napoleon's  power, 
and  fell  upon  this  mode  of  crushing 
it,  is  not  Itkely.  He  had  always  be- 
haved with  the  greatest  deference  to- 
wards the  Directory ;  and  when  they 
wrote  their  letter  they  had  only  re- 
ceived the  news  of  the  successes  in 
the  Apennines  and  the  armistice  of 
Cberasco,  so  that  there  could  hardly 
be  lufficient  grounds  for  jealout^. 


1 846.] 


The  Italian  Campaigns. 


161 


The  plan  was  only  one  of  the  many 
crude,  incongruous  conceptions  that 
80  constantly  emanated  from  Carnot 
and  the  other  war  ministers  of  the 
period.  Napoleon  neither  resigned, 
nor  threatened  to  resign,  the  com- 
mand of  the  army  on  this  occasion, 
as  so' many  writers  assert;  he  simply 
contented  himself  with  combatmg 
the  proposal,  and  told  the  Directory 
that  the  operations  against  Rome  and 
I^eghorn  could  be  undertaken  by 
detached  columns,  and  that  *^  one  bad 
general  was  better  than  two  good 
ones.**  To  Carnot  he  explained, — 
yfhat  a  war  minister  should,  perhaps, 
have  known  without  such  informa- 
tion— ^that  with  50,000  men,  it  would 
be  impossible  to  keep  the  conquered 
country,  blockade  Mantua,  march  to 
Naples,  and  return  in  time  to  meet 
the  Austrians,  certain  to  advance  for 
the  relief  of  the  fortress ;  and  that  at 
a  season  of  the  year  "  when  every 
day*s  march  would  cost  the  army 
200  men."  The  Directory  yielded 
the  point  with  a  serio-comic  embar- 
rassment, worthy  of  notice.  "  You 
appear  to  desire.  Citizen  General," 
said  these  unhappy  rulers  of  empire, 
**  to  retain  the  sole  direction  of  all 
the  operations  of  the  present  cam- 
paign in  Italy.  The  Directory  has 
maturely  reflected  on  this  proposal, 
and  the  confidence  which  it  reposes 
in  your  talents  and  republican  zeal 
has  decided  the  question  in  the  affir- 
mative. General  Kellerman  will  re- 
main at  Chamber^.** 

Napoleon  havmg  thus  obtained 
free  hands,  determined  to  avail  him- 
self of  the  interval  of  repose  likely  to 
follow  on  the  banks  of  the  Adise, 
and  to  improve  his  relations  with  the 
Southern  States  of  Italy.  General 
Augereau  was  despatched  across  the 
Po,  to  invade  the  Papal  Legations  of 
Ferrara  and  Bologna,  while  the  com- 
mander-in-chief proceeded  to  Milan, 
and  from  thence  to  Tortona.  At 
Brescia  he  already  met  the  Prince  of 
Belmonte  Pignatelli,  sent  by  the 
King  of  Naples  to  solicit  an  armis- 
tice, preparatory  to  a  negotiation  for 
neace.  It  was  readily  granted  ;  the 
Neapolitan  dominions  were,  as  we 
have  just  seen,  too  distant  to  be  im- 
mediately attacked,  and  though  the 
kin^  had  only  aided  the  Austrians 
with  a  small  corps  of  cavalry,  de- 
spair, or  conviction  of  the  fate  certain 
to  follow  submission^  might  drive 


him  to  make  greater  exertions;  his 
secession  from  the  alliance  was  there- 
fore a  great  point  ^ined  to  the 
French,  and  would,  besides,  leave  the 
Pope  exposed  without  aid  to  the  full 
weight  of  Republican  vengeance. 

The  siege  of  the  citadel  of  Milan, 
which  was  already  in  progress,  not 
requiring  the  presence  of  the  com- 
mander-in-chief. Napoleon  set  out 
for  Tortona,  whence  he  despatched 
Colonel  Lasnes  with  1200  men,  to 
punish  the  town  of  Aquato,  and  some 
of  the  imperial  fiefs  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, the  inhabitants  of  which  had 
taken  arms  against  the  French.  A 
renewal  of  scenes  acted  at  Pavia  and 
Benaseo  soon  restored  tranquillity: 
the  insurgents  were  buried  beneath 
the  smoking  ruins  of  their  dwellings, 
and  women  and  children  left  to  weep, 
in  desolation,  over  the  graves  of  those 
who  had  been  butchered  for  taking 
arms  in  their  country's  cause. 

From  Tortona  Napoleon  proceed- 
ed to  Bologna,  where  the  first  intel- 
ligence that  greeted  him  was  worthy 
of  the  executioner  of  Pavia  and  Aqua- 
to. When  Augereau*s  division  en- 
tered the  Legations,  a  strong  repub- 
lican spirit  manifested  itself  among 
the  citizens  of  the  surrounding  towns. 
Reggio,  Parma,  and  Ferrara,  raised 
national  suards,  and  joined  the 
French.  Bologna  went  even  farther, 
and  declared  itself  a  free  republic 
under  the  protection  of  the  Great 
Nation.  In  the  country  districts  a 
very  different  feeling  prevailed,  and 
the  small  town  of  Lugo  made  open 
resistance,  and  a  souadron  of  French 
cavalry  that  attacked  the  place  was 
repulsed  with  the  loss  of  five  men. 
A  strong  Republican  force  was  im- 
mediately despatched  to  avenge  this 
insult ;  and,  ailer  a  sharp  resistance, 
the  tovNi  was  taken,  plundered,  and 
burned,  and  the  male  population  put 
to  the  sword  as  usual.  The  dull  and 
brutal  Augereau,  who  here  began  as 
a  butcher,  ultimately  to  end  as  a 
traitor,  and  under  whose  authority 
this  ruthless  deed  was  perpetrated, 
proclaimed  it  in  the  tone  of  a  victor ; 
told  the  people  of  Romagna  what 
had  been  the  "  fate  of  the  wives  and 
daughters  of  the  men  of  Lugo,**  and 
warned  them  "  how  they  roused  th 
French  volcano.**  An  Italian  writ 
giving  an  account  of  the  afiair  in  ' 
Gazette  established  at  Bologna,  a1 
the  arrival  of  the  Republicans,  c 


162  Principal  Campaigns  tn  the  Site  of  Napoleon.  [Febniaiyi 


eludes  thus,  ^*  On  Saturday  moniLqg 
the  victorious  axmy  re-entered  our 
city  loaded  with  spoil,  wfaidi  was 
immediately  put  to  sale  in  the  market* 
place.  The  scene  presented  all  the 
appearance  of  one  of  the  richest  tarn 
witnessed  for  a  long  time.'*  That 
the  traffic  was  as  honourable  to  the 
buyers  as  the  sellers,  need  hardly  be 
added. 

The  Papal  goYemment,  unpre- 
pared for  the  war,  which  had  lon^g 
been  visibly  impending  over  their 
heads,  were  totsily  unable  to  offer 
effectual  resistance,  and  after  having 
allowed  the  Austrians  to  be  driven 
out  of  Italy  for  want  of  proper  as- 
sistance, had  nothing  left  but  to  sub- 
mit on  any  terms.  The  Spanish 
ambassador  at  Home  proceeded  to 
Buonaparte*s  head-quarters,  and  soli- 
cited an  armistice  for  the  Pope, 
which  was  granted  on  the  following 
terms.  Fcrrara,  Bologna,  and  An- 
cona,  were  to  remain  in  the  hands  of 
the  French ;  his  holiness  was  to  pay 
a  contribution  of  21,000,000  of  francs, 
furnish  large  supplies  of  military 
stores^  and  surrender  a  hundred  pic- 
tures and  works  of  art,  to  be  selected 
at  the  pleasure  of  French  commission- 
ers. The  future  destroyer  of  the 
Kepublic  stipulated,  with  a  wretched 
affectation  of  Republican  zeal,  that 
the  busts  of  the  elder  and  younger 
Brutus  should  be  included  in  the 
number. 

From  Bologna  Napoleon  went  to 
Florence,  in  order  to  furnish  the 
Tuscans  with  an  illustration  of  B«- 
publican  ^ood  faith  and  respect  for 
neutral  rights.  Tuscany  bad  al- 
ways been  at  peace  with  France,  its 
government,  indeed,  w^as  the  first 
which  had  acknowledged  the  new 
llepublic ;  but  this  was  not  enough  to 
secure  the  country  from  liepublican 
aggression.  Under  pretence  of  march- 
ing towards  Rome,  General  Vaubois* 
division  entered  the  duchy;  but  the 
column  had  no  sooner  reached  Pisa, 
than,  turning  to  the  risht,  it  directed 
its  march  upon  Leghorn,  for  the 
noble  purpose  of  seizing  any  Eng- 
lish ships  that  might  be  found  in  a 
neutral  port,  or  confiscating  any 
English  merchandise  that  might  be 
discovered  in  the  store-houses  of  the 
neutral  city.  The  Republicans  had 
been  quick  and  cautious  in  their 
^ww^^^T^gg^  \y^  their  conduct  was 

->  well  known  not  to  have 


ezdted  au^icuni;  the  English  ha4 
been  warned,  and  were  on  their 
guard;  the  mercfaaxit-Bhips  escwed, 
a^  little  ff^ynftn^n^JM**  was  found  in 
the  place.  To  make  amends,  how- 
ever, the  French  levied  contrihntions 
on  the  city  and  district  in  a  manner 
to  excite  even  the  displeasure  of  Na- 
poleon, who  xemonatxated  in  strong 
terms  with  the  Government  Comims- 
sioner  that  superintended  these  dis- 
graceful exactions,  and  who,  it  seems, 
had  for  this  special  duty  some  antho- 
rity  independent  of  the  commander- 
in-chief.  The  Grand  Duke,  uoable 
to  resent  the  injuries,  thought  it 
best  to  shew  every  attention  to  the 
spoiler :  he  invited  Napoleon  to  i 
splendid  entertainment,  and  it  is  told 
that  the  latter  repaid  the  pohtenes 
by  the  following  speech  delivered  at 
the  ducal  table :  ''  I  have  just  re- 
ceived news,"  he  said,  rubbing  iuf 
hands  in  exultation,  ^^  informing  me 
that  the  citadel  of  Mihm  has  fall€D« 
and  that  your  brother,  the  emperor, 
has  no  longer  a  foot  of  ground  in 
Italy." 

Some  uncertainty  seems  at  uus 
time  to  press  on  Napoleon,  as  wdl 
as  on  the  Directory,  regB^Bding  the 
line  of  policy  which  was  to  be  par- 
sued  towards  the  conquered  pro- 
vinces. The  government  at  Fsxtt 
were  at  first  ea^r  to  revoltttionise^ 
the  neighbounng  states  that  should 
be  subdued;  but  this  propsgaadist 
zeal  cooled  very  much  as  the  oppoT' 
tunities  for  venting  it  offered  them' 
selves.  Whether  the  estabUsbment 
of  republics  in  the  newly-conquered 
porovinces  would  have  been  too  d^ 
cided  a  measure  at  a  moment  when 
the  Directory  were  anxious  to  ffxa 
the  good- will  of  the  other  European 
governments  by  moderation,  and  be 
received  into  the  congregation  c^wc 
world's  rulers;  to  become  the  friends 
—in  a  slight  way,  perhaps,  the  iSfy" 
ciates — or  lords  and  princes,  rather 
than  continue  the  tools  of  a  low  de* 
mocracy,  it  is  difficult  to  say;  ^^j 
though  they  still  propose  to  fom 
republics,  they  give  no  positive 
orders  on  the  subject,  and  Napoletf^ 
acts  a  more  ambiguous  part  stui' 
In  his  proclamations  he  invariably 
speaks  of  only  waging  war  agsio^ 
tne  governments  and  not  a^^ainst  the 
people;  he  encourages  the  disaffected* 
and  leads  them  to  acts  certain  of  cau' 
ing  down  upon  the  perpetiaton  the 


1846.] 


ne  Halian  Campaigng. 


163 


vengeance  of  their  former  rulers,  but 
always  stops  short  of  extreme  mea- 
sures, and  oppresses  the  countries 
through  the  medium  of  existing  au- 
thorities. Many  have  ascribed  this 
conduct  fo  deep  policy,  though  it 
was  probably  nothing  more  than  the 
middle  course  that  men  of  medio- 
crity, wanting  alike  the  guidance  of 
hifi|h  character  and  talents,  naturally 
faU  into  when  placed  in  novel  and 
trying  situations.  Soon  after  his  first 
success,  he  tells  the  Directory:  "You 
must  not  reckon  upon  a  revolution 
in  Piedmont — it  will  come  in  time; 
but  the  minds  of  the  people  are  still 
far  from  being  prepared  for  such  a 
change.**  In  announcing  the  occu- 
pation of  Leghorn,  he  disapproves 
of  the  jurisdiction  assumed  by  the 
French  Commissioner  as  highly  in- 
jurious, *^ unless,**  as  he  says,  "the 
government  wish  to  adopt  the  tone 
and  policy  of  ancient  Rome,  which 


is  contrary  to  your  mstitutiong.** 
He  recommends  extreme  modera- 
tion, and  requests  that  no  threat  may 
be  thrown  out  against  any  of  the  ex- 
isting governments.  This,  however, 
bodes  tiiem  no  great  good,  for  at  the 
very  time  he  is  writing  this,  and  ac- 
cepting the  hospitality  of  the  Grand 
Duke  of  Tuscany,  he  tells  the  Di- 
rectory :  "  You  will,  of  course,  per- 
ceive the  impossibility  of  ultimately 
leaving  the  emperor*8  brother  in  pos- 
session of  Tuscany.'*  Here  was  all  the 
plundering  spirit  of  ancient  Korae 
without  the  high,  direct,  and  manly 
tone  of  policy  which  shed  some  re- 
deeming lustre,  some  sparks  of  great- 
ness, and  so  manv  of  glory,  over  its 
thousand  years  of  crime  and  blood- 
shed. For  the  present,  however,  the 
Florence  Museum  was  spared :  Man- 
tua had  greater  charms  for  the  con- 
queror than  even  the  MedioeanTenus 
herself. 


Chapter  IV. 

Siege  of  Mantaa:  Advance  of  Marshal  Wurmser,  and  Battles  of  Lonati  and  Gas- 
tigUone..^Second  Advance  of  Marshal  Wurmser:  Ports  of  Calliano  and  Bassauo. 
—.Combat  of  St.  George. — State  and  Conduct  of  the  Contending  Parties. 


The  citadel  of  Milan  had  fallen, 
the  detached  corps  had  rejoined  the 
army,  a  powernil  battering  train, 
with  ample  stores,  had  been  found 
at  Ferrara  and  other  places  lately 
occupied  by  the  French ;  and  it  now 
became  a  question  whether  Mantua 
should  be  attacked  in  form,  or  whether 
the  Austrian  army  which  was  assem- 
bling for  its  relief  should  first  be  en- 
countered. 

Beaulieu  had  resigned  command, 
and  it  was  known  that  Field-Marshal 
Wurmser,  an  old  officer  of  reputation, 
was  to  brin^  a  reinforcement  of  25,000 
men  from  the  army  of  the  Rhine,  and 
assume  the  command  of  the  Austrian 
forces  in  Italy :  the  time  for  his  ar- 
rival was  drawing  near,  and  Napoleon 
hesitated.  General  Chasseloup,  the 
chief  of  the  engineers,  and  an  officer 
of  great  skill,  having  however  assured 
him  that  the  fortress  could  be  reduc- 
ed in  fourteen  days  from  the  opening 
of  the  batteries,  the  siece  was  deter- 
mined upon.  As,  in  all  such  cases, 
some  delay  took  place,  ground  was 
not  broken  till  the  1st  of  July,  but 
the  works  were  then  carried  on  with 
so  much  spirit  that  the  place  was 
already  near  its  fall,  when,  on  the 
29th,  the  arrival  of  Marshal  Wurm- 
ser caused  the  siege  to  be  raised. 


Before  we  enter  on  the  details  of 
the  actions  we  shall  presently  have 
to  relate,  we  must  here  be  allowed  to 
point  out,  what  certainly  appears  a 
very  great  oversight  on  the  part  of 
Napoleon,  as  one  of  the  many  proofo 
which  tend  to  shew  that,  thougli  be- 
ing a  successful  commander,  he  was 
never  the  great  and  transcendant 
military  genius  thousands  would  force 
us  to  believe.  The  importance  of 
Mantua  was  sufficiently  evident ;  it 
had  already  checked  his  progress  for 
nearlv  two  months,  it  now  prevented 
him  from  entering  Germanv  and  aid- 
ing the  French  armies  of  the  Rhine, 
which  were  already  pressing  back 
the  armies  of  the  Arcnduke  Charles 
and  General  Winterfield.  So  long 
as  Muitua  held  out  all  the  French 
conquests  in  Italy  had  to  be  risked 
on  the  fate  of  every  battle,  for  it  was 
perfectly  evident  that  a  defeat  sus- 
tained beneath  its  walls  would  force 
them  to  abandon  I^mbardy,  where 
they  had  no  stronghold   of  conse- 

?uence,  and  again  seek  shelter  in  the 
liviera  of  Genoa,  behind  the  Mari- 
time Alps.  While  Mantua  was  un- 
subdued the  French  could  gain  no- 
thing by  victory,  nor,  as  chance 
proved,  by  a  succession  of  victories, 
except  the  precious  time  necessary 


164 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.  [Febraaiy, 


for  reducing  that  important  strong* 
hold ;  the  question  then  is,  Could  not 
the  object  itself  have  been  gained 
lyithin  a  time  that  admitted  of  being 
fairly  calculated,  and  Avithout  placing 
the  fate  of  the  whole  campaign  on 
every  cast  of  the  blood-reeking  dice 
of  war  ?  We  think  the  object  could 
have  been  so  gained;  and  by  the 
simple  process  of  returning  to  the 
old  practice  of  coTcring  the  ope- 
rations of  the  siege  by  lines  and  cir- 
cumvallation.  Ihat  such  lines  have 
been  entirely  exploded  in  modem 
times  proves  nothing ;  in  war  every 
thing  depends  upon  circumstances, 
and  what  may  be  wise  conduct  at  one 
moment  may  chance  to  be  extreme 
follv  at  another :  and  here  we  think 
such  lines  would  have  been  extreme 
wisdom ;  nor  do  we  know  that  modern 
names  stand  so  very  high  as  to  make 
us  discard,  by  the  mere  weight  of 
occasional  practice,  the  method  fol- 
lowed by  Conde,  Turenne,  Eugene, 
and  Montecucoli.  These  command- 
ers would  all  have  resorted  to  such 
lines,  and  in  the  countless  number 
of  sieges  carried  on  during  the 
reign  of  Louis  XIV.,  we  only  re- 
collect three  instances  of  the  pro- 
tectiuff  entrenchments  having  been 
forced.  The  instances  are  Arras, 
Valenciennes,  Turin,  where  the  lines 
were  very  extensive  and  the  de- 
fenders few  in  number.  There  has 
been  a  good  deal  of  idle  bravado 
scorn  of  field-works  set  up  by 
military  men  in  modern  times,  but 
the  instances  of  such  w^orks  having 
been  stormed  are,  nevertheless,  ex- 
tremely few.  Frederick  IL,  with 
only  60,000  men,  arrested  150,000 
Austrians  and  Russians,  before  the 
lines  of  Bunzelwitz;  the  Duke  of 
Wellington's  fortified  position  of 
Torres- Vedras  was  respected  by 
the  soldiers  who  had  overrun  Eu- 
rope; and  General  Jackson's  lines 
at  New  Orleans  proved  what  even 
untrained  soldiers  can  effect  be- 
hind good  breastworks.  The  mili- 
tary profession  begin  to  discover, 
late  as  the  discovery  is,  that  modem 
infantry  can  only  shoot  down  their 
adversaries,  and  that  slowly  enough 
too;  firing  is  their  only  mode  of 
fighting,  close  combats  being  altoge- 
ther unknown.  The  natural  con- 
clusion is,  that  those  who  stand  be- 
hind good  entrenchments  have  a 
great  and  decisive  advantage  over 


those  who  assaQ  such  defences ;  and 
it  is  not  likely  that  Wurmser's 
50,000  Austrians  would  have  at- 
tacked, or  made  any  impression  on, 
lines  of  circumvallation  thro^vn  up 
in  the  most  favourable  situation  for 
such  works,  having  an  extent  of  only 
8000  yards,  and  defended  by  44,000 
French  infantry,  the  best  then  known 
in  Europe,  and  against  whom  the 
Austrians  had  always  fought  to  dis- 
advantage in  the  field.  That  the 
Austrians  might  have  overrun  the 
open  country  if  they  had  found  tlie 
French  posted  within  such  lines. 
would  have  signified  little.  As 
stated,  the  town  was  near  its  fall 
when  they  arrived,  and  the  French 
could  easily,  in  the  fertile  plains 
of  Lombardy,  have  collected  sup- 
plies for  the  maintenance  of  the 
troops  during  the  few  days  the  army 
would  have  been  confined  within 
the  entrenchments.  General  Clanse- 
witz,  a  writer  of  high  ability  and  a 
warm  defender  of  Napoleon,  who 


mentions  this  plan  as  feasible,  savs 
that  it  is  now  easy,  judging  after  the 
event,  and  looking  bacK  on  the  his- 
tory of  the  campaign,  to  discover 
the  advantages  that  would  have  re- 
sulted from  the  measure.  This  is, 
no  doubt,  true,  but  every  ordinary 
judge  in  such  matters  can  now  see  the 
advantages,  and  though  such  a  per- 
son mi^ht  not  have  observed  them 
at  the  time,  a  man  of  genius  should 
then  have  seen  them ;  foresight  and 
the  power  of  taking  a  wide  and  com- 
prehensive view  of  the  operations  in 
progress  being  the  very  attributes  by 
which  such  a  character  is  distin- 
guished. Had  Napoleon  been  the 
great  man  his  eulogists  wish  to  prove 
him,  he  would  have  discovered  these 
advantages,  particularly  so  as  his 
professional  education  had  made  him 
familiar  with  the  subject;  but  he 
shewed  himself  here,  as  on  every 
other  occasion,  a  mere  dependant  on 
the  gallantry  of  his  soldiers:  his 
army  was  of  the  bravest,  and  it  ef- 
fected great  things. 

We  must  now  say  a  few  words  of 
the  theatre  of  war  on  which  were  per- 
formed the  most  extraordinary  series 
of  actions  recorded  in  military  his- 
tory,— actions,  the  conduct  and  result 
of  which,  if  properly  related  and 
brought  out,  should  prove  as  in- 
stmctive  to  statesman  as  to  soldiers. 

The  line  of  front  which  the  French 


1 846.] 


The  Italian  Campaigns. 


165 


had  to  defend  asaint  an  Austrian 
army  attempting  tnc  relief  of  Mantua, 
extended  from  Legnano  on  the  Adige, 
below  Verona,  to  Lonato,  situated 
a  few  miles  south  of  the  south- 
western extremity  of  the  Lake  of 
Garda.  As  the  distance  from  right 
to  left  did  not  exceed  forty  miles,  two 
marches  were  sufficient  to  assemble 
the  troops  on  any  point  of  the  posi- 
tion, and  the  nature  of  the  country 
throws  great  obstacles  in  the  way  of 
any  attack  directed  against  the  line 
of  defence.  The  Lake  of  Garda, 
thirty  mUes  in  length,  and  from 
three  to  ten  in  breadth,  falls  from 
the  north,  almost  perpendicularly. 


upon  the  left  of  the  line,  and  breaks 
all  direct  approach  from  that  quarter. 
To  the  eastward,  and  nearly  parallel 
to  the  lake,  runs  the  Adige,  leaving 
only  a  mountainous  isthmus,  of  fVom 
five  to  ten  miles  in  breadth,  between 
its  waters  and  those  of  the  lake, 
opposite  the  southern  extremity  of 
which  the  river  issues  from  the 
mountains,  and  bending  to  the  east- 
ward, continues  that  course  till  it 
falls  into  the  Adriatic ;  thus  covering 
by  its  easterly  course  the  right  of  the 
French  position,  even  as  its  southern 
course  helped  to  break  any  onset 
directed  against  the  front  and  centre 
of  that  position. 


CAVAROG 
i 

SALO^ 

mM. 

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1 

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\pES^ 
lONE^ 

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bBUSOLCNGA 

f 

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NERA 

^jj|«H 

.<- 

^CASTICL 

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) 

A 

/a 

• 

10  MILES 


^Q^         JoALBAREDO 


»LEONAN0 


lANTUA 


oct/o 


THE     PO      R. 


Between  Legnano  and  the  Adri- 
atic the  country  is  so  marshy  and  in- 
tersected by  canals,  rivers,  and  water- 
courses, as  to  be  yery  nearly  im- 
passable for  an  army  advancing  in  the 
face  of  an  enemy ;  besides,  hy  di- 
verging so  far  to  the  left,  an  army 
marchmg  from  Germany  to  the  relief 
of  ^fantua  would  naturally  abandon 
its  own  basis  of  operation,  expose  itself 
to  be  attacked  in  the  rear,  and  cut 
off  from  its  proper  line  of  communi- 
cation. In  like  manner,  an  army  ad- 
vancing to  the  westward  of  the  Lake 
of  Garda  would  diverge  too  far  to 
the  right  of  its  basis  of  operation,  and 
expose  itself  to  be  cut  off  by  seeing  its 
len  flank  turned,  though  the  country  is 


far  more  practicable  in  that  direction. 
It  was  only  from  Lmiano  to  Lonato, 
therefore,  that  the  French  were  as- 
sailable, and  posted  behind  the  ob- 
stacles mentioned,  they  could  move 
with  the  greatest  facility  along  the 
whole  of  tneir  field  of  operation,  an 
advantage  that  far  more  than  out- 
weighed the  numerical  superiority  of 
their  adversaries.  The  French  army 
was  about  46,000  effective  men;  of 
these  10,000  or  11,000  remained 
under  General  Serruier  to  observe 
IMantua,  leaving,  by  French  accounts, 
33,000  disposable  for  the  approaching 
contest.  Wurmser  brought  46,000 
men  into  the  field,  %  force  which 
Napoleon  and  his  biographers  haye 


166 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.  [February, 


augmented  in  the  most  shameful 
manner.  In  the  Memoirs  of  iVa- 
poleony  vol.  i.  p.  8,  and  in  Las  Cases, 
vol.  ii.  page  152,  the  strength  of  the 
Austrians  is  stated  at  100,000  men, 
including  15,000  in  Mantua,  leaving 
Napoleon,  with  his  thirty  odd  thou- 
sand soldiers,  to  encounter  85,000 
enemies  in  the  field.  In  the  third 
volume  of  the  Memoirs^  Wurmser's 
army  is  estimated  at  80,000,  includ- 
ing the  effective  garrison  of  Mantua, 
leaving  the  marshal  a  superiority 
of  only  40,000  in  the  field ;  but  in 
the  fourth  volume  of  the  Memoirs^ 
page  323,  we  again  find  the  Aus- 
trians between  70,000  and  80,000  in 
the  field,  giving  them  a  superiority 
of  40,000  or  50,000  over  the  French. 
And  to  a  great  extent  these  extra- 
vagancies have  actually  found  their 
way  into  history. 

The  storm  which,  during  the 
month  of  July,  had  been  gathering 
in  the  Tyrol,  now  burst  forth,  an(^ 
like  loosened  avalanche  from  Alpine 
height,  rolled  down  in  fury  on  the 
plains  of  Lombardy.  But  its  strength 
was  soon  broken,  and  the  mass 
striking  ac^ainst  the  obstacles  already 
mentioned  was  splintered  into  frag- 
ments at  the  very  outset  of  its  course. 
The  right  division  of  Wurmser's 
army,  consisting  of  15,000  men,  com- 
manded by  General  Quasdanowitch, 
advanced  by  the  western  shore  of 
the  Lake  of  Garda;  the  centre  co- 
lumn, under  the  field-marshal  him- 
self, followed  the  mountain-road, 
over  the  isthmus  between  the  lake 
and  the  Adige ;  while  General  Mc- 
las,  with  the  lefl  division,  was  on 
the  left  bank  of  the  river.  These 
two  divisions,  forminff  together  3 1 ,000 
men,  were  sufiiicienuy  near  to  lend 
each  other  support,  but  could  only 
come  into  communication  with  the 
riffht  division  on  the  southern  shores 
of  the  lake,  that  is,  exactly  on 
the  front  of  the  French  position; 
an  error  which  proved  the  source 
of  all  the  disasters  that  followed. 
Whether  the  object  of  this  sepa- 
ration was  to  avoid  crowding  the 
whole  army  on  the  roads  leading  over 
Monte  Baldo,  and  through  the  val- 
ley of  the  Adige,  or  to  cut  off  the 
retreat  of  the  French  to  Milan — ^plan- 
ning already  how  to  augment  the 
results  of  a  victoiy  before  it  had  been 
Mhieved — ^it  is  rnipossible  to  say ; 
"^nugh  the  danger  of  the  arrange- 


nlent  must  have  been  evident  flrom 
the  first. 

Massena,  with  bis  divinon,  occu- 
pied the  valley  of  the  Adige,  and  the 
isthmus  between  that  river  and  the 
lake : '  his  advanced  jwsts  were  in 
front  of  Rivoli,  on  the  road  leading 
over  Monte  Ikldo.  Here  he  was 
attacked  on  the  morning  of  the  29th 
July,  and  though  it  could  not  be 
intended  that  a  single  division  should 
oppose  the  advance  of  the  main  body 
of  the  Austrian  army,  he  made  se- 
rious resistance,  and  was  driven  back 
to  Piovani,  having  lost  several  pieces 
of  artillery  and  a  considerable  num- 
ber of  men  in  killed,  wounded,  and 
prisoners.  On  the  western  shore  of 
the  lake  the  Austrians  were  also 
successful ;  and  while  Wurnwer  was 
forcing  back  Massena,  General  Quas- 
danowitch was  driving  the  French 
from  Salo  and  Brescia,  inflicting 
some  loss  upon  them  at  both  places. 
At  Salo  an  entire  French  battalion 
was  cut  off,  and  forced  to  take  refiigc 
in  an  old  castle  near  the  town;  but 
such  was  the  gallant  spirit  by  which 
the  llepublicau  troops  were  then  ani- 
mated, that,  though  destitute  of  pro- 
visions, they  defended  their  post  for 
eight-and-iorty  hours  against  the 
vastly  superior  force  by  which  they 
were  assailed.  A  single  battalion, 
however,  could  not  arrest  an  anny, 
and  every  thing  seemed  to  prosper 
for  the  Austrians. 

And  here  we  come  upon  one  cf 
these  circumstances  in  Napoleons 
history  which  his  ibUowers  ht>\'^ 
been  so  anxious  to  keep  out  of  sight, 
and  which,  but  for  his  subsequent 
quarrel  vnth  General  Augereau,would 
never,  perhaps,  have  been  veiyge"^ 
rally  known.  The  advantages  gained 
by  the  Austrians  on  the  29th  were 
of  no  decisive  nature ;  their  armies 
had  not  effected  a  junction;  they  had 
struck  no  serious  blow  against  the 
French  divisions,  which  they  had  at- 
tacked, and  had  carried  no  position  of 
the  slightest  importance ;  tneFrencfl 
had  lost  some  time,  and  nothing 
more;  and  yet  we  find  that  NapO", 
leon  was  so  dispirited  by  the  state  oi 
affairs,  so  broken  down  and  destitute 
of  all  power  of  acting  and  deciding? 
that  at  a  council  of  war,  held  at  Bo- 
verbello  on  the  30th,  he  could  come 
to  no  resolution,  and  spoke  only  oi 
retiring  across  the  Po.  It  was  on 
the  urgent  remonstrance  of  Auge- 


1846.] 


The  Italian  Campaigns, 


167 


rean,  that  the  resolation  of  marching 
against  the  enemy  was  adopted.  The 
upholders  of  Buonaparte  have,  of 
course,  denied  the  accuracy  of  this 
statement,  declaring  that  the  com- 
mander-in-chief was  only  desirous  of 
trying  the  resolution  of  his  generals ; 
but  the  conduct  ascribed  to  him 
tallies  so  much  with  his  bchayiour 
on  other  occasions,  that  we  cannot 
possibly  doubt  its  accuracy,  especially 
as  the  excuse  offered  by  his  friends 
is  a  puerility  unfit  to  impose  even 
upon  children. 

The  necessary  materials  for  a  very 
clear  and  intelligible  account  of  the 
series  of  actions,  known  under  the 
general  name  of  the  battle  of  Cas- 
tiglione,  of  which  we  have  now  to 
give  a  brief  view,  are  unfortunately 
still  wanting :  the  French  statements 
are  as  destitute  of  truth  as  of  con- 
sistency; and  the  Austrian  confiden- 
tial reports,  which  throw  so  much 
light  on  other  parts  of  the  campaign, 
are  extremely  deficient  regarding  this 
particular  act  of  the  drama.  "We 
shall,  therefore,  state  only  what  may 
now  be  considered  as  fairly  authen- 
ticated, without  attempting  to  recon- 
cile some  apparent  contra£ctions. 

There  being  no  possibility  of  co- 
vering the  siege  of  Mantua  against 
both  the  Austrian  corps  advancing 
to  its  relief;  and  the  tune  necessary 
for  savins  the  battering  train  hav- 
ing been  lost  by  indecision,  no  alter- 
native remained  but  to  leave  things 
as  they  were,  and  to  march  against 
the  enemy*s  columns  that  were  threat- 
ening the  communication  with  ]SIi- 
lan:  it  was  the  nearest,  and  was 
probably  known  to  be  the  weakest 
also,  rarks,  stores,  guns,  and  works, 
were  abandoned  with  the  utmost  pre- 
cipitation; and  on  the  evening  of 
the  30th  the  whole  army  crossed 
the  Mincio,  and,  leaving  behind  onl^ 
two  rear-guards  under  General  Pi- 
geon and  Yalette,moved  on  to  confront 
General  Quasdano witch.  He  was 
soon  found,  for  on  the  31st  the  ad- 
vanced corps  of  the  two  armies  en- 
countered at  Lonato.  Fortune  at 
first  smiled  upon  the  Austrians,  but 
the  augmenting  number  of  the  Ke- 
publicans  having  soon  convinced 
Quasdanowitch  that  he  had  the  whole 
French  army  to  deal  with,  he  fell 
back  to  Gavardo.  While  this  com- 
bat was  in  progress  in  the  centre, 
General  Souret  was  despatched  to 


Salo,  to  relieve  General  Guyeux; 
who,  with  his  brave  battalion,  ;stfll 
defended  himself  in  the  old  castle  at 
the  entrance  of  that  town :  here  also 
the  French  were  successful,  and  hav- 
ing liberated  their  countrymen,  they 
fell  back  on  the  main  body  of  their 
army.  The  fruits  of  these  victories, 
though  not  great,  were  risked  by  a 
most  unaccountable  march.  Talung 
with  him  two  divisions  of  his  army, 
Kapoleon  set  out  late  at  ni^ht  on 
the  31st  for  Brescia,  where  be  ar- 
rived at  eight  o'clock  on  the  follow- 
ing morning.  Having  dispersed  the 
few  Austrian  picquets  who  were  found 
in  the  place,  he  returned  to  Monte 
Chiaro  on  the  2d  of  August ;  the  in- 
activity of  his  adversaries  saved  him 
ftrom  the  consequences  of  this  false 
movement. 

During  these  operations,  Wurm- 
ser,  who  seems  to  have  advanced 
very  slowly,  reached  IMantua,  which 
he  entered  on  the  1st  of  August. 
Finding  the  siege  raised^the  artillery 
abandoned,  and  every  thing  left  in 
a  manner  indicating  a  contused  and 
hasty  retreat  on  the  part  of  the  ene- 
my, the  field-marshal  concluded  that 
the  victory  was  already  achieved, 
and  that  its  fruits  only  had  to  be 
gathered  in.  He,  therefore,  con- 
tented himself  with  sending  some 
troops  of  the  garrison  to  pursue  Ge- 
neral Scrruicr's  division,  which  had 
taken  the  direction  of  Borgoforte, 
while  General  Liptay,  with  one  of 
the  corps  of  the  liberatinj^  army,  was 
despatched  across  the  li^ncio,  to  fall 
upon  any  of  the  enemy's  troops  which 
might  still  be  found  in  that  direc- 
tion. It  was  only  on  the  evening  of 
the  2d  of  August  that  Wurmser  re- 
ceived the  tidings  of  the  clieck  expe- 
rienced by  QuiSdanowitch — a  dehy 
easily  accounted  for,  since  the  French 
army  now  interposed  between  the 
two  Austrian  divisions.  But  even 
yet  there  might  have  been  hope,  had 
there  been  energy  and  activity.  Ge- 
neral Liptay  had  crossed  the  JVCncio 
on  the  1st ;  on  the  2d  he  fell  in  with 
the  French  rear-ffuards  under  Ge- 
nerals Pigeon  and  Valette ;  the  first 
efiected  its  retreat  in  some  sort  of 
order,  but  the  second  was  comjtletely 
routed  and  dispersed  at  Castiglione, 
the  fugitives  carrying  the  alarm  even 
to  Monte  Chiaro,  where  Napoleon 
had  just  arrived  after  his  march  to 
Brescia.    The  French  had  hitherto 


168  Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rite  of  Napoleon.  [Febraary, 


been  striking  towards  the  west,  and 
the  hard  blow  which  now  hit  them 
came  directly  from  the  east :  had  it 
been  struck  by  the  whole  of  Wurm- 
Ber*s  army,  instead  of  a  single  divi- 
sion, it  would  have  proved  hnal  and 
decisive;  nothing  could  then  have 
saved  the  Bepubficans.  But  fortune 
still  wavered,  and  skill  having  been 
about  equal  on  both  sides,  it  was 
only  by  an  additional  pouring  out  of 
sallant  blood,  that  the  scales  of  either 
nost  could  be  made  to  sink. 

Napoleon  believing,  it  would  seem, 
that  ne  had  inflicted  a  serious  loss 
on  Quasdanowitch  in  the  action  of 
the  31st,  thought  it  sufficient,  after 
having  given  me  enemy  three  days* 
respite,  to  send  the  divisions  of 
General  Despinois,  Guyeux,  and 
D*Allemagne,  makin^^  in  all  about 
8000  men,  in  pursuit  of  the  van- 
quished. Castigiione  had  to  be  re- 
taken, a  service  for  which  Augereau*s 
division,  and  the  cavalry  under  Ge- 
neral Kilmaine,  were  destined.  Na- 
poleon himself,  with  Massena*s  divi- 
sion, and  his  other  reserves,  remained 
near  Lonato,  ready  to  act  according  to 
circumstances.  This  army  was  thus  to 
act  on  two  opposite  points ;  Augereau, 
in  his  attack  on  Castigiione,  faced  to 
the  south-east  the  troops  sent  in  pur- 
suit of  Quasdanowitch  to  the  north- 
west. In  their  attack  on  Castigiione 
the  French  were  successful :  Liptay 
was  forced  to  leave  the  place  after  a 
long  and  severe  struggle ;  but  against 
Quasdanowitch  they  were,  at  first, 
less  fortunate. 

This  general,  though  checked  in 
the  action  of  the  31st,  had  not  been 
defeated,  and  naturally  considered  it 
his  duty  to  make  an  eiiort  to  join  his 
commander  on  the  Mincio,  or  to  aid 
him  in  his  attack  on  the  French 
army,  which,  owing  to  the  firing  at 
Castigiione  on  the  previous  day,  he 
might,  perhaps,  think  in  progress : 
fatal  as  the  resolution  prov^,  we 
can  hardly  blame  the  spint  that  sug- 
gested it.  He  was,  therefore,  in  full 
advance  from  Guvardo,  beyond  which 
he  had  never  retreated,  when  he  fell 
in  with  his  pursuers.  The  corps  of 
Despinois  and  D*  Allemagne,  too  weak 
to  resist  the  Austrian  superiority, 
were  instantly  overthrown,  and,  as  it 
seems,  completely  dispersed ;  but  Ge- 
neral Guyeux*  corps  marching  on  the 
road  to  Salo,  to  the  right  of  the  one 
bv  which  the  AustriaiMLBiBie  advan- 


cing, passed  the  hostile  columns  and 
reached  that  place  in  safety :  having 
met  with  little  or  no  opposition,  they 
were  thus  in  rear  of  the  foe,  and  the 
fortune  of  battle,  in  which  they  took 
no  share,  was  to  decide  whether  they 
were  to  be  cut  off  themselves,  or  to 
aid  in  cutting  off  others. 

Quasdanowitch,  ignorant  or  un- 
mindful of  the  march  of  this  feeble 
corps,  followed  up  his  sucoesii,  at- 
tacked and  carried  Lonato,  making 
prisoner  General  Pigeon,  who  com- 
manded the  troops  stationed  there, 
and  captured  part  of  the  artillery  of 
!Ma8sena*s  division.  Affairs  were  in 
this  dangerous  position  when  Napo- 
leon arrived  from  St.  Marco  with 
the  rest  of  Massena*s  troops,  and 
restored  the  action.  Here  again  the 
fronts  were  inverted :  the  Austrians, 
who  had  taken  Lonato,  were  obliged 
to  face  to  the  right  about,  to  the 
westward  from  whence  they  had 
come,  to  oppose  these  new  adversaries ; 
and  Napoleon,  instead  of  striving  to 
cut  off  their  retreat,  seems,  as  fitr  as 
accounts  are  intelligible,  to  have 
forced  his  way  through  their  centre, 
and  to  have  regained  his  oripnal 
front,  leaving  them  their  line  of  re- 
treat perfectly  open.  This  breaking 
through  the  enemy's  line  has  been 
praised  as  a  very  splendid  manoeuvre 
by  all  historians  and  biographeis; 
of  its  real  consequences,  nowever, 
they  say  nothing.  The  Austrians, 
however,  made  the  most  of  it,  find- 
ing themselves  outnumbered,  and  re- 
ceiving no  intelligence  of  Warmser's 
army ;  hearing,  perhaps,  the  fire  re- 
ceding from  Castigiione,  instead  of 
advancing,  they  fell  back  by  the 
same  road  they  had  come,  without 
being  molested  in  their  retreat :  three 
battSions  of  the  left  wing  were  se- 
parated from  the  main  body;  and, 
as  we  shall  see,  forced  to  surrender 
on  the  following  day. 

This  is  a  brief  and  very  imperfect 
outline  of  the  operations  of  the  Sd  of 
August;  for,  besides  the  actions  of 
Ivonato  and  Castigiione,  several  others 
were  fought  on  various  points  with 
different  success.  But  we  have  no 
perfect  account  of  them.  Napoleon*s 
report  to  the  Directory,  written  after 
the  final  battle  of  Castigiione,  evinces 
only  a  most  extraordinary  confusion 
of  ideas,  and  an  inability  to  give  even 
a  clear  account  of  what  had  pa»ed 
under  his  own  eyes:  all  the  events 


1846.] 


The  Italian 


169 


had  been  so  mueh  in  his  fk^oar,  thai 
there  could  be  no  obiect  in  mystify- 
ing their  prepress,  IukI  he  possessed 
the  power  of  describtng  them  in  an 
inteliigihle  nwnner.  Where  the  ideas 
are  chsar,  it  is  not  likely  that  the 
writing  ¥rill  be  obscure. 

But  Fortane*s  scales  still  remained 
balanced,  notwithstanding  the  suc- 
cess we  have  described;  though  a 
victory  was    evidently  leaning  to- 
wards the  side  of  the  French.  Qoas- 
danowitch^s    corps   might   now  be 
considered  as  fairly  disposed  of;  and 
even  the  main  army  under  Wnrmser 
was  no  longer  intact,  since  Liptay*s 
division  had  been  repulsed  from  Cas- 
tigllone.    The   fate  of  battle  was, 
however,  to  be  tried  anew,  and  both 
parties  employed  the  4th  of  August 
to  collect  all  their  strength  for  the 
approaching  combat. 

I>uring  tne  interval  an  additional 
piece  of  good  fortune  befell  the  French, 
rhe  three  Austrian  battalions  sepa- 
rated from  their  main  body  on  the 
previous  day,  had  attempted  to  retire 
by  the  road  to  Salo.    Finding  it, 
as  we  have  related,  occupied  by  the 
troops  of  General  Guyeux,  they  re- 
turned, and   endeavoured  to  make 
their  way  along  the  southern  shores 
of  the  lake,  in  hopes  of  falling  in 
with  some   of  Wurmser's  division. 
Strangely  enough  they  reached  Lo- 
nato  without  hinderance;  and  not 
knowing  hcrw  matters  stood,  sum- 
moned tne  French  to  surrender.  Na- 
poleon himself  was  in  the  place  with 
a  brigade  of  Massena*s  division,  which 
vas  in  the  immediate  vicinity;  he 
treated  this  sununons  as  an  insult 
offered  to  the  commander-in-chief  of 
an  armv  in  the  midst  of  his  troops, 
and  ordered  the  Austrians  instantly 
to  lay  down  their  arms  or  to  take 
the  consequences.    From  the  frag- 
ments of  three  dispersed  battalions, 
ignorant   of  their   situation,   little 
could  be  expected;  they  complied,  and 
surrendered  to  the  number  of  about 
1000  men ;  they  had  three  pieces  of 
artillery  with  them.    The  story  of 
4000  men  having  been  captured  by 
Ximoleon,  attended  only  by  his  staff 
and  a  small  escort — of  the  deception 
practised  upon  the  Austrian  officer, 
who  was  lea  blindfolded  into  an  open 
village,  as  if  carrying  a  summons  to 
a  besieged  fortress,  belongs  to  the 
class  of  idle  fictions  only  calculated 
to   Amuse    unreflecting   credulity. 


The  great  eivor  of  the  Austrians 
here  was  to  summon  the  French; 
their  only  chance  would  have  been  a 
sudden  onset  before  the  astonished 
enemy  could  re-coUect  themselves, 
and  observe  the  small  number  of  the 
assailants,  for  confusion  always  mag- 
nifies the  foe.  Such  an  attempt  sne- 
oeeded  at  Deso,  and  might,  perhaps, 
have  succeeded  here,  though  the 
chances  were  infinitely  less  promis- 
ing; but  military  history  is  full  of 
instances  shewing  how  readily  For* 
tune  smiles  on  those  who  trust  boldly 
and  blindly  to  her  favour. 

The  final  action  between  the  main 
armies  was  fought  on  the  5tli,  near 
Castiglione.  Wurmser  brought,  as  we 
now  know,  less  than  20,000  men  into 
the  field ;  Napoleon,  who  was  joined 
by  Serruier*s  division  during  the 
combat,  had  about  30,000  men.  The 
Austrians  had  thrown  up  some  field- 
redoubts  to  cover  their  left  flank,  and 
the  capture  of  these  works  seems  to 
have  been  attended  with  a  heavy  loss 
to  the  French ;  on  other  points,  the 
battle  does  not  appear  to  have  been 
very  obstinately  contested.  Ser- 
ruier*s  division  having,  by  a  rapid 
march,  evaded  the  corps  of  General 
Messaros,  appeared  so  unexpectedly 
in  the  rear  of  the  Austrians,  that 
Marshal  Wurmser  himself  was,  for  a 
moment,  in  danger  of  being  taken : 
his  second  line  was  obliged  to  make 
front  against  this  new  enemy  who 
was,  indeed,  arrested  in  his  progress. 
But  the  flank  movement  was  evi- 
dently a  signal  for  the  rest  of  the 
French  army  to  press  on,  and  the 
Austrians,  considering  themselves 
unable  to  sustain  a  combined  and 
renewed  onset,  retired  in  good  order, 
and  without  being  pursued.  They 
had  lost,  besides  twentv  pieces  of  ar- 
tillery, 3000  men  in  killed,  wounded, 
and  prisoners.  Wurmser,  having  re- 
victualled  Mantua,  and  augmented 
the  garrison  to  15,000  men,  retired 
gradually  into  the  Tyrol;  he  had 
lost,  in  all,  16,400  men  and  71  pieces 
of  artillery  during  the  expemtion. 
The  French  confess  to  have  lost  7000 
men.  In  the  Memoirs  ofNapdeon^ 
vol.  i.  p.  8,  the  Austrian  loss  is  stated 
at  40,000  men. 

The  boundless  admiration  and  as- 
tonishment excited  in  Europe  by  the 
termination  of  this  second  act  of  the 
Italian  drama,  caused  the  world  to 
overlook  the  most  essential  feature  of 


170  Principal  Campatffns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.  [Febrnaiy, 


the  whole  transaction.  Lost  in  won- 
der of  what  is  termed  the  resplendent 
genius  of  Napoleon,  and  looking  in 
scorn  on  his  unhappy  adversar}%  they 
forgot  that  the  despised  and  defeated 
commander  —  whose  many  errors 
were,  no  douht,  evident  enough  — 
was,  nevertheless,  the  one  who  had 
prineinally  succeeded  in  his  ohject, 
and  obtained  the  greatest  share  of 
advantages  for  the  cause  which  he 
supported ;  and  yet  such  is  the  fact. 
Mantua  was  within  a  fbw  days  of  its 
fall  when  Wurmser's  advance  com- 
menced ;  he  raised  the  siege  and  cap- 
tured the  battering  train,  which 
could  not  be  renewed,  and  thus 
nlaced  all  possibility  of  reducing  the 
lortress,  except  by  tne  tedious  process 
of  blockade,  entirely  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. To  have  counterbalanced  this 
advantage  gained  by  the  Austrians, 
Napoleon  ought  to  have  achieved 
sucn  a  victory  over  Wurmscr  as  to 
have  laid  the  Tyrol  and  Germany 
itself  open  to  invasion ;  but  no  sucn 
victory  was  gained,  whatever  the 
Frencn  may  assert  to  the  contrary, 
for  their  army  was  for  the  next  six 
months  chained  down  to  the  banks  of 
the  Adige. 

The  conduct  of  the  Austrians 
seems,  however,  to  have  been  very 
nnaccountablc.  Their  object  was 
to  relieve  Mantua,  to  beat  the 
French,  and  reconquer  Italy.  The 
simplest  mode  of  eficcting  this — and 
the  simplest  is  always  the  best  in  war 
—  certamly,  was  to  keep  their  army 
together  and  fight  a  general  action, 
in  which  their  superiority  gave  them 
the  best  chance  of  success.  If,  on  the 
contrary,  they  sought  to  gain  their 
object  by  strategical  movements — as 
it  was  in  part  gained  by  the  raising 
of  the  siege  of  Mantua,  it  was  their 
evident  interest  to  avoid  the  battles 
of  Lonato  and  Castiglione  —  which 
would  have  been  easy — ^to  have  fallen 
back  before  the  main  force  of  the 
French,  and  acted  on  the  plan  after- 
wards followed  in  1813.  But  they 
wished,  it  seems,  to  secure  great  re- 
sults from  victory  before  it  was 
achieved ;  tried  to  cut  off  the  retreat 
of  their  yet  unvanquished  enemies ; 
thought,  no  doubt,  of  making  the 
French  divide  the  forces,  forgetting 
that  they  commenced  by  dividing 
their  own.  They  seem  not  to  have 
recollected  that  m  war  the  greatest 
«5  only  to  be  purchased  by 


the  greatest  risks ;  and  here  all  the 
success  achieved  by  the  first  move- 
ments was  lost  by  nghtin|^  battles  no 
longer  necessary,  and  with  £yided 
forces  vastly  inferior  to  the  collected 
body  of  the  enemy. 

[Notwithstanding  this  fkiliure,  the 
most  brilliant  success  was  still 
within  reach  of  the  Austrians  had 
the  cabinet  of  Vienna  known  how 
to  avail  itself  of  the  favourable 
circumstances  which  shall  be  shewn 
farther  on :  at  present  we  must  re- 
sume the  threaa  of  military  opera- 
tions, noticing  only,  by  a  few  words, 
the  events  tnat  happened  beyond 
the  sphere  of  the  theatre  of  war  on 
which  we  are  engaged;  but  which 
exercised,  nevertheless,  some  influ- 
ence on  the  result  of  the  campa^. 

The  States  of  Italy  remained  tran- 
quil during  tlie  operations  round 
Mantua ;  the  success  of  the  AustriaDs 
had  been  too  transitory  to  encourage 
cither  people  or  governments  to  rise 
against  the  French,  who  were  now 
beginning  to  be  universally  disliked 
by  all  ranks  and  classes.  It  was  only 
at  Ferrara  that  Cardinal  Matei  ven- 
tured to  call  upon  the  people  to  take 
arras,  which  had  so  soon  to  be  lud 
down  a^din.  When  after  the  battle  of 
Castiglione  the  warlike  prelate  was 
brought  before  Buonaparte  to  ansx^er 
for  his  conduct,  he  only  uttered  the 
word  ^^peccnvi^^  and  the  conqueror, 
satisfieu  >\ith  victory,  was  content  to 
order  him  a  penance  of  scyen  da}V 
prayer  and  fasting  in  a  convent. 

In  Germany  the  Republicana  had 
made  great  progress;  the  armies  of 
liforeau  and  Jourdan  had^  at  the 
moment  of  which  we  are  speaking, 
reached  the  height  of  Ratisbon ;  they 
had  been  victorious  in  every  action, 
and  all  attempts  to  arrest  their  ad- 
vance had  completely  failed.  The 
Archduke  Charles  proposed,  indeed, 
to  avail  himself  of  the  distance  that 
separated  the  two  hostile  armies,  the 
one  of  which  was  in  Swabia,  the 
other  in  Franconia,  and  to  strike 
a  blow  with  his  combined  force 
against  one  of  them  before  the  other 
could  come  to  its  aid ;  but  this  was 
only  a  project  in  contemplation,  the 
result  of  which  could  not  be  de^ 
pended  upon ;  while  actual  reverses 
were  suflbred  in  every  quarter.  On 
one  hand,  the  government  of  Saxony 
and  the  States  of  Swabia  were  for- 
saking the  Austrian  cause,  and  !Hth- 


1846-] 


The  Italian  Campaigns. 


171 


drawing  their  ircx^  from  the  arch- 
duke*s  army;  on  the  other,  Spain 
>vas  signing  an  offensive  and  defen- 
sive alnance  with  France ;  a  measure 
that  could  hardly  fail  to  have  some 
weight   with    the   goyemments   of 
Italy.    England,  though  engaged  in 
a  life-and-death  contest,  was  ignorant 
bow  a  great  war  should  he  car- 
ried  on;    an4   instead   of  striking 
at  the  vital  points  of  an  adversary^ 
power,  frittered  away  her  forces  in 
^uny  efforts  directed  against  so^ 
islands  and  distant  colonies,  leaving 
her  aUy  unsupport^  in  the  field  at 
the  very  time  when  a  small  and  effi- 
cient army,  employed  on  the  coast  of 
Italy,  might  have  produced  the  most 
decisive   events   in    favour  of  the 
general  cause. 

The  French  p^ovcmment  no  sooner 
heard  of  the  victories  achieved  near 
Mantua  than  they  immediately  urged 
upon  Kapoleon  the  expediency  of 
following  the  Austrians  into  the 
Tyrol,  and  completing  their  destruc- 
tion. "  If  General  AVurmser  obtains 
any  respite,"  they  say,  "he  will  he 
able  to  detach  troops  which,  joined 
to  the  force  of  the  Archduke  Charles, 
may  possibly  fall  upon  the  army  of 
the  Khine,  and  combat  it  with  suc- 
cess.** Nothing  could  be  more  stra- 
t^cally  correct  than  this  view,  and 
the  wonder  is,  that,  as  we  shall  see 
presently,  the  Austrians  did  not  per- 
ceive the  great  advantage  their  posi- 
tion in  the  Tyrol  then  gave  tnem. 
Napoleon,  however,  instead  of  com- 
plying with  the  plan  of  the  Direc- 
tory, nas  a  project  of  his  own:  he 
wishes  to  march  on  Trieste,  to  destroy 
that  city  altogether  with  its  harbour, 
and  then  penetrate  into  Germany. 
This  project,  independently  of  its 
being  in  the  regular  Vandal  style, 
promised,  as  certain  as  any  thing  can 
be  certain  in  war,  to  cause  the  total 
destruction  of  the  French  army,  and 
was,  therefore,  negatived  by  the 
Directory,  though  with  great  and 
evident  deference  for  Napoleon's 
opinion.  While  these  discussions 
were  carrying  on,  the  armies  had,  to 
some  extent,  been  reinforced  and  re- 
ec^uipped.  Straitened  as  the  Aus- 
trian government  were  in  Grermany, 
they  had,  nevertheless,  sent  about 
6000  men  into  the  Tyrol ;  some  regi- 
ments had  also  joined  Napoleon,  so 
that  by  the  end  of  August,  at  the 
moment  when  operations  were  about 


to  be  resumed,  the  French  army 
counted  4^,000,  and  the  Aus- 
trians 40,000  men,  present  with 
their  corps.  According  to  the  {dan 
projected  for  the  advance  (xf  the 
Austrians,  Marshal  Wurmser  was  to 
move  along  the  valley  of  the  Brenta 
with  about  22,000  men,  and  proceed 
to  Mantua,  bv  the  way  of  Verona; 
while  General  Davidowitch,  leaving 
6000  men  to  guard  the  Tyrol^  was  to 
descend  into  the  valley  of  the  Ajdi^e 
>nth  14,000  men,  and  take  off  ^ 
attention  of  the  French  from  the 
main  column  of  the  army,  or  to  at- 
tack them  if  it  could  be  done  with 
advantage ;  Wurmser  himself  acting 
in  like  manner,  and  threatening  the 
rear  of  the  enemy  if  they  turned 
against  Davidowitch.  It  is  perfectly 
evident  from  the  Austrian  account  of 
their  own  plan,  which  was  drawn  up 
by  General  I^uer  of  the  en^neers, 
and  not  as  before  by  the  chief  of  the 
quartermaster-gencrars  staff,  that  it 
emanated  altogether  from  a  complete 
confusion  of  ideas.  Nothing  what- 
ever was  to  be  gained  by  advancing 
to  Mantua,  that  fortress  was  in  no 
danger,  and  was  not  even  besieged. 
The  onl)r  object  to  be  attained  by  an 
advance  into  Lombardy,  was  to  drive 
the  French  away  from  before  the 
place,  and  to  reconouer  the  MiLuiese; 
but  this  could  only  be  effected  by 
defeating  them  in  a  decisive  battle, 
and  such  a  battle  was  not  to  be  gained 
by  divided  forces  against  the  com- 
bined forces  they  would  have  to  en- 
counter. Least  of  all  were  precarious 
manoeuvres  to  be  employed  against 
the  French,  whose  only  method  of 
war  consisted  in  marching  right  down 
upon  the  enemy  and  attacking  him  at 
once ;  striking  the  hardest  possible 
blows  at  the  nearest  and  most  acces- 
sible foe.  This  had  been  their  sys- 
tem from  the  commencement  of  the 
revolutionary  war ;  it  had  been  acted 
upon  with  wonderful  success  during 
the  Italian  campaign,  and  every  addi- 
tional victory  tended  of  course  to 
give  it  force,  to  augment  the  gallant 
soldiership  of  the  men,  and  the  con- 
fidence and  spirit  of  enterprise  of  the 
commanders.  During  the  present 
operations  we  shall  see  them  display 
a  degree  of  spirit,  energy^  and  activity 
which  has  been  rarely  equalled,  and 
from  which  it  would,  be  unjust  to 
withhold  A  tribute  of  the  highest 
admi'' 


It2  Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.  [^February, 


It  is  not  very  clear  what  Napo- 
leon's object  was  when  he  broke  forth 
at  the  end  of  August.*  Historians 
tell  us,  indeed,  that  having  pene- 
trated Wurmser's  project,  he  aeter- 
mined  to  fall  upon  Davidowitch  with 
all  his  forces,  as  soon  as  the  main  body 
of  the  Austrian  army  should  be  at 
too  great  a  distance  to  lend  him  sup- 
port. Unfortunately  for  this  bril- 
liant conception,  it  vanishes,  like  so 
many  others  ascribed  to  Napoleon, 
before  dates,  distances,  and  tne  un- 
premeditated words  of  his  own  des- 
patches. But  if  we  do  not  know  his 
exact  object  on  this  occasion,  we 
know  the  result  of  his  expedition, 
which  could  hardly  be  more  striking 
or  successful. 

Leaving  the  usual  corps  of  obser- 
vation    before  Mantua,    and  some 


81  MICHCAL 


troops  under  General  Kilmain  at  Ve- 
rona, he  advanced  with  great  rapi- 
dity towards  the  head  of  the  Lake 
ofGarda.  General  Vaubois  marched 
on  the  western  shore  of  the  lake, 
^lassena  over  Monte  Baldo  and  the 
isthmus,  and  Augereau  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Adi^.  While  the  French 
were  thus  movmg  upon  Trent,  and 
almost  due  north,  Wurmser'a  aimy 
was  leaving  that  place  in  three  suc- 
cessive divisions,  and  marching  to 
the  southward  on  Bassano ;  the  nos- 
tile  armies  thus  passing  each  other 
to  the  right  on  different  tacks,  as 
seamen  would,  perhaps,  express  it. 
On  the  3d  of  Septemtor,  the  French 
drove  the  advanced  posts  of  the  Aus- 
trians  back  upon  Mori  and  St.  Marco, 
and  as  General  Davidowitch  had  gone 
to  Trent,  to  hold  a  last  conference 


oFRtMOLANO 


CAM  PO  -LUNCOO^  ^SOLAGI 

BASSANOi 

<;astel-fkanco 


OCITTAOEIIA 


MANTUA 


*  Let  him  speak  for  himself.  In  the  St,  Helena  Memoirts,  he  sajs,  "  Wurmser, 
reinforced  by  20,000  men,  was  io  the  Tyiol,  end  beginning  his  movement  for  the 
lehef  of  Mintue,  by  marching  through  the  gorges  of  the  Brenta,  BatMiiio,  and  the 


IS46.] 


The  tlalian  Campaigns, 


m 


with  Fidd-manhal  Wunnser,  and 
did  not  return  to  his  head-quarters 
at  Roreredo,  till  early  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  4th,  he  only  learned  that 
the  enemy  were  in  force  when  it  was 
already  too  late  to  tidce  the  best 
measures  for  defence.  That  this 
error,  or  want  of  arrangement,  led 
to  the  loss  of  many  brave  men,  can- 
not be  doubted,  but  it  was  trifling 
compared  to  what  followed. 

£^ly  on  the  morning  of  the  4th, 
the  French  attacked  toe   posts   of 
Mori  and  St.  Marco.    As  there  were 
only  two  Austrian  brigades  present, 
they  fell  back,  fighting,  and  appear 
to  nave  conducted  their  retreat  with 
great  steadiness  and  regularity;  re- 
pulsing the  French  cavalry  who  at- 
tempted to  break  them,  both  before 
and  after  they  had  retired  through 
Boveredo.    In  one  of  these  charges 
General  Dubois  was  killed.    They 
intended  to  assemble  their  difierent 
corps  at  Galliano,  a  position  of  great 
strength,   where  they  proposed   to 
make  a  stand.    This  position    can 
only  be  approached  in  front  through 
a  narrow  gorge,  a  sort  of  Italian 
Thermopylie,  of  about  one  hundred 
and  ^fty  yards  in  breadth,  having 
the  rapid  and  foaming  Adige  on  one 
side,  and  a  precipitous  rocky  emi- 
nence, crowned  by  an  ancient  ba- 
ronial castle  on  the  other :  the  pass 
is,  besides,  protected  by  the  hamlet  of 
La  Fietra  and  an  old  loopholed  wall, 
so  that  no  position  can  have  a  stronger 
front.    The  main  body  of  the  two 
brigades  had  passed  through  the  de- 
file, and  had  already  established  them- 
selves in  their  bivouacs  on  the  open 
grround  to  the  rear,  and  trusting  to 
the  strength  of  the  pass,  they  had 
piled  their  arms,  and  were  preparing 
to  dress  their  dinners.    With  proper 
arrangements   all  this  might  have 
been  eflected  in  perfect  safety ;  a  single 
error  in  judgment  made  it  the  cause 


of  irreparable  ruin.    Instead  of  hav- 
ing troops  properly  posted  in  the 
defences  of  the  pass, — having  the 
men  and  officers  settled  in  their  po- 
sition, familiar  with    its   points  of 
strength  and  weakness,  and  coolly 
prepared  to  take  up  the  rear-g^uard 
and  to  resist  the  enemy  if  he  pressed, 
the  duty  was  left  to  he  performed  by 
the  rear-guard  itself.     This  body, 
consisting    of    1700    men,    of   the 
regiment  of  Freiss,  conmianded  by 
Colonel  Weidenfeld,  was  ordered  to 
make  front  on  reaching  La  Fietra, 
and  to  defend  the  gorge.    Nume- 
rically  the   corps   was   sufficiently 
strong  for  the  purpose,  but  it  had 
be^  sharply  engaged  during  the  re- 
treat, and  was  closely  preswd  upon 
by  the  enemy,  who  gave  the  soldiers 
no  time  to  settle  in  their  new  x>osi- 
tion.    The  Republicans,  elate  with 
recent  success,  and  panting  for  vic- 
tory, attacked  La  Fietra  with  great 
resolution;   and,  while  swarms   of 
tirailleurs  ascended   the  height  on 
one    side,   and  extended  along  the 
banks  of  the  river  on  the  other,  the 
head  of  Massena*s  division,  advanc- 
ing in  dose  column  under  the  pro- 
tection of  eight  pieces  of  artillery, 
carried  Uie  village.    The  astonished 
Austrians,  unable  to  obtain  a  firm 
footing  behind  their  defences,  were 
thrown  back  into  the  pass:  victors 
and   vanquished    rushea    headlong 
through  the  dark  defile,  where  the 
tempest  of  war,  gathering  stren^h 
from  the  narrow  limits  within  which 
it  was  compressed,  swept  the  fugi- 
tives in  f\i^  alon^,  till  the  broken 
bands,  seeing  no  otTier  hope  of  safety, 
threw  themselves  into  a  wooded  glen 
that  carried  them  away,  indeed,  from 
the    scene    of  havoc,   but  left  the 
French  in  full  possession  of  the  road 
leading  into  the  unprotected  Aus- 
trian camp. 
So  rapid  had  been  the  flight  from 


lower  Adige;  while  Davidowitch  was  left  with  2d,000  men  for  the  protection  of  ibe 
Tyrol.  NapoleoD,  feeling  how  important  it  was  to  occupy  the  Austrian  army,  and 
prevent  them  from  detaching  forces  against  the  French  army  of  the  Rhine,  which  was 
already  approechiog  the  plains  of  Bavaria,  had  no  tootter  penetrated  WurmserU  plan, 
than  he  raolved  to  oHume  the  offetaive,  and  beat  that  general  in  detail  "  That  is,  as 
soon  as  be  bad  discovered  that  the  Austrian  army  was  marcliing  on  Mantua  and  not 
into  Germany,  he  assumed  the  offeasire,  to  prevent  them  from  marchiDg  into  Ger- 
many. Besides  be  forgets  bis  own  despatches,  written  after  the  capture  of  Trent, 
by  which  it  is  shewn  that  he  did  not  know  Wunnser*8  plan,  for  in  his  letter  of  the  Slh 
September,  be  tells  the  Directory  that  Wurmser  had  "  fled  to  Bassauo;"  andneit 
day  he  says  that  "  Wurmser  has  thrown  himself  towards  Bassano,  in  order  to  cover 
Trieste."  AU  these  pretended  plans,  formed  on  the  asserted  discovery  of  the  Au«* 
tmn*s  projectSi  are  mere  fables,  as  gross  as  they  are  worthless. 


174  Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon,  [February 


La  Pietra,  and  through  the  past, 
that  not  a  single  messenger  was  de- 
spatched to  apprise  the  troops   at 
Galliano  of  what  had  happened ;  not 
a  single  fugitive  reachea  the  camp ; 
the  firing  of  the  artillery  was  un- 
heeded ;  or,  as  afterwards  stated,  not 
even  heard;*   and    now  ruin  was 
there.    The    French,   leaving    the 
fragment  of  the  rear-guard  unpur- 
suS,  continued  their  onward  course ; 
their  cavalry  threw  themselves  upon 
the  camp  of  the  astonished  and  un- 
preparea  Austrians,  which  was  soon 
one  mass  of  utter  confusion.    Not  a 
sinffle   company    or   battalion   was 
unaer  arms;   not  a   squadron  was 
mounted.    In  this  hour  of  fear  the 
officers    vainly  attempted  to    rally 
some  troops;   the  charging  horse- 
men gave  no  time  to  form  or  collect, 
all    sought    safety   in   wild  flight; 
swarms  of  scattered  soldiers  spread 
wide  and  far  in  every  direction,  and 
the  road  to  Trent  was  instantly  co- 
vered with  artillery,  bag&;aj|^c,  ammu- 
nition-carts, mounted  and  dismounted 
soldiers,  who  hurried  to  that  town 
for  shelter.    The  French  followed 
fast,    and  slew  and  captured  vast 
numbers.    A  few  parties  of  infantry, 
gathered  at  last  round  their  officers, 
and  brought  down  some  of  the  fore- 
most pursuers,  a  slight  respite  was 
then  gained,  till,  in  the  end,  friendly 
night  cast  her  peaceful  mantle  on 
the  scene  of  death  and  shame.    But 
a  hundred  battles  had  to  be  fought, 
the  blood  of  thousands  had  to  be 
poured  out  before  the  disastrous  re- 
sults of  that  fatal  day  were  remedied. 
Such  was  the  rout  of  Galliano, 
commonly  called  the  battle  of  Rove- 
redo,  in  which  the  misconduct  of  a 
lieutenant-colonel,    the    commander 
only  of  a  rear-guard,  caused  the  dis- 
persion of  a  whole  army :  how  much 
the  loss  of  that  army  may  ultimately 
have  cost  the  people  of  Austria,  it 
is  impossible  to  calculate;  but  the 
failure  of  Wurmser*s  enterprise,  which 
it  principally  occasioned,  forms  one 
of  the  main  links  of  that  uninter- 
rui>ted   chain   of  heavy  calamities 
which  afterwards    befell   the    mo- 
narchy.   The  catastrophe  shews,  if 
proof  were  wanting,  how  ffreat  is  the 
char^^e,  and  how  terrible  tnc  rcspon- 
sibihty,  liable  to  devolve  on  officers 


even  of  the  humblest  statioD ;  and  so 
government,  taking  counsel  from  ex- 
perience, and  acting  honourably,  and 
free  from  all  selfish  motives  towards 
the  nation  over  which  it  rules,  can 
ever  idlow  a  single  step  of  military 
rank  to  be  granted,  unless  to 
individuals  possessing,  or  believed 
to  possess,  the  highest  pcofeasioaBl 
qualities.  The  death  of  evexy  bqI- 
dier,  who  falls  in  consequence  of  the 
misconduct  of  his  superior,  may  be 
fairly  chaigcd  as  murder  againtt 
those  who  appointed  the  unfit  com- 
mander, imless  it  can  be  clearly 
proved  that  every  effort  was  used  to 
find  the  person  most  fitted  by  ta- 
lents, bravery,  and  acquirements,  to 
hold  such  important  trust;  for,  of 
course,  no  effi>rt  can  ensure  perfec- 
tion in  all  cases.  At  present,  how- 
ever, military  rank  and  preferment 
are  actually  sold  for  money  in  Eng- 
land, though  long  since  abolished  in 
every  other  country  in  Europe.  The 
practice  dates  from  the  age  of  bar- 
oarism,  and  is  more  disgraceful,  per- 
haps, than  any  which  uiat  age  coold 
have  bequeathed  to  a  land  of  freedon. 

Napoleon  entered  Trent  on  the 
mornmg  of  the  5th  September,  and 
only  then  discovered  ^at  the  main 
body  of  the  Austrian  army  bad 
marched  on  Baasano.  He  deter- 
mined to  follow  them;  bat  first 
resolved  to  drive  Davidowitdif  ^pK 
corps  he  probably  suspected  of  being 
stronger  than  it  really  was,  fitfther 
into  the  mountains.  This  unfor- 
tunate commander,  whose  army  was 
14,000  strong  on  the  Ist  of  Septem- 
ber, was  enabled  to  assemble  oidj 
5000  men  at  Trent  on  the  night  after 
the  rout  of  Galliano ;  with  these  be 
retired  before  the  advancing  French, 
till  he  reached  Lavis,  where  he  made 
a  short  stand,  to  gain  time,  and  col- 
lect dispersed  men,  and  then  &U 
back,  skirmishing,  to  Newmark, 
where  the  pursuit  ended. 

Though  the  last  division  of  bis 
army  had  marched  some  days  be- 
fore, Field-marshal  Wurmser  hini' 
self  was  still  at  Trent,  where  the 
report  of  the  disaster  of  Galli&i^^ 
reached  him.  The  idea  of  counter- 
marching the  army  and  rejoining 
Davidowitch  was  entertained  for  a 
moment,    but    subsequently   aban- 


*  It  i«  only  oa  tbo  unquMtiooable  aathority,  on  which  the  evenu  of  these  can- 
pugus  are  related,  ihet  the  writer  could  venture  to  claim  credit  for  such  atatemeati. 


1846.] 


Tke  Italian  Campaigns, 


\15 


doned,  and  orders  sent  to  press  the 
original  movement.  The  road  to 
Mfuitua  was  now,  indeed,  perfectly 
open,  and  the  fortress  might  have 
been  reached  without  difficulty,  had 
not  a  series  of  fatalities,  for  they 
can  be  called  nothing  less,  attended 
the  execution  of  a  plan  which  was 
already  faulty  enough  in  its  ori- 
ginal conception. 

As  the  last  division  of  Wurmser's 
army  was  already  some  days  in  ad- 
vance on  the  rcMid  to  Bassano,  no 
apprehension  of  being  overtaken  by 
the  enemy  seems  to  have  been  enter- 
tained, and  yet  detached  corps  were 
left  on  the  road,  far  too  weak,  in- 
deed, to  arrest  the  progress  of  a 
pursuing  force;  but  so  strong,  as 
veiT  much  to  weaken  the  army  from 
which  they  were  detached,  and  far 
too  strong  also  for  mere  posts  of 
observation. 

Buonaparte,  when  at  Trent,  issued 
a  proclamation  to  the  Tyrolese,  call- 
ing upon  them,  in  the  usual  Repub- 
lican style  of  the  period,  to  throw 
off  the  yoke  of  Austria,  and  seek 
shelter  under  the  protection  of 
France.  His  stay  at  this  time  was 
too  short  to  enable  him  to  see  the 
contempt  with  which  a  brave  and 
loyal  people  received  such  an  invi- 
tation ;  but  he  had  afterwards  to  pur- 
chase the  information  with  the  blood 
of  thousands.  On  the  present  occa- 
sion he  only  left  General  Vaubois 
with  10,000  men  to  watch  the  rem- 
nants of  Davidowitch's  corps,  and 
having  countermarched  the  divisions 
of  Augereau  and  Massena,  followed 
Wurmser  with  giant  strides  do¥m 
the  valley  of  the  Brenta.  From 
Trent  to  Bassano  is  little  short  of 
fifty  miles,  a  distance  which  the 
French  traversed  between  the  6th 
and  the  morning  of  the  8th  Septem- 
ber, notwithstanding  the  previous 
toils  they  had  undergone,  and  the 
combats  they  bad  fought.  It  was, 
in  truth,  a  gallant  march,  which  the 
trifling  forces  interposed  by  Wurm- 
ser could  not  arrest  for  a  moment. 
At  l/cvico  the  first  Austrian  corps, 
consisting  of  2000  men,  was  en- 
countered and  instantly  dispersed. 
A  second  corps,  of  equal  strength, 
was  stationed  at  Primolano,  the  troops 
fought,  were  surrounded,  and  forced 
to  lay  down  their  arms.  No  ston 
no  stay,  the  fiery  torrent  rolled 
petuously  along,  and  the  gorg* 

VOL.  XXXIU.  KO.  CXCIV. 


the  Brenta  are  now  cleared.  At 
Campo  Lungo,  three  battalions  are 
surrounded,  on  the  morning  of  the 
8th  they  are  instantly  attacked, 
and  routed;  while  three  additional 
battalions,  detached  from  the  Aus- 
trian camp  for  their  support,  come 
only  to  augment  this  contusion.  Bas- 
sano was  now  in  sight,  and  the  ex- 
pected prixe  fired  the  weary  and 
exhausted  soldier  to  renewed  exer- 
tions, which  were  soon  crowned  in- 
deed with  the  easiest  and  the  most 
brilliant  success. 

Several  of  the  Austrian  divisions 
were  already  before  Verona;  but 
Wurmser,  with  the  brigades  of  Se- 
bottendorff  and  Quasdanowitch,  en- 
cumbered too  with  all  the  parks, 
baggage,  reserve  artillery,  and  the 

Eontoon  train  of  the  army,  were  still 
alting  at  Bassano.  On  the  evening 
of  the  7th,  he  already  learned  the 
advance  of  the  French;  and,  for  a 
moment,  the  idea  of  retiring  into 
Friouli  suggested  itself,  but  was  soon 
relinquished,  and  orders  given  for  the 
troops  to  be  in  readiness  to  proceed 
with  the  march  on  Vicenza.  Why 
the  execution  was  delayed,  the  Aus- 
trians  have  not  explained,  so  that 
we  only  know  the  fatal  result  that 
attended  their  loss  of  time.  The 
French  having  overthrown  the  troops 
at  Campo  Lungo,  were  advancing  on 
Bassano  by  both  banks  of  the  nver, 
when,  at  eight  o*clock,  the  Austrians 
commenced  their  mardi.  On  issuing 
from  the  town,  the  leading  column 
already  met  the  French,  and  though 
the  front  battalions  forced  their  way 
through  on  the  Vicenza  road,  the 
rest  were  driven  back  at  the  very 
time  when  Massena's  division  was 
alr^y  attacking  the  town  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river.  To  aug- 
ment the  confusion,  the  parks  were 
at  this  moment  filing  over  the  bridge : 
some  drivers  attempted  to  proceed, 
others  to  turn,  so  that  the  streets 
were  instantly  blocked  up.  A  wild 
scene  of  confnsion  followed,  and  here 
also  an  army  was  defeated  without 
having  fought.  All  fled ;  the  great- 
est number  in  the  direction  opposite 
to  that  in  which  the  enemy  ad- 
vanced; and  this,  fortunately,  led  to 
Citadella,  and  was  the  right  one.  The 
brigade  of  Quasdanowitch  was  sepa- 
^*nt\  from  the  main  body,  and  ef- 
*treat  into  Friouli ;  but  the 
-»•  artillery,  and  what 


176  Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Ri^  cf  Napoleon.  [February, 


now  endangered  the  Bafety  of  ftlie 
fumy,  Uie  pontoon  train  also^  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  French.  No 
disciplined  armies  had  ever  before 
sustained  disasters  equal  to  those  of 
CaUiano  and  Bassano;  for  where 
erery  thing  was  lost  without  a  brave 
blow  having  b^n  struck  for  victory, 
the  vanquished  could  hardly  say, 
hrave  as  they  were,  "that  honour 
had  been  saved/' 

The  exhausted  condition  of  the 
French  troops  prevented  the  pursuit 
from  beinff  very  vigorously  con- 
tinued, and  at  Vioenza  Wurmser 
was  aUowed  to  collect  the  scattered 
remnants  of  his  host.  Here,  also, 
the  gallant  spirit  of  the  soldier  seems 
to  have  awakened,  for  his  measures 
henceforth  are  marked  by  the 
promptness,  energy,  and  resolution, 
which  cQuld  alone  extricate  his 
troops  from  the  perilous  situation  in 
which  they  were  placed.  The  pon- 
toon train  was  lost,  and  three  rivers, 
guarded  by  vigilant  foes,  had  to  be 
erossed  before  Mantua,  now  the 
only  haven  of  refuge,  could  be  gained. 
In  front  stood  General  Kilmain,  with 
a  Frendi  corps  at  Verona ;  General 
Bahuguet,  with  the  blockading  di- 
vision, had  taken  up  strong  defensive 
Ssitions  behind  the  Tirone  and  the 
olinella,  and  in  the  rear  Napoleon 
pressed  fiercely  on  the  retiring  Aus- 
iriuM  with  Massena*s  indeftligable 
division.  Never  was  an  army  in 
greater  danger  than  Wurmser*s  was 
at  this  moment,  but  if  their  errors 
had  brought  them  into  peril,  the 
errors  of  their  foes  savea  them  at 
least  from  destruction. 

The  Austrian  field-marshal,  making 
a  feint  against  Verona,  threw  him- 
self rapidly  upon  Legnano,  where 
there  is  a  bridge  over  the  Adige. 
The  town,  though  surrounded  by 
ramparts,  and  capable  of  some  de- 
fence, was  found  occupied  by  only 
twenty-five  French  dragoons,  who 
naturally  fled  on  the  advance  of  the 
(jrermans,  and  gave  up  the  valuable 
post.  Napoleon's  statements,  that 
the  town  was  found  unguarded,  be- 
cause some  Austrian  squadrons, 
which  had  crossed  the  river  at  Al- 
faaredo,  had  interrupted  the  French 
battalion  intended  for  its  defence,  is 
a  mere  afterthought  intended  to  con- 
ceal an  error,  for  not  a  single  Aus- 
trian soldier  crossed  the  river  till 
Legnano    was    secured.     Wurmser 


having  given  his  troopi  a  day's  mt, 
andpia^the  town  in  a  state  of  tem- 
porary defence,  again  commenoed  his 
march  on  the  morning  of  the  lOUi ; 
for  Manena,  havingcroosedtheA^ 
in  boats  at  Bonco,  was  already  threstr 
ening  to  intermpt  the  road  to  Msn- 
tua :  speed  and  resolution  were  slike 
necessary  in  such  times.  The  ad- 
vanced guards  of  the  hostile  annics 
encountered  at  Cerea,  where  s  long 
and  stem  combat  was  fought  for  tiie 

posseasimi  of  the    '^iU'^  ^  ^ 
bridge  over  the  Menago.  TheAnitri- 
ans  proved  successful,  and  the  French 
were  obliged  to  fly  ao  rapidly  that 
Napoleon  himself  was  in  daoigeT  of 
being  taken.     Seven  guns  and  700 
prisoners  remained  in  the  hands  of 
the  victors,  who  were  allowed  to  con- 
tinue Uieir  march  without  interrup- 
tion, as  it  was    expected   that  the 
Tirone  would  arrest  their  further 
progress.     Nor    was    such   dsager 
wanting,  for  General  Sahuguet  w 
found  strongly  posted    benindwc 
river  at  Co^lario,  while  Masaena, 
to  avenge  his  defeat  at  Ceres,  w 
closing  up,  and  ready  to  fiill  on  ^ 
Austnan  rear.    But  Wurmser  here 
proved  himself  superior  to  his  pur- 
suers, opening  a  heavy  fire  of  Mtu- 
lery  on  the  French  position  at  Ca*- 
tellaro,  he  forced  a  march  to  ViUem- 
penti,  overthrew  the  troops  in  ^^"•JKJ 
of  the  bridge,  and  not  oiily  secured 
the  passage  of  the  Tirone,  but  of  the 
Molinella  also.    General  Sahuguet, 
indeed,  sent  some  regim^its  to  itp'^ 
the  important  post,  but  they  were 
defeated  with  loss,  400  bein^  taken 

?ri8oners  by  the  Austrian  nuaof^ 
'he  French  general  had  now  to 
think  of  secunng  his  own  retreat, 
which  was  not  enected  without  dan- 
ger, for  having  been  overtaken  near 
the  Favorita,  some  of  his  troops  ^f^ 
thrown  into  confusion,  and  sustainfiu 
considerable  loss. 

On  the  12th  Septehiber  the  Aus- 
trians  reacbed  Mantua,  but  their 
troubles  were  not  ended ;  for  instead 
of  entering  the  fortress,  if  only  to 
rest  and  reorganise  the  troops,  <n- 
pass  over  to  the  right  bank  of  the 
Mincio,  they  encamped  on  the  o^ 

f  round,  near  the  ducal  palace  of  the 
avorita,  having  the  citadel  in  rear 
of  their  left  wing,  and  the  fortified 
suburb  of  Saint  George  in  rear  of 
their  riffht.  Here  they  were  already 
attacked  by  Massena^  division  OD 


1846.1 


The  Italian 


s. 


\rr 


the  14tfa,  bot  tiMfB^ 
gained  some  advaat^ 
iBStancey  tiie   niwiHnirtn 
matdy  driv^en  back  with 
lots;   three  gam  and 
era  fdl  into  the  hands 


the  French 
m  the  irst 
were  nlti- 
oonsidei&Ue 
SOO  priflonr 
of  the  Aa»- 


trians. 

Eneoaraged  by  ilie  snecefls  of  these 
diiSeRBt  aetknus  Wormser  was  in- 
dveed  to  haaard  a  battle  next  day 
against  the  whole  French  army. 
Legnano,  in  whieh  ihe  Austrians 
had  left  s  garrison  of  1200  men,  to 
corer  their  conmwmicatiMi,  had  sur- 
rendered to  Angerean,  who  had 
joined  the  main  body:  Victor  and 
Sahngnet  had  done  ^same.  The 
four  divisions  amounted,  by  Na- 
poleon's aecoant,  to  25,000  men,  and 
these  Woxmser  ventured  to  engage 
with  the  10,000  men  of  what  he 
called  the  ^operating  army,"  the 
troops  of  the  ganison  taking,  most 
nnaccoimtably,  no  share  in  the  ao- 
tton;  and  mm  the  ^ns  of  the 
woiicB,  whi^  were  behmd  them,  the 
Austrians  could  derive  little  or  no 
aid.  What  object  the  field-mar- 
shal had  in  fightm^  this  battle  it 
is  impossible  to  conjeeture.  K  he 
thoognt  that  a  battle  eonld  still  re- 
trieve the  disasters  of  the  campaign, 
it  should  have  been  fonght  with  evety 
disposable  soldier  that  could  have 
beoi  brought  out  of  the  city ;  if  it 
was  fought  merely  for  the  honour  of 
arms,  not  to  allow  an  amy  to  be  in- 
closed within  the  walls  of  a  fortress 
wtdiont  striking  one  bold  Mow  for 
victoiy,  it  was  an  ill-judged  sacri- 
fioe,  offered  up  at  the  rarine  of  a 
mere  phantom,for  whose  smiles,  how- 
ever important  they  are  at  times, 
rit  national  interests  should  never 
wantonly  risked.  But  though 
we  bhune  the  field-marriial's  resolu- 
tion to  fight,  it  must  be  aUowed  that 
his  troops  maintained  the  combat 
wkh  a  degree  a£  gaUantry  well  de- 
serving a  different  result  The  su- 
perior!^ of  the  French,  however, 
was  too  great,  and  the  Austrians 
were  driven  into  the  fortress  with  a 
loss  of  2000  men,  and  were,  besides, 
dtspossessed  of  the  fortified  suburb 
of  St  Geoige,  whidi  forms  the  head 
of  one   of  the   causeways   leading 


across  the  lake,  and  which  the  Re- 
publicans seized  during  the  action. 
These  were  severe  bfows,  indeed; 
the  army  was  not  only  weakened  and 
foiced  to  seds  shelter  behind  the 
walls  of  the  fortress,  their  sphere  of 
action  was  also  conned  by  the  loss 
of  Uie  village  of  St  George,  the  only 
^ontlet,  besides  the  citadel)  which  they 
he\d  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Minoio, 
a  loas  which,  at  an  after  period,  led 
to  still  further  disasters. 

Including  rick,  wotmded,  and  dis- 
persed soldiers,  belonging  to  different 
re^ments,  Wurmser  brought  about 
10,000  men  to  Mantua ;  the  garrison 
counted  at  that  time  15,000  men, 
making  in  all  a  force  of  25,000  men 
inclosed  within  the  works.  But  of 
the  garrison  alone  6000  were  unfit 
for  <mty;  and  owing  to  the  sickness 
produced  by  the  noxious  exhalations 
from  the  lake  and  the  surrounding 
swamps,  fevers  and  infections  dis- 
eases soon  spread  among  the  soldiers 
of  the  '^  operating  army,*'  and,  before 
the  end  of  a  month,  little  more  than 
one  hidf  of  the  whole  force  was  fit 
for  duty.  The  blockade,  however, 
could  not  be  very  strictl]^  maintained, 
and  the  garrison  remained  long  in 
possession  of  the  Seraglio,  a  fertile 
dntrict  of  country,  extending  between 
the  Mindo  and  the  canal  as  far  as 
the  Fo,  beyond  which  the  Austrians 
oceasioDaliy  extended  thrir  foraging 
parties,  though  th^  never  threw  a 
bridge  over  the  river,  as  stated  in 
the  French  accounts.  During  the 
whole  of  September  and  October 
Wumser  continued  to  make  con* 
stant  sallies  from  the  fortress. 

The  combat  of  St.  George  ended 
the  third  act  of  the  Italian  campaign ; 
an  act  which  proved  infinitely  more 
disastrous  to  Austria  than  the  former 
had  hem.  The  number  of  killed, 
wounded,  and  captured,  was  not 
much  greater,  as  the  loss,  from  the 
Ist  to  the  I6th  of  Septonber  inclu- 
rive,  did  not  amount  to  12,000  men.* 
But  fiune,  confidence,  and  repntatwn, 
had  been  lost;  the  morale  of  the 
troops  had  been  destroyed;  both 
divisions  of  the  Austrian  army  had 
been  routed;  their  malMd  taken, 
and  the  remnai^  of  the  main  bo^ 


*  Id  the  Napoleon  Memoirs,  we  bttvp,  of  coarse,  tbe  usual  exaggerations.  At 
pace  16,  Tol.  L,  it  is  said  that  tbe  Austrians  bad  30,000  men  killed  and  wounded ; 
and  that  14,000  were  driven  into  Mantua  along  with  Manbal  Wurmser.  Tbie  would 
give  41,000  men,  or  4000  mof  than  tbe  wMe  of  tbe  Austrian  Ibros  oounled  at 
tbe  coaMwceawat  of  operatieDS ! 


178 


Principal  CampaiffMf  in  the  Rite  of  Napoleon.  [YAmtj, 


were  blocked  up  in  Mantu*  noder 
the  command  of  a  field-mawhal  I 

it  n  inipoMible,  in  describing  these 
?;«*».  «o  refrain  from  paying  aj,^ 

indefatigable  exertions  displayed  by 
the  1,  rench  tr(»p«  in  folfcwlng  m 


liberally  tendered  them.  Their  hun- 
dred niilc8  march  from  Trent  to 
^r^  performed  amidst  constant 
combats,  and  during  which  a  river 
Jiad  to  be  passed  on  mere  ferry-boats, 

BnfX"''"^  f  the  highest^raise: 
«at  the  proofs  of  the  mHitaiy  skiU 
and  great  genius  evinced  by  the 
commander  during  these  opeiitions 

!^r!i  ^""^  •  ^"P^*3^  o^  folly  on  one 
side  offers  no  demonstration  of  the 
existence  of  wisdom  on  the  other 
Napoleon's  march  down  the  Brente 
in  rear  of  Wunnser,  has,  of  co7,~ 
been  auded  as  one  of  thrmost  spl^ 
did  strategical  movements  ever  un- 
dertaken m  war.     It  was  a  very 
erroneous  one,  nevertheless,  for  ft 
drove  Wurmser  into  Mantua  instead 
of  keepmg  him  out  of  it,  and  helped 
to  Cham  down  the  French  army  for 
SIX  months  longer  on  the  banks  of 
Vr.^i'^?'  '  T^J™P"I«  which  the 
Jilf^r'lK'^''"''^  ^^^'^  the  fim  victo- 
f«  fi,n  )  ®  campaign,  not  only  excited 
in  fuU  force,  but  had  been  alimented 
by  evenr  subsequent  advantoS^  wd 
naturaify  tended  to  hurl  t^^n 
gallant  style  against  the  often.^! 
quished  fees,  who  had,  no  doubt 

^v^J!'"^^^^!  «^*^«"  by  constant 
reverses,  and  whose  eirora  are  amply 
suftcient  to  account  for  the  disasters 

r.^'"'"flif"""&  '^^  operatbSs  we 
have  just  been  relating.  Sie  rfarimr 

S'in'^^H  • '  of  the^Austrifrde! 
tracts  in  nothing  from  the  merit  of 
Napoleon,  as  far  as  that  merit  ^ 
on  the  contrary,  he  is  to  be  Sm- 
mended  for  having  reaped  the  benefit 

of  high  military  genius  is  claimed  for 

^J^IT^^^'  ""'^  ®*P^t  to  see  for- 
midab  e  foes  yanquistcd  by  skill  and 
gallantry,  mighty  obstacles  over- 
^me,  great  things  effected  by  com- 
i^n'^'^y  r *H  "»«^  «°d  sp^Iendid 

ift^ni'J'T^*?"^  ^y^^''  ableVombi- 
nations  of  the  vaunted  leader  him- 

S^iht  o^"  '''*"  ^y  ^^"^  overhaZ 

2;hc«tile  bri.^^^^^^^  couple 

all,  ^^c  shouTd  have  expected  that  a 


tale  related  by  the  oonqueror  binuelf 
vould  have  «ione  in  all  the  simple 
and  glorious  majeshr  of  tmtb,  instead 
of  being  disfigured  by  the  gnwest 
and    most    unworthy  exaggerstkm 
ever  attempted  to  be  imposed  upon 
the  world,  —  exaggeratkna  renoer- 
ed  doubly  contemptible  by  ooDsUnt 
efforts  to  conceal  error  and  to  make 
events  appear  the  result  of  prerioBs 
calculation,  when  we  now  discover, 
from  the  first  unpremeditated  de- 
"patches  written  at  the  time,  as  irell 
as  from  the  situation  of  his  idvern- 
nes,  that  he  wanted,  when  acting, 
the  very  knowledge  on  whidi,  in  he 
after-thoughts,  he  pretends  to  hare 
founded  his  operations.    It  has  also 
been  a  ^ood  deal  the  fashion  to  eztd 
the  actirity  of  Napoleon,  and  parti- 
cularly as   exhibited  daring  these 
campaigns.    The  personal  acti^ty  of 
a  commander  who,  in  a  carriage  or 
on  horseback,  keeps  pace  with  in- 
fantry masses  and  parks  of  artiller}', 
need  not,  perhaps,  be  very  extrsor- 
<^ary;  and  though  a  general  has 
often  to  watch,  and  toil,  and  act,  while 
his  soldiers  are  resting,  Uie  gcnerali 
of  republican  France  were  spared 
even  much  of  this  toil,  by  the  pecu- 
liar method  in  which  they  carried  on 
the  war.    They  left  the  soldiers  to 
provide  for  themselves  as  best  they 
might,  and  trasted  to  Providence  for 
the  care  of  the  sick  and  wounded. 

It  may  amuse  some  of  our  readers 
to  compare  the  indefatigable  activity 
—for  such,  indeed,  it  was— displayed 
by  M assena  and  others  during  these 
^'/iP^gns,  with  the  extreme  caution 
«hibited  at  a  later  period,  and  long 
ftetore  age  had  tamed  their  fire,  vben 
contending  against  the  British.  Xo- 
tning  seemed:  above  the  courage  of 
tftese  commanders  during  the  Italian 
canipoigns,  and  the  subsequent  con- 
quest of  continental  Europe  must 
necessarily  have  added  to  their  con- 
fidence;  and  yet  it  is  wonderfol  to 
think  how  little  of  the  indomitable 
«pint    of  enterprise   so  frequently 
evinced  against  other  foes  was  slicwn 
in  their  contest  mth   the  British. 


Miphty  armies  which  had  nemre- 
s^rl^  5''°!  ^'l^g^W^nt  undertaking, 
stood  parriysed  at  the  sight  of  the 
hues  of  Torpes  Vedrasrthe  «imc 

9ccor.^-«..  ^  rJ^'l^'je  8we,  and  the 
"^  on  the  other;  Md 


1846.] 


The  lidlian  Campaigm. 


179 


those  who  in  their  pride  had  gone 
forth  to  conquer  kin|;doni8,  only 
avenged  the  defeats  ^a^tamed  in  every 
action,  hy  the  commission  of  atroci- 
ties, which  the  devastating  hands  of 
Attila  could  not  have  surpassed,  and 
■trove  at  last  to  hide  the  shame  of 
flight  and  failure,  under  the  ignohle 
hoaat  of  having  '*  consumed  the  pro- 
visions of  a  w&>le  province  !** 

Having  seen  what  was  the  fate  of 
Wnrroser's  army,  let  us  offer  a  few 
words  of  speculation  on  what  might 
have  been  effected  by  such  a  force 
had  it  been  diffcrentlV  employed  at 
the  period  of  the  advance  towards 
Iblantua. 

That  fortress  was  in  no  danger  at 
the  time,  it  was  not  even  besieged, 
and  as  Napoleon*s  army  did  not  much 
exceed  45,000  men,  it  could  hardlv 
undertake  any  distant  expedition  with 
more  than  25,000,  as  20,000,  at  least, 
required  to  be  left  for  the  blockade 
of  the  fortress.  In  general,  10  or 
12,000  were  sufficient  for  this  ser- 
vice, but  this  was  only  because 
the  rest  of  the  array  were  at  hand 
to  support  them,  if  necessary, — 
an  advantage  that  would  have  fallen 
away  if  the  main  army  had  removed 
to  a  distance.  At  the  commencement 
of  September,  the  period  of  which 
we  are  speaking,  the  French  army  of 
the  Rhine  had  already  passed  to  the 
eastward  of  the  Tyrol,  and  left  that 
mountain-fastness  in  rear  of  its  right 
flank.  Nothing  had  yet  been  decided 
in  Germany,  the  French  were  still 
advancing ;  but  the  Austrian  armies, 
though  pressed  back,  were  unbro- 
ken, and  Fortune  was  about  to 
turn  against  the  invaders.  If,  under 
these  circumstances,  Wnrmser,  in- 
stead of  marching  down  the  Brenta, 
had  passed  rapidly  through  the 
Tyrol,  and  thrown  himself  in  the 
rear  of  Moreau*s  army,  at  the  mo- 
ment when  the  Archduke  Charles 
attacked  them  in  front,  does  it  not 
seem  evident  that  the  most  decisive 
results  would  have  been  achieved, 
and  that  the  battle  of  Amberg  and 
Wurtxburg  would  have  destroyed 
the  invaders  instead  of  merely  driv- 
ing them  back  across  the  Khine? 
True,  Napoleon  might  have  followed 
the  march  of  the  Austrian  field- 
marshal  ;  but  then  he  must  first  have 
mastered  the  Tyrol,  and  to  subdue  a 
verv  difficult  mountain  country,  de- 
fended by  20,000  regulars — ^the  army 


under  Davido witch— aided  by  a  skil- 
ful and  warlike  militia  from  6000  to 
7000  strong,  would  have  been  no 
easy  task  for  the  25,000  men  that 
could  alone  have  been  spiured  from 
the  blockade   of  Mantua.    At  the 
best  it  must    have    required  time, 
which  was  all  that  the  Austrians 
wanted ;  for  had  the  armies  of  Mo- 
rean  and  Jourdan  been  completely 
beaten  while  the  army  of  Wurmser 
was  unbroken,  the  conquerors  could 
have  detached  troops  enough  to  se- 
cure victory  against  Napoleon.  Even 
the  French  government  of  the  time, 
though  not  distinguished  for  much 
sagacity,  perceived,  as  alreadv  shewn, 
the  dancer  to  be  apprehended  from 
such  a  blow;  but  tne  Aulic  Council 
remained  blind  to  the  advantage  of 
their  position.    It  is  but  rarely,  in- 
deed, that  cabinets,  generally  com- 
posed of  civilians  unacquainted  with 
the  science  of  war,  form  great  and 
skilfol  plans  for  the  conduct  of  mili- 
tary operations.     They  can  consult 
officers  of  experience  and  ability  on 
the  projects  which  they  form  over 
the  council- table ;  but  all  must  feel 
that  the  mere  advice  of  others  on 
subjects  of  which  we  are  personally 
ignorant,  can   never   convey   very 
clear  and  comprehensive  ideas  to  the 
mind,  and  give  the  uninitiated  a  full 
insight  of  what  can  and  cannot  be 
effected  with  the  means  at  their  dis- 
posal.   Hence  it  is   that   absolute 
monarchs  at  the  head  of  armies  have 
so  often  been  the  most  successful 
commanders.    Whether  all  ministers 
of  state  should  commence  their  legis- 
lative career  by  going  through  a 
campaign  and  a  course  of  drill,  is  a 
question  which  cannot  be  discussed 
here ;  though  the  principle  certainly 
answered  well  in  ancient  Rome :  but 
it  is  not  affirming  too  much  to  say, 
that  they  ought  to  possess,  at  leasts 
some  military  knowledge,  have  at 
least   some  acquaintance  with  the 
power  and  efficiency  of  that  military 
engine  on  which,  in  these  times — and 
till  the  return  of  the  golden  age — 
the  peace  and  security  of  empires 
can  alone  be  made  to  rest.    How 
dreadfully  deficient  were  the  British 
cabinets  who  conducted  our  last  great 
wars  against  France  and  America, 
need  not  be  repeated  at  this  day: 
the  fatal  truth  has  too  deepl  jr  marked 
the  blood-stained  pages  of  history,  to 
be  denied  by  either  Whigs  or  Tories. 


/ 


ISO 


The  Prid»  a/a  SfriM  Beauty. 


[Febreary, 


THE  PRIDE  OF  A  SPOILED  S1SAVTT. 
ATA£B. 
ADAPTED  FEOM  THE  PBENCH  OF  H.  DB  BAXZAC. 
ChAPTSE  n. — THE  COHCJ.C8IOW. 


The  next  day  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine  manifested  the  desire  of 
taking  a  ride.  Gradually  she  aceas- 
tomed  her  old  uncle  and  her  bro- 
there  to  accompany  her  in  certain 
very  matutinal  rides,  very  salutary, 
she  said,  to  her  health.  Notwith- 
standing all  her  manfleuvres  of  horse- 
manship,  she  did  not  see  the  un- 
known so  speedily  as  the  joyous 
researck  she  proeeecuted  miffht  lead 
ker  to  expect.  She  returned  several 
times  to  the  ball  at  Sceaux  without 
meeting  the  young  Englishman,  wbo 
had  fallen  from  heaven  to  rule  over 
and  embdlbk  her  dreams.  Although 
nothing  increases  a  girFs  beginning 
love  like  an  obstacle,  vet  there  was  a 
moment  in  which  Mademoiselle  do 
Fontaine  was  on  the  point  of  aban- 
doning her  strange  and  secret  pur- 
suit, umost  despairing  of  the  success 
of  an  enterprise,  the  singularity  of 
which  can  give  an  idea  of  the  daring 
of  her  character.  She  might  have 
wandered  a  long  while  round  the 
village  of  Ch^tenay,  without  meeting 
the  unknown.  The  young  Clara,  as 
that  was  the  name  which  Mademoi- 
selle de  Fontaine  had  heard,  was  not 
English,  and  the  supposed  foreigner 
did  not  inhabit  the  blossoming  and 
balmy  groves  of  ChAtena^. 

One  evening  that  Emilie  was  out 
riding  with  her  uncle,  who,  siaee 
the  nne  weather  had  set  in,  had  ob- 
tained a  tolerably  long  cessation  of 
kostilities  from  his  gout,  she  turned 
ker  horse  so  rapidly,  that  her  imcle 
had  all  the  trouUe  in  the  world  to 
Hollow  her,  she  had  set  off  her  pony 
at  so  quick  a  pace. 

**  I  suppose  I  am  ^own  too  old  to 
understand  these  spirits  of  twenty," 
said  the  sailor  to  himself,  as  he  put 
his  horse  to  a  gallop,  ^*  or,  perhaps 
the  youth  of  the  jHresent  day  does 
not  resemble  that  of  former  days. 
But  what  is  the  matter  with  my 
niece  P  She  is  now  walking  as  slowly 
as  a  gendarme  patrolling  the  streets 
of  Paris.  Does  she  not  look  as  if 
she   wanted  to   knock   down  that 


honest  bonrgeaiSf  who  seems  to  me 
like  an  author  dreaming  of  his  ^wems, 
for  I  thmk  he  has  an  album  in  hiB 
hand  ?  By  my  faith,  I  most  be  a 
groit  fool!  Is  not  this  the  yotuig 
man  we  are  seeking  ?  " 

At  this  thought  the  old  sailor 
walked  his  horse  ^ntly  on  the  sand 
so  as  to  come  nouelenly  up  to  his 
niece.  The  viee-adnoirai  had  had  too 
much  experience  in  the  year  1771, 
and  the  following  ones — an  epoch 
in  our  annals  when  gaUantry  was  in 
fashion — not  to  goeas  at  once  that 
Emilie  had,  by  the  greatest  chanee, 
met  the  unknown  of  the  ball  of 
Sceaux.  Notwithstanding  the  veil 
which  age  was  drawing  over  his  grey 
eyes,  the  Comte  de  Keigaronet  recog- 
nised the  indications  ofextraordinary 
agitation  in  his  niece,  in  spite  of  the 
immobility  she  endeavoured  to  give 
her  countenance.  The  pierelng  eyes 
of  the  young  girl  were  fixed  in  a 
sort  of  stupor  on  the  stranger,  who 
widked  peacefully  on  before  her. 

"That's  it!"  thought  the  sailor, 
''  she  will  follow  him  luce  a  merehant- 
man  follows  a  corsair.  Then,  when 
he  is  gone  she  will  be  in  despur  at 
not  knowing  whom  she  loves,  and  at 
being  ignorant  whether  he  is  &  98T' 
quis  or  a  bourgeois,  Bieally  youag 
young  heads  ought  always  to  have 
old  heads  like  mine  near  them.'* 

He  suddenly  pushed  his  horse  so 
as  to  send  on  his  nieoe*s,  and  pafled 
so  rapidly  between  her  and  the  ^uog 
pedestrian,  that  he  forced  him  to 
throw  himself  on  the  bank  of  ver- 
dure which  formed  the  border  of  the 
road.  Then  directly  stopping  his 
horse  the  count  exclaimed, — 

'^  Could  not  you  get  out  of  the 
way?" 

^I  beff  your  pardon,  monsieur/* 
replied  the  unknown;  ''I  did  not 
know  it  was  my  place  to  make  ex* 
cnses  because  you  nearly  knocked 
me  down." 

"  Come,  my  friend,  that  will  do," 
retorted  sharply  the  sailor,  in  a 
sneering  tone  of  voice,  which  was 


1846.] 


7^  Pride  &f  a  SpMed  B^aufy* 


m 


very  insuhin^.  At  the  mme  tkne, 
Che  count  raued  his  whip  as  if  to 
whip  his  horse,  and  touehed  the 
shoulder  of  his  interlocutor,  sftying, 
^  The  hourgeau  &Sral  is  a  reasoner 
—every  reasoner  ^ouM  be  wise.** 

The  young  man  got  up  on  the 
ride  of  the  rSad  on  hearing  th»  sar- 
casm; he  folded  his  arms,  and  an- 
swered in  an  altered  tone, — 

**  Monsieur,  I  cannot  think  when 
I  see  your  white  hairs,  that  you  still 
amuseyourself  by  seeking  for  duels.*' 

*« White  hairs!"  excliumed  the 
sailor,  interrupting  him.  *'  You  have 
lied  in  your  throat,  they  are  only 

A  dispute,  thus  begun,  became  in 
ft  few  minutes  so^  warm,  that  the 
young  adversary  forgot  the  tone  of 
moderation  which  he  had  endea- 
voured to  preserve.  At  the  moment 
when  the  tk)mte  dc  Kergarouet  saw 
his  niece  coming  up  to  them  with 
sip^s  of  great  anxiety,  he  was  giving 
his  name  to  his  antagonist,  telling 
him  to  be  silent  before  the  young 
lady  committed  to  his  care.  The  un- 
known could  not  help  smiling,  and 
gave  a  card  to  the  old  sailor,  telling 
im  that  he  inhabited  a  country- 
house  at  Chevreuse,  and  walked  ra- 
pidly off  aiter  pointing  it  out  to  him. 

"  xou  nearly  wounded  that  poor 
pikitiy  my  niece,"  said  the  count,  uas- 
tening  to  meet  Emilic.  "  Do  you  no 
longer  know  how  to  rein  in  your 
horse  ?  You  leave  me  there  to  com- 
promise my  dignity  in  covering  ^our 
follies ;  whereas,  if  you  had  remained, 
one  of  your  looks  or  polite  speeches 
—one  of  those  you  say  so  prettily 
when  you  are  not  impertment  — 
would  have  healed  all,  even  had  you 
broken  his  arm." 

"  Bfy  dear  uncle,  it  was  your  horse, 
not  mme,  that  was  the  cause  of  this 
accident.  I  really  think  you  can  no 
longer  ride ;  you  are  not  so  good  a 
horseman  as  you  were  last  year.  But 
instead  of  talking  nonsense '^ 

•*  The  d — !  nonsense  ?  Is  it, 
then,  nothing  to  be  impertinent  to 
your  uncle  ? 

'*  Ought  we  not  to  go  and  see  if 
that  young  man  is  wounded  ?  See, 
uncle,  he  nmps." 

"  No,  he  is  running.  I  have  lec- 
tured him  welt." 

"Ah,  my  nuclei  I  know  you 
there." 

"  Stop,  my  niece,"  said  the  count, 


seii^g  the  bridle  of  Emilie's  horse ; 
^  I  do  not  see  the  necessity  of  making 
advances  tosome  shopman,  too  happy 
to  have  been  knocked  down  by  a 
charming  young  lady  or  the  com- 
mander of  the  &lle-Foule." 

"  Why  do  you  think  he  is  of  low 
birth,  my  dear  uncle  ?  He  seems  to 
me  to  have  very  gentlemanlike  man- 
ners." 

"  Everyone  has  manners  now,  my 
niece. 

"  No,  uncle,  every  one  has  not  the 
air  and  manners  which  the  habit  of 
sahms  alone  can  ^ve;  and  I  will 
willingly  bet  you  that  this  young 
man  is  noble." 

"  You  have  not  had  much  time  to 
examine  him." 

**  But  it  is  not  the  first  time  that  I 
have  seen  him." 

^  Nor  is  it  the  first  time  you  have 
sought  him,"  replied  the  admiral, 
laughmg. 

Emilie  blushed,  and  her  uncle  en- 
joyed her  concision  for  a  little  whfle ; 
ne  then  said, — 

"  Emilie,  you  know  that  I  love 
you  as  if  you  were  my  child,  pre- 
cisely, because  you  are  the  only  one 
of  the  family  who  possesses  the  legiti* 
mate  pride  which  appertains  to  high 
birth.  Diantre  !  my  great  niece,  who 
could  have  thought  that  good  prin- 
ciples would  have  become  so  rare  ? 
Well,  I  will  be  your  confidant.  I 
see,  my  dear  child,  that  that  young 
man  is  not  indifferent  to  you.  Stop  1 
The  family  would  laugh  at  us  if  we 
embarked  under  an  unlucky  flag. 
You  know  what  that  means.  There- 
fore, let  me  help  you,  my  niece.  Let 
us  both  keep  our  secret,  and  I  pro- 
mise you  to  bring  him  into  the  draw* 
ing-room." 

"  And  when,  uncle  ?*' 

**  To-morrow." 

"  But,  my  dear  uncle,  it  will  not 
comnromise  me  P" 

**Not  at  all;  and  you  can  bom- 
bard him,  set  Are  to  him,  and  leave 
him  there  like  an  old  caraque,  if  you 

g lease.    He  will  not  be  the  first,  will 
e?" 

"  How  kind  you  are,  uncle  I" 
As  soon  as  the  count  was  at  home, 
he  put  on  his  spectacles,  secretly 
drew  the  card  iVom  his  pocket,  and 
read,  "  Maximilien  Longueville,  Rue 
du  Sentier." 

"  Make  yourself  easy,  my  dear 
niece,"  said  he  to  Emilie,  "you  can 


182 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty. 


[February, 


L 


harpoon  him  in  all  secority  of  con- 
scienoe,  he  belongs  to  one  of  our  his- 
torical families ;  and  if  he  is  not  a 
peer  of  France,  he  will  infallibly  be 
one.*' 
^'  How  do  you  know  so  much  ?** 
"  That  is  my  secret." 
"  You  know  his  name,  then  ?" 
The  count  silently  nodded  his  grey 
head,  which  very  much  resemblea 
the  trunk  of  an  old  oak,  round  which 
still  played  a  few  leaves  withered 
by  the  autumn.  At  this  signal  his 
niece  began  trying  on  him  the  ever 
fresh  power  of  her  coquetries.  Mis- 
tress of  the  art  of  coaxing  the  old 
sailor,  she  lavished  on  him  the  most 
childlike  caresses  and  the  most  ten- 
der words ;  she  even  went  so  far  as 
to  kiss  him,  in  order  to  obtain  from 
him  the  revelation  of  so  important  a 
secret.  The  old  man,  who  passed 
his  life  in  making  his  niece  act  these 
scenes,  and  who  frequently  paid  for 
them  by  a  set  of  jewels  or  the  loan 
of  his  opera- box,  this  time  took  a  de- 
light in  allowing  himself  to  be  en- 
treated and  care^ed.  But  as  he  made 
his  enjoyment  last  too  long,  Emilie 
became  angry,  passed  from  caresses 
to  sai'casms,  sulked,  and  then  re- 
turned to  the  charge,  goaded  by  cu- 
riosity. The  diplomatic  sailor  so- 
lemnly obtained  from  his  niece  a 
promise  to  be  in  future  more  re- 
served, more  gentle,  less  wilful,  less 
extravagant,  and,  especially,  to  tell 
him  every  thing.  The  treaty  con- 
cluded, and  signed  by  a  kiss,  which 
he  deposed  on  Emilic^s  white  fore- 
head, ne  took  her  into  a  comer  of  the 
drawing-room,  seated  her  on  his  knee, 
placed  the  card  under  his  two  thumbs 
so  as  to  conceal  it,  discovered  letter 
by  letter  the  name  of  Lon^ueville, 
and  obstinately  refused  to  shew  any 
more.  This  event  rendered  still  more 
intense  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine's 
secret  affection.  During  a  great  part 
of  the  night  she  developed  the  most 
brilliant  pictures  of  the  dreams  with 
which  she  had  nourished  her  hopes. 
Thanks  to  this  long- desired  chance, 
she  now  saw  something  besides  a 
chimera  at  the  source  of  the  imagin- 
ary riches  with  which  she  gilded  ner 
conju^l  life.  Like  all  young  per- 
sons, Ignorant  of  the  dangers  of  love 
and  marriage,  she  wish^  ardently 
for  the  deceitful  externals  of  mar- 
riage and  love.  Is  not  this  saying, 
that   her  affection  sprang  up  lik^ 


almost  all  the  caprices  of  early  youth, 
sweet  and  cruel  errors  which  exert 
so  fatal  an  iufluence  over  the  exist- 
ence of  young  girls  sufficiently  inex- 
perienced to  consult  no  one  but 
themselves  on  the  care  of  their  fu- 
ture happiness.  ITie  next  morning, 
before  Emilie  was  awake,  her  uncle 
hastened  to  Chevreuse.  On  recog- 
nising in  the  yard  of  an  elegant 
country-house  the  young  man  whom 
he  had  so  resolutely  insulted  the  day 
before,  he  went  up  to  him  with  that 
affectionate  politeness  which  charac- 
terises the  old  men  of  the  ancient 
court, — 

"Ah,  my  dear  sir,  who  would 
have  thought  that  I  should  have 
quarrelled  at  seventy-three  with  the 
son  or  grandson  of  one  of  niy  best 
friends?  I  am  a  vice-admiral.  Is 
not  that  telling  you  that  I  care  as 
little  for  fighting  a  duel  as  for  smok- 
ing a  cigar  ?  In  my  time,  two  young 
men  never  could  become  intimate 
until  they  had  seen  the  colour  of 
each  other's  blood.  But,  ventre^e- 
hiche!  I  had,  in  my  quality  of  sailor, 
taken  a  little  too  much  rum  on  board 
yesterday,  and  I  fell  foul  of  you. 
Shake  hands!  I  would  rather  re- 
ceive a  hundred  rebuffs  from  a  Lon- 
gueville  than  cause  the  least  uneasi- 
ness to  his  family." 

Whatever  coldness  the  young  man 
endeavoured  to  shew  the  Comte  de 
Kergarouet,  he  could  not  long  with- 
stand the  frank  kindness  of  his  man- 
ners, and  allowed  his  hand  to  be 
shaken. 

"  You  were  going  to  ride,"  said  the 
count.  "Pray,  do  so.  But  unleM 
you  have  any  projects,  come  with 
me.  I  invite  you  to  dinner  to-day 
at  the  Pavilion  Planat.  My  nephew, 
the  Comte  de  Fontaine,  is  a  man  ne- 
cessary to  know.  Morhleu!  I  ^'' 
atone  to  you  for  my  brusquerie  Joy 
presenting  you  to  five  of  the  prettiest 
women  of  Paris.  Ila,  ha  I  yoang 
man,  you  smoothe  your  brow.  I  h^^ 
young  people,  and  I  like  to  see  them 
nappy.  Their  happiness  recalls  to 
me  the  pleasant  years  of  my  youth, 
when  adventures  were  not  wanting 
any  more  than  duels.  People  were 
gay  then!  Now,  you  reason  and 
trouble  yourselves  about  every  thing 
as  if  there  had  been  no  fifteenth  or 
sixteenth  centuries." 

"  But  are  we  not  right  ?  The  six* 
teenth  century  only  gaye  Europe 


1846.] 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty. 


183 


relwuras  liberty ;  and  the  mneteenth 

will  give  it  pol ^" 

^^  Do  not  let  ub  talk  politics.  I  am 
an  ultra  ganache^  yon  see.  But  I 
do  not  prevent  young  people  from 
being  revolutionary,  provided  they 
leave  the  king  liberty  to  disperse 
their  assemblies.** 

A  few  yards  farther  on,  when  the 
count  and  his  young  companion  were 
in  the  midst  of  the  wood,  the  sailor 
discovered  a  tolerably  slight  young 
birch-tree,  stopped  nis  horse,  took 
one  of  his  pistols,  and  lodged  the 
hall  in  the  middle  of  the  tree  at  a 
distance  of  fifteen  yards. 

^*You  see,  my  friend,  that  I  do 
not  fear  a  duel,  said  he,  looking  at 
Monsieur  Longue^ille  with  comic 
gravity. 

"Nor  I,"  replied  the  latter,  who 
quickly  loaded  his  pistol,  aimed  at 
the  hole  made  by  tne  count*s  ball, 
and  placed  his  own  close  to  it. 

"  That  is  what  I  call  a  well-edu- 
cated young  man,**  exclaimed  the 
sailor,  with  a  sort  of  enthusiasm. 

During  the  walk  he  took  with 
him  whom  he  already  looked  upon 
as  his  nephew,  he  found  a  thousand 
opportunities  of  interrogating  him  on 
all  the  trifles,  the  perfect  knowledge 
of  which  constituted,  according  to 
his  particular  code,  an  accomplished 
gentleman. 

"  Have  you  any  debts  ?*'  he  asked 
his  companion  at  last,  after  a  great 
many  questions. 
"  No.** 

"How?  Do  you  pay  for  every 
thing  furnished  you  ?* 

"  Punctually ;  otherwise  we  should 
lose  all  credit  and  consideration.** 

"  But,  at  least,  you  have  more 
than  one  mistress  ?  Ah,  you  blush, 
my  boy  ?  Manners  have,  indeed, 
changed.  With  these  ideas  of  legal 
order,  Kantism  and  liberty,  youth 
has  been  spoiled.  You  have  no 
Guimard,  no  Duthe,  no  creditors, 
and  you  do  not  know  heraldry; 
why,  my  young  friend,  you  are  not 
educated!  Know  that  he  who  does 
not  sow  his  wild  oats  in  the  spring 
sows  them  in  winter.  If  I  have 
eighty  thousand  livres  a -year  at 
seventy  years  of  age,  it  is  because  I 
ate  up  the  capital  at  thirty, — oh  I 
with  my  wife,  en  tout  bien  tout  hon- 
new.  Sfevertheless,  your  imperfec- 
tions will  not  prevent  me  from  an- 
nouncing you  at  the  Pavilion  Flanat. 


Remember  that  you  have  promised 
me  to  come,  and  i  expect  you  there.** 

"  What  a  singular  little  old  man  !** 
said  young  Loneueville  to  himself. 
"  lie  18  sharp  and  lively ;  but  althoneh 
he  wants  to  appear  simple  and  frank, 
I  shall  not  trust  him.** 

The  next  day,  about  four  o*clock, 
at  the  time  when  the  company  was 
scattered  in  the  drawing-rooms  or 
at  billiards,  a  servant  announced  to 
the  inhabitants  of  the  Pavilion  Planat 
Monsieur  de  Longueville. 

At  the  name  of  the  Comte  de 
Kergarouet*s  favourite,  every  one, 
even  the  player,  who  was  going  to 
miss  a  ball,  hastened  in,  as  much  to 
observe  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine*8 
countenance  as  to  judge  the  human 
phoenix  who  had  merited  an  honour- 
able mention  to  the  detriment  of  so 
many  rivals.  A  dress  as  simple  as 
it  was  elegant,  manners  full  of  ease, 
polished  Ibrms  of  speech,  a  voice 
gentle  and  of  a  quality  which  made 
the  heart  vibrate,  conciliated  to  Mon- 
sieur Longueville  the  good-will  of 
the  whole  family.  Ue  seemed  no 
stranger  to  the  luxury  of  the  house 
of  the  fastuous  receiver  -  general. 
His  conversation  was  that  of  a  man 
of  the  world,  and  every  one  could 
easily  perceive  that  he  had  received  a 
most  brilliant  education,  and  that 
his  acquirements  were  equally  solid 
and  extensive.  lie  spoke  so  well  in 
some  slight  discussion  started  by  the 
old  sailor  on  naval  constructions,  that 
one  of  the  women  observed  that  he 
appeared  to  have  been  at  the  Ecole 
Polytechnique. 

"I  think,  madame,  that  to  have 
been  there  is  a  title  of  honour.** 

Notwithstanding  all  the  entreaties 
nmde  him,  he  ]poiitely,  but  firmly, 
declined  remainmg  to  dinner,  and 
put  an  end  to  the  requests  of  the 
ladies  by  saying,  that  he  was  the 
Hippocrates  of  a  young  sister  whose 
delicate  health  demanded  a  great 
deal  of  care. 

"  Monsieur  is  doubtless  a  physi- 
cian,** ironically  asked  one  of  Emilie*s 
sisters-in-law. 

"  Monsieur  comes  from  the  Ecole 
Polytechnique,*'  kindly  answered  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Fontaine,  whose  com- 
Elexion  became  very  brilliant  at 
earing  that  the  young  girl  of  the 
ball  was  Monsieur  Longueville*s  sis- 
ter. 

"  But,  my  dear,  it  is  possible  to  be 


184 


The  Pride  e>f  a  Sp&ikd  Beauty. 


[Febratrv, 


frpMyviekui^  and  to  hsre  been  at  the 
£eo!e  Pdyteehnique,  is  it  not,  mon- 
oeorr 

*•  There  is  nothing  to  prevent  it, 
madame,'^  replied  the  yomig  man. 

All  eyes  were  fixed  on  Emilte, 
who  looked  with  a  sort  of  anxions 
enriosity  at  the  seductive  unknown. 
She  breathed  more  freely  when  he 
added,  not  without  a  smile, — 

^*  I  have  not  the  honour  to  be  a 
physician ;  and  I  have  even  refused 
to  enter  the  service  of  the  Woods  and 
Forests,  in  order  to  preserve  my  in- 
dependence." 

"And  you  did  well,"  said  the 
count.  "  But  how  can  you  consider 
it  an  honour  to  be  a  physician?^* 
added  the  noble  Breton.  *'  Ah,  mv 
yonnff  firiend !  for  a  man  like  you — ' 

"  Monsieur  le  Comte,  I  respect  im- 
mensely all  the  useful  professions." 

"  We  are  agreed :  you  respect 
those  professions,  I  imagine,  as  a 
young  man  respects  a  dowager." 

Monsieur  Longueville*s  visit  was 
neither  too  long  nor  too  short.  He 
retired  the  moment  he  perceived  that 
he  had  pleased  ever^  one,  and  that 
every  body's  curiosity  was  roused 
about  him. 

"  He  is  a  shrewd  fellow,"  said  the 
count  on  re-entering  the  drawing- 
room  after  seeing  him  out. 

Mademoiselle  dc  Fontaine,  who 
alone  was  in  the  secret  of  this  visit, 
had  made  a  very  elegant  toilet,  in 
order  to  attract  the  young  man*8  at- 
tention; but  she  had  the  mortifica- 
tion of  seeing  that  he  did  not  bestow 
on  her  as  much  as  she  thought  she 
deserved.  The  family  was  surprised 
at  the  silence  she  preserved.  Emilie 
generally  displayed  to  new  comers 
her  coquetry,  her  lively  talk,  and 
the  boundless  eloquence  of  her  looks 
and  gestures.  Either  the  melodious 
voice  of  the  younff  man  and  the  at- 
tractiveness of  nis  manners  had 
charmed  her,  or  else  she  loved  seri- 
ously ;  and  this  sentiment  effected  a 
change  in  her,  for  her  manners  lost 
idl  anbctation.  Simple  and  natural, 
she,  no  doubt,  appeared  more  beau- 
tiful. Some  of  her  sisters,  and  an 
old  lady,  a  friend  of  the  family,  saw 
a  refinement  of  coquetry  in  this  be- 
haviour. They  supposed  that,  judg- 
ing the  young  man  worthy  of  her, 
Emilie  proposed  displaying  her  at- 
'^'iictionB  slowly,  in  order  suddenly 
dazzle  him  as  soon  as  be  was 


stmek  with  her.  Every  member  of 
the  family  was  curious  to  know  what 
this  capricious  girl  thought  of  the 
stranger ;  but  wnen,  during  dinner, 
every  one  took  a  delight  in  endow- 
ing Monsieur  Longueville  with  some 
new  quality,  pretending  to  have  been 
the  only  one  to  discover  it,  Made- 
moiselle de  Fontaine  remained  some 
time  silent.  A  slight  sarcasm  from 
her  uncle  suddenly  roused  her  from 
this  apathy.  She  said,  in  a  tolerably 
epi^ammatic  manner,  that  this  ce- 
lestial perfection  must  cover  some 
great  defect,  and  that  i^e  diould 
take  care  not  to  judge  at  first  sudit 
a  man  who  appesurcd  so  clever.  She 
added,  that  those  who  thus  please 
every  one  never  please  any  body; 
and  that  the  worst  of  all  defects  was 
to  have  none.  Like  all  young  girls 
in  love,  she  hoped  to  conceal  her 
feelings  in  the  depth  of  her  heart, 
by  deceiving  the  Arguses  who  sur- 
rounded her;  but  at  the  end  of  a 
fortnight,  there  was  not  one  member 
of  this  numerous  family  who  vras 
not  initiated  into  this  little  domestic 
secret.  At  the  third  visit  Monsieur 
Longueville  paid,  Emilie  &ncied  she 
was  the  chief  cause  of  it.  This  dis- 
covery caused  her  such  excessive  de- 
light that  it  astonished  her  when  she 
was  able  to  reflect.  There  was  some- 
thing in  it  painful  to  her  pride.  Ac- 
customed to  make  herself^the  centre 
of  the  world,  she  was  obliged  to  re- 
cognise a  force  which  drew  her  ont 
of  herself.  She  endeavoured  to  rebel, 
but  could  not  drive  the  young  man*a 
seductive  image  from  her  heart. 

Soon  anxieties  followed;  fbr  two 
of  Monsieur  Long^eville*s  qualities, 
Yery  adverse  to  the  general  curiosity, 
and  especially  to  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine*s,  were  unusual  discretion 
and  modesty.  He  never  spoire  of 
himself,  nor  of  his  occupations,  nor 
of  his  family*  He  knew  how  to 
disconcert  all  the  snares  Emilie  laid 
fer  him  in  conversation  with  the  ad- 
dress of  a  diplomatist  who  wants  to 
conceal  secrets.  If  she  spoke  of 
painting.  Monsieur  Longueville  re- 
plied like  a  connoisseur ;  if  she  played, 
the  younff  man  proved  without  cox- 
combry that  he  played  well  on  the 
piano.  One  evening  he  enchanted 
the  whole  company  by  joining  his 
delicious  voice  to  Emiiie*s  in  one  of 
Cimarosa*8  finest  duets;  but  when 
they  endeavoured  to  discover  if  he 


1846.) 


Th€  Pride  of  a  l^poUed  Beamiy. 


185 


wu  an  wtfei,  he  jetted  ■<>  gracefully 
that  he  did  noft  give  thoee  women,  so 
expert  in  the  art  of  gneasisg  senti- 
ments, the  pNNsihffity  of  discovering 
to  what  social  sphere  he  helonged. 
With   whatever    courage    the   old 
uncle    endeavonred   to   throw   the 
grappling-iron  on  the  vessel,  Lon- 
gueville  qniekly  ran  off,  in  order  to 
preserve  for  himself  the  charm  of 
mystery ;  and  it  was  the  easier  for 
him  to  remain  the  handsome  stranger 
of  the  PaviUon  Planat,  as  curiosity  did 
not  exceed  the  hounds  of  politeness. 
Emille,  tormented  hy  this  reserve, 
ht^ped  to  draw  these  confidences  hot- 
ter from  the  sister  than  the  brother. 
Seconded  hy  her  uncle,  who  under- 
stood this  mancenvring  as  well  as 
that  of  a  vessel,  she  endeavoured  to 
Mng  on  the  scene  the  hitherto  mute 
personage  of  Mademoiselle  Clara  Lon- 
gueviHe.  The  society  of  the  Pavilion 
soon  manifested  the  greatest  desire  of 
knowing  so  amiable  a  person  and 
procuring  her  some  amusement.    An 
unceremonious   ball   was   proposed 
and  accepted.     The  ladies  did  not 
completely  despair  of  making  a  girl 
of  sixteen  talk.     Li  spite  of  these 
little  clouds  heaped  iip  by  suspicion 
and  created  by  curiosity,  a  bright 
light  penetrated  the  soul  of  Made- 
moiseDe  de  Fontaine,  who  enjoyed 
existence  sweetly  through  its  rela- 
tion to  some  one  besides  herself.  She 
began  to  conceive  social  relations. 
Either  happiness  makes  us  better,  or 
she  was  too  much  occupied  to  tor- 
ment others,  for  she  became  less  caus- 
tic, more  indulgent,  more  gentle.  The 
chanse  in  her  character  delighted  her 
astonished  family.     PerhajM,  after 
all,  her  egotism  was  changing  into 
love.     To  awdt  the  arrival  of  her 
tinid  and  secret  adorer  was  a  pro- 
fomid  delight.     Without  a   single 
word  of  passion  having  been  pro- 
nounced between  them,  she  knew 
hercelf  to  be  loved,  and  with  what 
trt  did  she  not  make  the  young  un- 
known display  the  treasures  of  a  va- 
ried education !    She  perceived  that 
she  was  also  carefully  observed,  and 
Bhe  then  endeavoured  to  overcome 
the  defects  which  her  education  had 
allowed  to  spring  up.    Was  not  this 
a  first  homage  rendered  to  love,  and 
ft  cruel  reproach  addressed  to  her- 
self?   She  wanted  to  please,  she  en- 
chanted ;  she  loved,  and  was  idolised. 

Her  fitmiiy,  knowing  she  was  guarded 


by  her  pride,  gave  her  mfteiettt  li* 
berty  to  enjov  those  little  childish 
deliffhts  whicn  give  first  loves  so 
mudi  charm  and  strength.  More 
than  once  the  young  man  and  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Fontaine  walked  about 
alone  in  the  avenues  of  the  park; 
more  than  once  they  held  those  con- 
versations without  any  object  of  which 
the  most  empty  phrases  are  those 
which  conceal  the  most  sentiments. 
They  often  admired  together  the 
setting  sun  and  its  rich  colouring ; 
they  plucked  daisies  to  tell  th^ 
leaves,  and  sans  the  most  passionate 
duets  of  Pergoksi  and  Rossini,  as  the 
mediums  through  which  to  express 
their  secrets. 

The  day  of  the  ball  arrived.  Clara 
Longrneville  and  her  brother,  whom 
the  servants  obstinately  honoured 
with  the  noble  particle  de^  were  its 
heroes.  For  tnc  first  time  of  her 
life.  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  saw 
the  triumph  of  a  youn^  girl  with 
pleasure.  She  bestowed  with  sin- 
cerity on  Clara  those  gracefVxl  ca- 
resses and  little  attentions  which 
women  usually  only  display  to  each 
other  in  order  to  excite  the  jealousy 
of  men.  But  Emilie  had  an  object, 
she  wanted  to  find  out  secrets.  Ma- 
demoiselle Longueville*s  reserve  was 
at  least  equal  to  her  brother's ;  but, 
girl-like,  she  shewed  perhaps  more 
finesse  and  shrewdness  than  he  did, 
for  she  did  not  even  appear  discreet, 
and  kept  the  conversation  on  subjects 
ford^  to  material  interests,  invest- 
ing it  with  so  great  a  charm  that 
A^demoiselle  de  Fontaine  became 
almost  envious  and  sumamed  Clara 
the  Syren,  Althouffh  Emilie  had 
formed  the  design  or  making  Clara 
talk,  it  was  Clara  who  interrogated 
Emilie;  she  wanted  to  judge  her, 
and  was  judged  by  her.  She  often 
was  angry  at  having  betrayed  her 
character  by  a  few  answers  which 
Clara  artfhUy  drew  from  her  while 
her  candid  and  modest  air  prevented 
all  suspicion  of  treachery.  There 
was  a  moment  when  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine  appeared  vexed  at  having 
made  an  imprudent  attack  on  low 
birth,  which  Clara  had  provoked. 

'*  Mademoiselle,"  said  this  charm- 
ing creature,  **I  heard  so  much  of 
you  from  Maximilien  that  I  had  the 
strongest  desire  to  know  you  out  of 
attachment  for  him ;  but  is  not  to 
know  you  to  love  you  T 


i8d 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beaufff. 


[Feitimrf, 


"  M7  dear  Clara,  I  feared  to  d»- 
pleaie  jou  hy  apeaking  thua  of  tbose 
who  arc  not  noble." 

"Obi  do  not  fear.  At  tbe  pre- 
seat  day  these  sorts  of  diBcussions  are 
without  object  Ab  to  myaeK,  tliey 
do  not  touch  me.    I  am  beyond  the 

However  ambitious  this  answer 
waa,  it  gave  MadenioiBelle  de  Fon- 
taine veiy  great  pleasure ;  for,  like 
all  people  in  love,  she  expUined  it  to 
herself  as  oracles  are  explained,  in 
the  meaning  which  accorded  witb  her 
deaires,  and  returned  to  the  dancing 
more  joyous  than  ever,  looking  at 
Longueville,  whose  form  and  ele- 
gance surpassed  perhaps  those  of  her 
imaginary  type.  She  felt  still  more 
Satisfaction  in  reSecting  that  he  was 
noble ;  her  black  eyes  sparkled,  she 
danced  with  all  the  pleasure  dancing 
can  give  in  tbe  presence  of  bim  you 
love.  Kever  did  tbe  two  lovers  un- 
derstand one  another  better  tban  at 
that  moment,  and  more  than  once 
they  felt  tbeir  fingers  tremble  when 
the  bm-i  of  the  quadrilles  joined 

This  handsome  couple  attained  the 
beainniog  of  tbe  autumn  in  the 
mffist  of  parties  and  tbe  pleasures  of 
tlie  country,  floating  gently  down 
the  current  of  the  sweetest  senti- 
ment in  life,  and  strengthening  it  bv 
a  thousand  little  incidents,  which 
every  one  can  imagine.  All  love- 
alfairs  resemble  each  other  in  some 
points.  Tbey  studied  each  other  as 
much  as  it  ia  possible  to  study  when 
peo^  are  in  love. 

"Sever  did  a  slight  fancy  turn  so 

Suickly  into  a  love-matcL,"  said  the 
Id  uncle,  who  watched  the  young 
|)eople  like  a  naturalist  examines  an 
insect  in  a  microscope.    These  words 
alarmed  Monsieur  and   Madame  de 
Fontaine.    The  old  Vendean  ceased 
to  be  as  indifferent  to  his  daughter's 
marriage  as  be  bad  formerly  pro-  - 
'    '  "     '        "    went  to  Fans  to 
nation,  and  found 
out  this  mystery, 
B  yet  the  result  of 
d  begged  a  Pari- 


ueville  family,  he 
y  (o  admonish  bis 
tve  herself  pru- 
crnat  observation 
a  feigned  obedi- 


"  At  least,  my  dear  Emilie,  if  yoa 
love  him,  do  not  oonfesa  it  to  him." 

"  Papa,  it  is  true  that  I  love  him ; 
but  I  will  await  your  permiisiixi  be- 
fore I  tell  him  so." 

"lint,  Emilie,  remember  Uiat  yon 
'"  ignorant  of  his  family,  his 


prafes! 


"If  I  a 


ignorant  I  un  wilUni  to 


What 


irrevocably  i 

more  is  wanted  f" 

"  We  must  know,  my  dear  child, 
if  the  man  you  have  choaen  is  tbe 
son  of  a  peer  of  France,"  ironieslly 
replied  the  venerable  nobleman. 

Emihe  remained  talent  a  moment. 
She  soon  raised  her  bead,  looked  it 
her  father,  and  said  witb  a  sort  of 

"  Are  the  Longuevilles " 

"  They  are  extinct  in  tbe  person 
of  the  old  Duke  of  Bostein  Un- 
bourg,  who  perished  on  the  scaffold 
in  1793.  He  was  the  last  of  tbe 
last  youngest  branch." 

"  IJut,  papa,  there  are  veiy  ««« 
families  sprung  from  bastards.  ^Tbe 
history  of  France  swarms  with  princes 
who  have  bars  in  their  shield.' 

"Your  ideas  bavo  very  mocb 
changed,"  said  the  old  man,  sail- 

The  next  day  waa  the  last  whieli 
tbe  Fontaine  family  were  to  spend  st 
the  Pavilion  Planat.  Emilie,  who 
had  been  made  very  uneasy  by  h^' 
father's  advice,  awaited  im^tiea''7 
the  hour  at  which  young  Longue- 
ville generally  came,  in  order  to  ob- 
tain an  explanation.  She  went  out 
after  dinner  and  walked  alone  in  tbe 
park  in  the  direction  of  tbe  arbour 
of  confidences,  in  which  she  kne* 
the  impatient  lover  would  seek  bet ; 
and  as  t^lie  ran,  she  reflected  on  tbe 
beet  manner  of  surprising  so  ini* 
portant  a  secret  without  compromis- 
ing herself,— a  tolerably  diffieult 
thnig.  Ab  yet  no  direct  avowal  h»^ 
sanctioned  the  feelings  which  united 
her  to  this  unknown.  She  had,  h^'^ 
Blaiimilien,  secretly  enjoyed  the  de- 
lights of  a  first  love ,  but,  equally 
proud,  it  seemed  as  if  each  feared  to 
confess  tbeir  affection. 

AlaximilicQ  Longueville,  to  whom 
Clara  had  iiispit«d  well -founded 
doubts  on  Emilie's  character,  foand 
himself  by  turns  carried  away  bj 


1846.] 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty. 


187 


the  violence  of  a  vonng  man's  pas* 
uon  and  kept  bock  by  the  desire  of 
knowing  and  trying  the  woman  to 
whom  he  was  going  to  confide  his 
happiness.  His  love  had  not  pre- 
vented his  acknowledging  in  Emilie 
the  prejudices  which  spoiled  her; 
bnt  he  aesired  to  know  if  he  was  be- 
loved by  her  before  he  cndeavouroi 
to  comlMt  them,  for  he  would  not 
hanrd  the  fate  of  his  love  any  more 
than  that  of  his  life.  He  had,  there- 
fore,  constantly  maintained  a  silence 
which  his  looks,  manners,  his  small- 
est actions  disproved.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  pride  natural  to  a  girl, 
augmented  m  Mademoiselle  de  Fon- 
taine by  the  foolish  vanity  which  her 
birth  and  beauty  inspired,  prevented 
her  seeking  a  declaration  which  an 
increasing  passion  sometimes  incited 
her  to  solicit.  The  two  lovers  had 
instinctively  understood  their  situa- 
tion without  explaining  each  other's 
secret  motives.  There  are  moments 
in  life  when  vaffueness  suits  young 
hearts.  From  the  very  reason  that 
they  had  each  been  so  Ions  in  speak- 
ing they  seemed  to  make  a  cruel 
game  of  their  expectation.  One 
sought  to  discover  if  he  was  loved 
by  the  effort  a  confession  would  cost 
his  haughty  mistress;  the  other 
hoped  at  every  moment  to  see  a  too 
respectful  silence  broken. 

beated  on  a  rustic  bench,  Emilie 
reflected  on  the  events  which  had 
taken  place  during  the  last  three 
months  full  of  endiantment.  Her 
father's  suspicions  were  the  laM  fears 
that  could  touch  her ;  she  even  got 
over  them  by  two  or  three  of  those 
inexperienced  girl-like  reflections 
which  appeared  conclusive  to  her. 
Above  aiJ,  she  agreed  with  herself 
that  it  was  impossible  she  could  be 
siistaken.  During  the  whole  sea- 
son she  had  not  perceived  in  Maxi- 
milien  one  gesture,  one  single  word, 
which  indicated  a  low  origin  or  oc- 
cupation ;  in  fact,  hb  manner  of  dis- 
cussing betrayed  a  man  busied  with 
the  ^eat  interests  of  the  country. 
**  Besides,"  she  reflected,  **  a  la^vyer  or 
aman  of  business  would  not  have  had 
the  leisure  to  remain  an  entire  season 
courting  me  in  the  midst  of  fields 
and  woods,  spending  his  time  as  libe- 
nlly  as  a  nobleman  who  has  before 
him  a  whole  life  free  from  cares." 
She  was  abandoning  herself  to  a 
meditation  far  more  interesting  to 


her  than  these  preliminary  thoughts, 
when  a  slight  rustling  among  the 
leaves  announced  to  her  that  for  the 
last  moment  or  two  Maximilien  had 
been  contemplating  her,  doubtless 
with  admiration. 

**£)o  you  know  that  it  is  very 
wrong  to  startle  girls  in  this  way  P 
said  she,  smiling. 

^*  Especially  when  they  are  busy 
with  tneir  secrets,"  archly  replied 
Maximilien. 

*''•  Why  should  I  not  have  mine  ? 
You  have  yours !" 

**  You  were,  then,  really  thinking 
of  your  secrets  ?"  he  adaed,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  No,  I  was  thinking  of  yours.  I 
know  my  own." 

^^But,  said  he,  gently  taking  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Fontaine's  arm,  and 
puttmg  it  in  his,  **  perhaps  my 
secrets  are  yours,  and  yours  mine." 

After  walking  a  few  yards  th^ 
found  themselves  under  a  clump  of 
trees,  which  the  colours  of  the  setting 
sun  enveloped  as  with  a  red  and 
brown  cloud.  This  natural  magic 
gave  a  sort  of  solemnity  to  the  mo- 
ment. The  younj;  man's  action,  and 
the  a^tation  of  his  throbbiuj^  heart, 
the  violent  pulsations  of  which  were 
felt  by  Emike's  arm,  threw  her  into  a 
state  of  exultation,  all  the  more  per- 
fect because  it  was  excited  only  b^ 
the  most  simple  and  innocent  ina- 
dents.  The  reserve  in  which  girls 
of  high  rank  are  kept  ^ves  incre- 
dible force  to  the  explosion  of  their 
sentiments,  and  to  meet  with  a  pas- 
sionate lover  is  one  of  the  greatest 
dangers  which  can  befall  them.  Never 
had  Emilie's  and  Maximilien's  eyes 
looked  so  many  unspeakable  things. 
A  prey  to  tins  intoxication,  they 
easily  forgot  the  petty  stipulations  of 
pride  and  the  cold  considerations  of 
mistrust.  They  could  express  them- 
selves at  first  only  by  a  pressure  of 
hands,  which  served  as  interpreter  to 
their  joyous  thoughts. 

^  I  have  a  question  to  ask,  mon- 
sieur," said  Mademoiselle  de  Fon- 
taine, trembling,  and  in  a  .broken 
voice,  after  a  long  silence,  and  walk- 
ing a  few  steps  very  slowly.  **  But 
remember,  I  entreat  you,  that  it  is 
in  some  measure  commanded  me  by 
the  strange  position  I  am  in  witn 
r^ard  to  my  family." 

A  terrible  pause  for  Emilie  suc- 
ceeded these  words,  which  she  hac? 


IBS 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty. 


[February, 


almoit  rtaiieied.  Wluk  it  lasted 
the  hau^T  girl  did  not  dare  to 
•ncoimter  toe  pierciaff  look  o£  the 
aum  she  loved,  for  she  had  a  se- 
cret fteiing  of  tiie  baseness  of  the 
words  she  added, — 

"  Are  you  noble  ?" 
^  When: these   had   been   uttered 
she  wished  herself  at  the  bottom  of 
a  lake. 

"Mademoiselle,"  gravely  replied 
Longueville,  whose  altered  face  con- 
tracted a  sort  of  severe  dienity,  "  I 
promise  to  reply  straightforwardly 
to  Uus  question  when  you  have 
answered  with  sincerity  the  one  I  am 
going  to  put  to  you." 

He  let  go  £nii]ie*8  arm,  who  sud- 
denly felt  as  if  done  in  the  world, 
and  said, — 

**  What  is  your  reason  for  oues- 
tioning  ne  re^)ectiag  my  birth  r" 

She  remained  almost  motionless, 
eold  and  silent. 

"Mademoiselle,"  repeated  Maxi- 
nilien,  "  let  us  go  no  farther  if  we 
do  not  understand  one  another.  I 
love  you,"  added  he,  in  a  deep  and 
tremulous  tone.  "  Well,  then,"  he 
added,  joyfully,  on  hearing  the  ex- 
clamation of  delight  whicti  Emilie 
could  not  rei^ess,  "  why  acdc  me  if  I 
am  noble?" 

"  Would  he  speak  thus  if  he  were 
not  so  f  *  exclaimed  an  internal  voice, 
which  appeared  to  Emilie  to  pro- 
ceed from  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 
She  gracefally  raised  her  head, 
seemed  to  draw  a  new  life  from  her 
lover's  glance,  and  held  out  her 
hand  as  if  to  make  a  fresh  alii- 
anoe. 

"  You  thought  I  cared  very  much 
for  dignities?^  she  asked,  with  arch- 


"I  have  no  titles  to  offer  my 
wife,"  he  replied,  half  gaily,  half  se- 
riously. "  But  if  I  take  her  of  high 
rank  and  from  among  those  whom 
paternal  fortune  accustoms  to  the 
luxury  and  pleasures  of  opulence,  I 
know  to  what  this  choice  oblises  me. 
Love  gives  every  thiuff,"  added  he, 
laughing;  "but.  to  lovers  only. 
Married  people  want  a  little  more 
than  the  dome  of  heaven  and  the 
carpet  of  the  fields." 

"  He  is  rich,"  she  thought.  "  As 
for  titles,  periiaps  he  wants  to  try 
met  He  has,  perhaps,  been  told 
Iteit  I  had  a  fhney  for  nobility,  and 
that  I  wevkl  only  marry  a  peer  of 


France.     My  tireaoine  nsters  have, 
doubtlesB,  played  me  that  tricL" 

"I  assure  you,"  aaid  she  aloud, 
"that  I  have  had  very  exaagerated 
notions  of  life  and  the  wond;  but 
now,"  added  she,  with  emphasis,  aad 
looking  at  him  in  a  way  to  drive 
him  mid,  "  I  know  in  what  a  wo- 
man*8  true  riches  oonstst." 

"I  wish  to  believe  that  y;oa 
speak  sincerely,"  he  replied,  with 
mild  gravity.  "  But  this  winter,  my 
dear  EmUie, — ^perhaps,  two  montlis 
hence,  I  sludl  be  proud  of  what  I 
can  ofier  you,  if  you  caxe  for  the  ad- 
vantages of  fortune.  It  will  be  the 
only  secret  I  shall  keep  here,"  and 
he,  pointing  to  his  heart,  "  for  on  its 
success  depends  my  happiness^ — I  do 
not  venture  to  say  ours. 

"  Oh !  say  it,— say  it !" 

They  returned  home  in  the  midA 
of  the  most  affbctioBate  discourR, 
and  joined  the  company  in  the  draw- 
ing-room.   Never  had  Mademoiaelle 
de  Fontaine  found  her  lover  more 
amiable  or  more  witty;  his  hand- 
some figure  and  engaging  manoen 
appeared  to  her  still  more  duuEining 
since  a  ccmversation  which  had  in  a 
measure  confirmed  to  her  the  pot- 
session  of  a  heart  worthy  of  bei^g 
envied  by  all  women.    Tb^saog  io 
Italian  duet  with  so  mudi  exprsMioa 
that  the  assembly  applaudra  then 
enthusiasticaUy.     Their  partiqg  ^ 
sumed  a  conv^itioni^  manner  under 
which  they  concealed  their  happi- 
ness.   This  day  became  to  Emiue  t 
chain  which  bound  her  more  deaely 
still  to  the  destiny  of  the  uokDOWS' 
The  power  and  dignity  he  had  dis- 
plaved  in  the  scene  in  whidi  thqr 
naa  revealed  their  sentiments  bad 
perhajps  forced  on  Mademoisdie  ae 
Fontame  that  respect  without  which 
no  true  love  exists.    When  she  «• 
mained  alone  in  the  drawing-ro^ 
with  her  father,  the  veneraWe  Veil- 
dean  came  up  to  her,  atifeetiooatelr 
took  her  hands,  and  asked  if  she  bad 
acquired  any  information  regaid^ 
Monsieur  Longueville*s  fortune  to* 
family. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  father,"  she  r«W» 
"  I  am  happier  than  I  wished.  Moa* 
sieur  de  Longueville  is  the  only  a*" 
I  will  marry/' 

"Well,  Emilie,"  replied  thecante, 
"  I  know  what  remains  for  me  todo. 

"Do  you  know  of  any  obstacle' 
she  asked,  with  real  anxiety. 


IM6.] 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty. 


189 


^My  dear  child,  tii»  young  man 
ii  perfectly  unknown  to  me ;  but, 
unleas  he  is  a  di^onourable  man, 
from  the  moment  you  loye  him  he  is 
as  dear  to  me  ae  a  aon/" 

»  A  dishonourable  man !''  repeated 
Emilie.  ^^I  am  quite  easy.  My 
uncle,  who  presented  him  to  us,  can 
answer  for  him.  Say,  dear  unde, 
has  he  bean  a  buccaneer,  an  outlaw, 
or  a  corsair  ?'* 

"I  knew  I  should  find  myself 
there,"  exclaimed  tiie  old  siulor, 
waking  up. 

He  loQced  round  the  drawiiig- 
room,  but  his  niece  had  disappeared 
like  a  Jack-o'-lantern,  aocoiduig  to 
his  habitual  expression. 

"  Why,  my  unde,"  said  Monsieur 
de  Fontaine,  ^'  how  could  you  conoeal 
from  us  all  that  you  knew  respect- 
ing this  young  man?  You  must 
have  noticed  our  anxiety.  Is  Mon- 
sieur Longueville  of  good  family  P" 

^I  know  nothing  of  it  since  Adam 
and  Eve,"  exclaimed  the  Oomte  de 
Kercarouet.  "  Trusting  to  the  tact 
of  tois  little  madcap,  I  brought  her 
St.  Preux  to  her  by  a  method  known 
to  mysdf.  I  know  that  this  boy 
shoots  with  a  pistol  admirably,  hunts 
very  well,  plays  wonderfully  at  bil- 
liaras,  chess,  and  backgammon,  he 
fences  and  rides  like  tiie  late  Cheva- 
lier de  Saint  Greoige.  He  has  a  mi- 
rscolous  erudition  relative  to  our 
vineyards;  ke  reckons  like  Bareme; 
draws,  dances,  and  sings  wdl.  What 
more  do  you  want?  If  that  is  not 
a  perfect  gentleman,  shew  me  a 
honrgeou  who  knows  as  much.  Find 
me  out  a  man  who  lives  as  nobly  as 
he  does.  Does  he  do  any  thing  ? 
Does  he  compromise  his  dignity  by 
going  into  offices  and  cringing  before 
yanxmu^  whom  vou  call  directors- 
funeral?  He  walks  upright.  That 
IS  a  man.  But,  moreo^'er,  I  have 
jost  found  in  my  waistcoat-pocket 
the  card  he  gave  me  when  he  thought 
I  meant  to  cut  his  throat,  poor  m- 
nocentl  The  youth  of  the  present 
day  is  not  sharp.    Here  it  is. 

**&ue  de  Sentier,  numero  5,"  said 
Monsienr  de  Fontaine,  endeavouring 
to  remember  among  all  the  informa- 
tion he  had  obtained  something 
irhieh  might  concern  the  young  un- 
known. ^What  the  d^  does  this 
mean?  Messrs.  Falma,  Werbrust, 
and  Ca  whose  wholesale  warehouse 
»  priaeqpally  of  mudins, 


(ginghams,  live  there !  Ah !  I  httrc 
It !  Longueyille,  the  deputy,  has  a 
share  in  their  house.  JSut  I  o^y 
know  of  a  son  of  Longueville*s  of 
thirty-two  years  of  age,  who  does 
not  in  tiie  least  resemble  this  one, 
and  to  whom  he  is  going  to  ^ve  an 
income  of  50,600  francs  on  his  nar^ 
riage  that  he  may  marry  the  daugih- 
ter  of  a  minister;  he  wishes  to  be 
made  a  peer  as  well  as  anv  one  dae. 
I  never  heard  him  speak  of  this 
Manmilien.  Has  he  a  daughter? 
Who  is  this  Ckra  ?  At  any  rate, 
more  than  one  adventurer  may  eaH 
himself  Lonsueville.  But  is  not  the 
house  of  Puma,  Werbrust,  and  Ca 
half  ruined  by  a  speculation  to  Mex- 
ico or  the  Indies  ?  I  must  clear  up 
all  this." 

"  You  soliloquise  as  if  you  were 
on  a  theatre,  and  you  appear  to 
reckon  me  as  nothing,"  suddenly  said 
the  old  sailor.  "  Do  you  not  Vnow 
that  if  he  is  of  good  family  I  have 
more  than  one  b^  in  my  hatchwayi 
to  make  amends  iot  his  want  of  for- 
tune ?" 

^*  As  to  that,  if  he  is  LonguevilWa 
son,  he  wants  nothing.  But,"  said 
Monsieur  de  Fontaine,  shaking  his 
head,  "'  his  father  has  not  bought  aaj 
soap  to  wash  out  the  stain  of  his 
birm.  Before  the  revolution  he  was 
an  attorney,  and  the  de  which  he 
has  taken  since  the  revolution  be- 
longs to  him  as  much  as  half  his  for- 
tune." 

^'Bah,  bah!  hanpy  those  whose 
fathers  have  been  nung,"  gaily  ex* 
claimed  the  sailor. 

Three  or  four  days  after  this  me- 
morable one,  and  in  one  of  those  fine 
mornings  of  the  month  of  November 
which  snddenly  display  to  the  Pari- 
sians their  boulevards  cleaned  by  the 
sharp  cold  of  a  first  frost.  Made- 
moiselle de  Fontaine,  dressed  in  a 
new  for  which  she  wished  to  bring 
into  fashion,  vr&ii  out  with  two  of 
her  sisters-in-law,  on  whom  she  had 
formerly  bestowed  the  greatest  num- 
ber of  sarcasms.  These  three  women 
were  far  less  tempted  to  this  Faiisian 
airing  by  the  desure  of  tr34ng  a  verr 
elegant  carriage  and  dresses  whica 
were  to  set  the  fashions  for  the  winter 
than  by  the  wish  to  see  a  pelerine 
which  one  of  their  frioids  had  re- 
marked in  a  handsome  shop  of  nul- 
linery  at  the  comer  of  the  Rue  de 
laPaix.    When  the  three  ladies  had 


190 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty. 


[February, 


entered  the  shop,  Madame  la  Ba- 
ronne  de  Fontaine  pulled  Emilie  b^ 
the  sleeve  and  shewed  her  Maximi- 
lien  Longueville  seated  inside  the 
counter,  busied  in  counting  out  with 
mercantile  grace  the  change  for  a 
piece  of  gold  to  the  milliner  with 
whom  he  seemed  in  conference.  The 
handsome  stranger  held  in  his  hand 
some  patterns,  which  left  no  doubt 
as  to  his  honourable  profession. 

Emilie  was  seized  with  an  imper- 
ceptible cold  shiver;  yet,  owing  to 
the  thorough  savoir  more  of  good 
society,  she  i>erfectly  dissembled  the 
rage  she  felt  in  her  heart,  and  replied 
to  her  sister,  "I  knew  it,**  with  a 
richness  of  intonation  and  inimitable 
accent,  which  might  have  been  en- 
vied by  the  most  celebrated  actress  of 
the  day.  She  advanced  to  the  coun- 
ter ;  Lon^ueville  looked  up,  put  the 
patterns  mto  his  pocket  with  most 
annoying  grace  and  coolne^  bowed 
to  mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  and 
approached  her  with  a  penetrating 
glance. 

**  Mademoiselle,"  said  he  to  the 
milliner,  who  had  followed  him  with 
a  very  anxious  look,  '*  I  will  send  to 
have  this  account  reccij^ted;  my 
house  wills  it  so.  But,"  said  he  in  a 
whisper  to  the  woman,  and  slipping 
a  note  for  a  thousand  francs  into  her 
hand,  **  take  this ;  it  will  be  an  affair 
between  ourselves." 

"You  will  forjpive  me,  I  hope, 
mademoiselle,"  said  he,  turning  to 
Emilie ;  ^  you  will  have  the  goodness 
to  forgive  the  tyranny  exercised  by 
business." 

"  It  appears  to  me,  monsieur,  that 
it  is  very  indifferent  to  me,"  an- 
swered Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine, 
looking  at  him  with  an  assurance  and 
an  air  of  sneering  indiiference,  as  if 
she  saw  him  for  tne  first  time. 

**  Do  you  speak  seriously  ?"  asked 
Maximilien,  in  a  broken  voice. 

Emilie  had  turned  her  back  on 
him  with  incredible  impertinence. 
These  few  words,  spoken  in  a  low 
Toioe,  had  escaped  the  curiosity  of 
the  two  sisters-in-law.  When,  after 
taking  the  pelerine,  the  three  ladies 
had  re-entered  the  carriage,  Emilie, 
who  sat  in  fronts  could  not  help 
glancing  to  the  end  of  the  odious 
shop,  where  she  saw  Maximilien 
standing  >vith  folded  arms  in  the  at- 
titude of  a  man  superior  to  the  mis- 
^rtune  which  befeU  him  so  suddenly. 


Their  eyes  met  and  darted  looks  of 
implacability  at  each  other.     Each 
one    hoped   to  wound  cruelly  the 
heart  of  the  loved  one.    In  one  mo- 
ment they  were  separated  from  one 
another  as  thorougnly  as  if  one  had 
been  in   China   and  the  other  in 
Greenland.    Has  not  vanity  a  breath 
which  withers  every  thing  ?   A  prey 
to  the  most  violent  combat  that  can 
agitate  the  heart  of  a  young  girl, 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  reaped  the 
most  ample  harvest  of  sorrows  which 
prejudice  and  littleness  ever  sowed 
in  a  human  breast.    Her  complex- 
ion, before  so  fresh  and  soft,  vu 
marked  with    yellow    streaks,  red 
spots,  and  sometimes  the  white  of  her 
cheeks   turned    greenish.     In  the 
hope  of  concealing  her  emotion  from 
her  sisters,  she  laughingly  shewed 
them  a  ridiculous  passenger  or  dress; 
but  this  laugh  was  convulsive.    She 
felt  herself  more  hurt  b^  the  com- 
passionate silence  of  her  sisters  than 
she  would  have  been  by  remarks,  to 
which  she  could  have  retorted.    She 
employed  all  her  wit  to  draw  them 
into  a  conversation,  in  which  she  en- 
deavoured to  exhale  her  anger  in 
senseless  paradoxes  by  overwhelming 
merchants  with  the  keenest  insults 
and  epigrams  in  bad  taste.    When 
she  rea<med  home  she  was  seized  with 
a  fever,  the  character  of  which  iw« 
at  first  somewhat  dangerous.  At  the 
end  of  a  month  the  attentions  of  her 
family  and  the  care  of  the  physician 
restored  her  to  her  friends.    Eveiy 
one  hoped  that  this    lesson  tim^ 
serve  to  subdue  Emilie,  who  pen- 
ally returned  to  her  former  habits, 
and  a^ain  rushed  into  dissipation. 
She  said  there  was  no  shame  in  being 
deceived.  If,  like  her  father,  she  had 
some  influence  in  the  Chamber,  she 
said  she  would  petition  for  a  law  to 
grant  that  all  people  in  trade,  espe- 
cially linendrapera,  should  be  marked 
on  the  forehead  like  the  sheep  of  toe 
Berry  to  the  third  generation.    She 
wished  the  nobles  alone  to  have  the 
right  of  wearing  that  ancient  French 
dress  which  so  well  became  the  cour- 
tiers of  Loub  XV.     To  hear  her 
talk  it  might  have  been  thought  a 
misfortune  for  the  monarchy  that  no 
difference  existed  between  a  merchant 
and  a  peer  of  France.    A  thousand 
other  pleasantries,  easy  to  divinei 
succeeded  each  other  nunkily  when 
an  unforeseen  incident  lea  her  to  tb« 


1846.] 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty. 


191 


subject.  But  those  who  loyed  Emi- 
lie  reniarked  through  all  her  raillery 
a  tinge  of  melancnoly,  which  led 
them  to  believe  that  Maximilien 
Ixmgueyille  still  reigned  over  this 
inexplicable  heart.  Sometimes  she 
became  as  gentle  as  she  had  been 
during  the  nigitive  season  which  had 
seen  the  birth  of  her  love,  and  some- 
times she  was  more  insupportable 
than  ever.  £very  one  silently  ex- 
cused the  inequalities  of  temper 
which  sprung  from  a  grief  at  once 
well  known  and  secret.  The  Comte 
de  Kergarouet  obtained  a  little 
power  over  her,  thanks  to  an  excess 
of  prod^ality, — a  species  of  consola- 
tion which  rarely  fails  with  young 
Parisian  women.  The  first  time 
that  Meidemoiselle  de  Fontaine  went 
to  a  ball  it  was  at  the  house  of  the 
ambassador  of  Naples.  As  she  took 
her  place  in  the  most  brilliant  of 
the  quadrilles,  she  saw,  a  few  yards 
irom  her,  Longueville,  who  nodded 
slightly  to  her  partner. 

^*  That  young  man  is  one  of  your 
friends  ?  **  she  asked  her  partner  with 
an  ur  of  disdain. 
^  He  is  my  brother,"  he  replied. 
Emilie  could  not  repress  a  start. 
**  Ah !  '*  he  continued,  in  a  tone  of 
enthusiasm,    "he   is   certainly  the 
finest  creature  in  the  world  I  ** 

"  Do  yoa  know  my  name  ?  **  asked 
Emilie,  abruptly  interrupting  him. 

^  No,  mademoiselle.  It  is  a  crime, 
I  confess,  not  to  have  remembered  a 
name  which  is  on  all  lips — I  should 
say,  in  all  hearts ;  but  I  have  a  valid 
excuse.  I  am  just  arrived  from  Ger- 
many. My  ambassador,  who  is  on 
leave  in  Paris,  has  sent  me  here  this 
evening  to  serve  as  a  chaperon  to  his 
amiable  wife,  whom  you  may  see 
there  in  a  comer.'* 

"  A  true  tragedy  mask,"  said  Emi- 
lie, after   examimng  the   ambassa- 


^^Yet  that  is  her  ball  counte- 
nance," laughingly  replied  the  young 
man.  **  I  must  dance  with  ner,  1 
therefore  wished  for  some  compensa- 
tion." 

Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  bowed. 

"  I  was  very  much  surprised,"  con- 
tinued the  talkative  secretary  of  the 
embassy,  "to  find  my  brother  here. 
On  arriving  from  Vienna,  I  learned 
that  the  poor  boy  was  ill.  I  hoped 
to  ^  and  see  him  before  the  ball,  but 
pohtics  do  not  always  leave  us  leisure 
TOL.  xxxm.  vo.  cxciv. 


for  domestic  affections.  The  padrona 
della  caut  did  not  allow  me  to  go  up 
to  my  poor  Maximilien." 

"  xour  brother  is  not,  like  you, in 
the  diplomatic  line?"  said  Emilie. 

"  No,"  said  the  secretary,  si^binff, 
"  the  poor  fellow  sacrificed  himsdf 
for  me.  He  and  my  sister  Clara  re- 
nounced my  father's  fortune,  in  order 
to  make  an  entail  for  me.  My  father 
dreams  of  the  peerage,  like  all  who 
vote  for  the  ministry.    He  has  the 

Eromise  of  bein^  nominated,"  added 
e,  in  a  low  voice.  "  After  assem- 
bling some  capita],  my  brother  joined 
a  banking-house;  and  I  know  that 
he  has  just  made  a  speculation  with 
Brazil  which  may  make  him  a  mU' 
Uonnaire.  You  see  me  quite  rejoiced 
at  having  contributed  to  his  success 
by  my  diplomatic  relations.  I  am 
even  awaiting  with  impatience  a  de- 
spatch from  the  Brazilian  legation, 
of  a  nature  to  smoothe  his  brow. 
What  do  you  think  of  him  P" 

"  Your  brother's  face  does  not  ap- 
pear to  me  that  of  a  man  occupied 
with  money." 

The  young  diplomatist  scrutinised 
with  one  look  the  apparently  calm 
face  of  his  partner. 

"  How  is  this?"  said  he,  smiling. 
"  Do  young  ladies  also  divine 
thoughts  of  love  through  impassive 
brows?" 

"  Your  brother  is  in  love  ?"  asked 
she,  with  a  movement  of  curiosity. 

"  Yes.  My  sister  Clara,  for  whom 
he  has  maternal  care,  wrote  me  word 
that  he  had  fallen  in  love  this  sum- 
mer with  a  very  pretty  girl;  but 
since  that  I  have  had  no  news 
of  his  loves.  Would  you  believe 
that  the  poor  fellow  got  up  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning  to  get  over 
hb  business,  that  he  might  be  at 
four  o'clock  at  his  love's  country- 
house  ?  He  has  ruined  a  beautiful, 
thorough -bred  horse  I  sent  him. 
Forgive  my  chattering,  mademoi- 
selle ;  I  am  just  come  from  Glermany. 
I  have  not  heard  French  correctly 
spoken  for  a  twelvemonth.  I  have 
been  weaned  from  French  faces,  and 
sickened  with  German  ones ;  efo  that, 
in  my  patriotic  mania,  I  think  I 
could  talx  to  the  figures  on  a  Parisian 
candlestick.  Besides,  if  I  talk  with 
an  abandon  not  proper  for  diplo- 
matists, it  is  your  nmlt,  mademoiselle. 
Did  you  not  point  out  to  me  mi 
brother  ?    When  he  is  in  question,  * 

o 


192 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty . 


[tebcuary, 


am  iaexhAintibk.  I  ahould  lilce  to 
publish  to  the  idiole  woild  bow  good 
and  generous  he  is.  It  was  no  Um  a 
matter  than  the  handred  thousand 
francs  a-year  which  the  estate  of 
LoDgaeville  brings  in." 

If  Mademoiselie  de  Fontaiae  ob- 
tained these  important  revelatioBS, 
she  owed  them  oartly  to  the  address 
with  which  she  Knew  how  to  interro- 
gate her  confiding  purtner,  as  soon  as 
she  learned  that  lie  was  the  brother 
of  her  disdained  iover. 

'^  Were  you  able  to  see,  without 
some  annoyaaoe,  your  brother  seiling 
muslins  and  calicoes?"  asked  End- 
lie,  after  the  third  figure  of  Ae 
quadrille. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?"  asked 
the  diplomatist.  ^^  Thank  Ucaveri, 
while  pouring  forth  a  torrent  of 
words,  I  already  have  learned  the 
art  of  only  saying  what  I  wish,  like 
all  the  diplomatic  apprentices  of  my 
acquaintance ! " 

"  You  have  told  it  me,  I  assure 
you." 

iVIonsieur  de  Longueville  looked 
at  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  with 
an  astonishment  full  of  perspicacity. 
A  suspicion  crossed  his  mind.  He 
sncoessively  interrogated  his  bro- 
ther's and  nis  partner's  eyes,  guessed 
eyery  thing,  clasped  his  bands,  looked 
at  the  ceiling,  laughed,  and  said, — 

^  I  am  but  a  fool !  You  are  the 
most  beantiftil  woman  in  the  ball- 
room. My  brother  looks  at  you  on 
the  sly ;  he  dances  in  spke  of  feyer, 
and  you  feign  not  to  see  him.  Make 
him  happy,"  said  he,  leading  her 
back  to  ner  old  uncle ;  **  I  shul  not 
be  jealous,  but  I  shall  always  start  a 
little  in  calling  yon  my  sister." 

But  the  lovers  were  each  to  be  in- 
exorable for  themselves.  Towards 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  supper 
was  served  in  an  immense  gallery, 
where^  in  order  to  give  the  persons 
of  the  same  coterie  liberty  to  meet, 
the  tables  were  arranged  as  they  arc 
at  a  restaurateur^ 8,  By  one  of  those 
hazards  which  always  happen  to 
lovers,  Mademoiselle  de  iTontaine 
found  herself  placed  at  a  table  near 
the  one  round  which  sat  the  most 
distinguished  persons.  Maximilien 
was  of  the  group.  Emilie,  who  lent 
an  attentive  ear  to  the  discourse  held 
by  her  neighbours,  heard  one  of 
those  conversations  which  are  so 
easily  establidied   between   youBg 


imnied  women  and  yomw  men  who 
have  the  graces  and  aennee  of 
Maximilien  Ixmgneyille.  ^Oieyoaii^ 
banker^s  interk^oitor  was  a  Keiyah* 
taa  dudiess,  whose  eyes  darted  fagiht- 
nings,  whose  white  skin  had  the^oas 
of  satin.  The  teraai  of  infiBacy 
which  young  LongueyiUe  aifected  to 
be  on  with  ner  wounded  MadeaMH- 
sdle  de  FontaMe  all  tiie  anore  be- 
cause she  had  restored  to  her  lover 
twenty  times  more  tendeniess  than 
she  had  ever  before  felt  in  him. 

^  Yes,  in  my  country,  tme  lore 
knows  how  to  make  all  sorts  of  sacri- 
fioes,"  said  the  doebess,  af&etedly. 

^  You  are  OMve  paaskmate  thaa 
Frenchwomen  are,"  nid  MaxiaulicB, 
whose  expressive  glaneemet  Eaulie's. 
**  Thw  are  all  vanity."  . 

'^  Monsieur,"  qukkiy  rej^ied  the 
young  ^rl,  "  is  it  not  wrong  thus  to 
calumniate  your  country  ?  Lleyotion 
is  of  all  nations." 

^*  Do  you  think,  mademcHseiie," 
returned  the  Italian,  with  a  sardonic 
smile,  ^*  that  a  Parisian  is  capable  of 
folk)wing  her  lover  every  where  ?" 

"  Let  us  understand  one  anotiwr, 
madarae.  One  may  go  into  a  desert 
and  inhabit  a  tent,  but  not  go  and  sit 
down  in  a  shop." 

She  ended  her  sentence  with  a 
gesture  of  disdain.  Thus  the  in- 
fluence which  £milie*s  fatal  education 
exercised  over  her  twice  bl^hted  her 
commencing  happtness,  and  destroyed 
her  future  exist^^  The  appa^t 
coldness  of  MaximiUen  and  the  mag^t 
of  a  woman  drew  ftom  her  one  of 
those  sarcasms,  the  perfidious  enjoy- 
ments of  which  always  led  her  away. 

**  Mademoiselle,"  said  Loi^neviue 
to  her,  in  a  low  voice,  under  cover  of 
the  noise  made  by  the  women  rising 
from  the  table,  "  no  one  will  form  lor 
your  happiness  more  ardent  wishes 
than  I  shall ;  permit  me  to  give  you 
this  assurance  on  taking  leave  of  you. 
In  a  few  days  I  shul  set  out  for 
Italy." 

''  With  a  duchess,  no  doubt  F" 

*^  No,  mademoiselle ;  but  with  an 
illness,  i)erhape  mortal." 

^Is  it  not  a  chimera?'*  aaked 
Emilie,  with  an  anxious  gkace. 

^  No,"  said  he ;  ^  there  are  aome 
wounds  which  never  heal." 

**  You  shall  not  go,"  said  the  im- 
perious ffirl,  smiling. 

"I  shall  go,"  grafdly  retuncd 
Maximilieii* 


1846.] 


The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty. 


19;^ 


*^  You  will  find  me  married  at 
your  return,  I  warn  yon/'  said  ahe, 
ooquettiably. 

"  I  hope  80." 

^*  Impertinent  man  I "  she  ex* 
daimed.  "  Does  he  not  revenge 
bimaelf  cruelly?" 

A  fortnight  afterwards,  Maximilien 
Longnerille  and  his  sister  Clara  set 
out  for  the  warm  and  poetical  re** 
ffions  of  Italy,  leaving  Aiademoiselle 
oe  FoBlaine  a  prey  to  tiie  most 
poignant  regret.  The  yonng  secre-* 
terr  took  up  his  brother's  quarrel, 
and  amply  comnensated  £milie*s  dis- 
dain by  publisning  the  motives  of 
the  rupture  between  the  lovers.  He 
returned  with  usury  the  sarcasms  she 
had  uttered  about  Maximilien,  and 
made  more  than  one  excellency 
laugh  by  painting  the  beautiful  ene- 
my  of  counters — the  amazon  who 
preached  a  crusade  against  bankers 
— the  young  ffirl  whose  love  had 
evaporated  bemre  half- a- yard  of 
muslin.  The  Comte  de  Fontaine  was 
obliged  to  use  his  influence  in  obtain- 
ing for  Auipste  Longueville  a  mis- 
sion in  Russia,  to  secure  his  daughter 
from  the  ridicule  which  this  young 
mid  dangerous  persecutor  lavished 
on  her.  The  ministry,  obliged  to 
raise  a  supply  of  peers  to  support 
the  amtoeratic  opi^ns  «hic£  the 
voice  of  an  illustrious  writer  stag- 
gered in  the  noble  Chamber,  soon 
named  Monsieur  Guiraudin  de  Lon- 
gueville a  peer  of  France  and  a 
viscount.  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  also 
obtained  a  peerage,  a  recompense  due 
to  his  fidelity  during  evil  days,  as 
much  as  to  his  name,  which  was 
missing  in  the  hereditary  Chamber. 

At  this  period,  Emilie,  having 
oome  of  age,  no  doubt  made  serious 
reflections  on  life;  for  she  changed 
her  tone  and  manners  considerably. 
Instead  of  saying  ill-natured  things 
to  her  uncle,  she  bestowed  on  him 
the  most  aflectionate  care ;  she 
brought  him  his  crutch  with  a  per- 
sevenng  tenderness  which  made  peo- 
ple laueh.  She  offered  him  her 
arm,  rode  in  his  carriage,  and  accom- 
panied him  in  all  his  walks.  She 
even  persuaded  him  that  she  was  not 
annoyed  Ivy  the  smell  of  his  pipe,  and 
read  aloud  his  beloved  Quotic&nne  in 
the  midst  of  the  puflk  of  smoke  which 
the  mischievous  sailor  purposely  sent 


her.    She  learned  pk^oet  to  ^]ay  with 
her  unde.    Lastly,   this  capricious 
girl  listened  attentively  to  the  nar- 
ratives which  her  uncle  periodically 
recommenced  of  the   flght   of  the 
Belle-Poule,  the  manoeuvres  of  the 
Ville-de-Paris,  of  Monsieur  de  Sof- 
fren*s  first  expedition,  and  of  the 
battle  of  Aboukir.    Although  the 
old  sailor  had  often  said  that  he  knew 
his  latitude  and  longitude  too  well  to 
allow  himself  to  be  captured  by  a 
young  sloop,  one  fine  morning  the 
sahtu  of  Paris  learned  that  Made- 
moiselle de  Fontaine  had  married  the 
Comte  de  Kergarouet.*    The  young 
coimtess  gave  splendid  fStes  to  divert 
herself,  but  she,  doubtless,  found  the 
nothingness  of  this  vortex.    Luxury 
imperfectly  concealed  the  emptiness 
and  unhappiness   of  her   suflering 
mind.      Notwithstanding  outbreaks 
of  feigned  gaiety,  her  beautiful  face 
mostly  expressed  profound  melan- 
choly.   Emilie  appeared  full  of  at- 
tentions and  care  for  her  old  hus- 
band, who  often,  when  going  to  his 
room  at  night  to  the  sound  of  a 
joyous  orchestra,  said  that  he  did  not 
recognise  himself,  and  that  he  never 
expected,  at  seventy-two,  to  embark 
as  pilot  on  board  the  BeUe  ErmUe^ 
after  already  spending  twenty  years 
at  the  conjugal  galleys. 

The  countess's  conduct  was  so 
strictly  proper,  that  the  most  keen- 
sighted  criticism  had  no  fault  to  find. 
Observers  thought  that  the  vice- 
admiral  had  reserved  for  himself  the 
right  of  disposing  of  his  fortune  in 
order  to  bind  his  wife  more  firmly. 
This  supposition  was  an  insult  to 
both  uncle  and  niece.  He  was  often 
heard  to  say  that  he  had  saved  his 
niece,  as  if  she  were  a  wrecked  per- 
son, and  that  he  had  never  abused 
the  laws  of  hospitality  when  he  had 
saved  an  enemy  from  the  fury  of  the 
storm. 

Two  years  after  her  marriage,  in 
one  of  tne  ancient  drawing-rooms  of 
the  Faubourg  St.  Grermain,  where 
her  character  was  admired  as  worthy 
of  ancient  times,  Emilie  heard  Mon- 
sieur le  Vicomte  de  Longueville  an- 
nounced; and  in  the  corner  where 
she  was  playing  piquet  with  the 
Bishop  of  Persepolis,  her  emotion 
was  unnoticed.  The  death  of  his 
father,    and    that   of  his    brother 


! 


*  In  France  it  is  legal  for  a  great-uncle  to  marry  hU  niece. 


194 


Luiin  Pamphleteers. 


[Pebi'uary, 


killed  by  the  inclemeney  of  the 
climate  of  St.  Petersburg,  bad  placed 
on  Mazimilien's  head  the  heredi- 
tary plumes  of  the  peerage.  His 
fortune  equalled  his  talents  and  me- 
rit: the  day  before,  his  young  and 
impetuous  eloquence  had  enlightened 
the  assembly.  At  this  moment  he 
appeared  to  the  countess  free  and 
endowed  with  all  she  had  dreamed 
for  her  idol.  All  the  mothers  who 
had  daughters  to  marry  made  ad- 
Tances  to  a  young  man  giiled  with 
the  virtues  wnich  were  attributed  to 
him  on  admiring  his  appearance ;  but, 


better  than  any  one,  Emilie  Idiew 
that  he  possessed  that  decision  of 
character  in  which  prudent  women 
see  a  pledge  of  happiness.  She  looked 
at  the  admiral,  wno,  according  to  his 
familiar  expression,  app^red  Ukely 
to  keep  a  long  while  on  his  tack,  and 
cursed  the  errors  of  her  childhood. 

At  that  moment.  Monsieur  de  Per* 
sepolis  said  to  her,  with  episcopal 
grace, — 

*'  My  fair  lady,  you  have  discarded 
the  king  of  heaSrts,  I  have  won.  But 
do  not  reff ret  your  money,  I  reserve 
it  for  my  little  seminaries.** 


LATIN  PAMPHLETEERS. 


SALLUST. 


To  converse  with  historians  is  to 
keep  good  company ;  many  of  them 
were  excellent  men,  and  tnose  who 
were  not  such  have  taken  care,  how> 
ever,  to  appear  so  in  their  ^vritings. 
This  observation  comes  from  Boling" 
broke,  and  might  have  formed  an 
appropriate  motto  for  his  own  pro- 
ductions :  we  apply  it  to  one  whom 
it  suit^  still  better.  It  is  in  these 
terms  that  Sallust  refers  to  his  past 
actions  and  peculiar  adaptation  for 
the  severe  legislation  of  the  his- 
torian : — 

**  In  early  life  T,  like  most  others,  felt 
nyself  strongly  directed  to  affairs  of 
•tete  ;  but  there  I  discovered  many  im. 
pediments.  Instead  of  modesty,  ab* 
atinence,  and  \'irtue,  prevailed  audacity, 
corrupiion,  and  avarice ;  and  though  my 
mind,  unversed  in  such  practices,  ab- 
horred such  vices,  still  in  the  great  and 
general  profligacy  my  tender  age  was  se- 
duced and  entangled  by  ambition ;  and 
however  opposed  to  the  evil  habits  of 
others,  yet  no  less  did  the  same  thirst 
for  distinction  subject  me  to  the  noto- 
n'ely  and  obloquy  that  harassed  the 
rest." 

/      We  find  a  similar  vein  of  apolo- 
I  getic  egotism  in  the  Jugurthan  war : 

"  There  are  some,  I  believe,  who,  be- 
CiiUM  1  have  determined  to  poss  my  life 
nt  a  distance  from  public  affairs,  have 
applied  to  my  important  and  useful  la- 
bours iho  charncter  of  indolence;  parti- 
cnlarly  those  who  consider  it  the  height 
^^industry  to  court  the  people,  and  to 
^"^^J  poptslarity  by  their  convivial  enter- 
^ents  'y  but  if  these  men  reflect  on  the 
when  I  was  in  power,  and  on  the 


characters  of  rhose  wBo  failed  to  obtaiif 
ofl!ce,  and  then  consider  the  descriptioir 
of  persons  who  afterwards  crept  into  the 
senate,  they  will  allow  that  1  bavd* 
changed  my  sentiments  more  from  pro- 
priety than  indolence ;  and  that  greater 
advantages  will  result  to  the  state  from 
my  leisure,  than  from  the  active  czertioii& 
of  others/* 

When  we  tuni  to  hisiofy  for  il- 
lustrations of  these  singular  specimens 
of  adulative  autobiography,  we  are 
confronted  by  the  reflection  of  a  very 
different  character.  Where  we  looked 
for  Chatham,  we  find  Walpole ;  and 
Scipio  vanishes  in  one  of  In  apoleon*s 
Marshals.      This  statesman,   whose 
tender  conscience  shrank  from  the 
chicanery  and  fraud  of  politics,  was 
expelled  the  senate  for  personal  de- 
pravity ;  and  this  eloquent  advocate  j 
of  punt V  and  justice  was  known  to  • 
have  adorned  his  palace  with  the; 
plunder  of  his  grinding  governments 
in  Numidia.   The  expulsion  has  been^ 
questioned,  or,  rather,  the  cause  of  it ;; 
but   the  atrocities   of  the  Africani 
ofiicer  are  confessed.     In  the  evi- 
dence of  twenty  centuries  probability 
and  character  are  not  to  be  over- 
looked.   It  is  an  easy  thing  to  praise 
virtue;   but  we  have  not  travelled 
far  back    into    the    human  annals, 
without  learning    the   necessity  of 
keeping  our  critical  eyes  nndazzled 
by  the    rich    transparencies,  which 
genius  is  able  to  paint  and  illuminate. 
Sallust  places  himself  in  the  midst  of 
his  narrative.    It  was  an  artistic  de- 
ception to  draw  our  attention  to  th^ 
dignified  figure  of  the  historian,  thus^ 


1846.]  Sa 

shedding  a  light  over  the  darker 
features  of  conspiracy  and  crime. 
We  are  to  regard  in  this  ornHmental 
view  the  writer's  eloquent  complaints 
of  the  luxury  introduced  into  the 
anny  by  Sylla,  and  thoK  burning 
and  patriotic  Bisbs  of  regret,  which 
appeartocoine  from  his  heart,  for  the 
stem  dignity  and  aelf-deaying  so- 
briety of  sucestral  heroes.  And  yet 
the  ear  cannot  hat  be  startled  by 
such  a  passage  as  the  following : — 

"  Here  Ihe  Roman  narrlar  Gral  letined 
lo  love  and  diink  ;  id  iadulge  ■  lisle  fur 
itatnei,  paintinga,  and  aculptured  vtsea  ; 
U>  sttal  them  publicly  or  privately ;  to 
lob  ihe  templea,  intt  to  polluls  ill  tfiinga, 
aocred  or  .  profane.  When  tlie»a  «ol- 
diera,  therefort.  gDined  >  victory  lUej 
left  notbiag  to  lUe  TBDquiatitil." 

MacbisTelli  himself  might  have 
been  taught  by  Sallust, — thus  de- 
nouncing rapine  and  wrong  in  the 
very  home,  perhaps,  which  he  had 
beautified  with  the  plundered  trea- 
■ures  of  Africa.  It  is,  neverthe- 
IcM,  consolatory  to  know  that  tbe 
lessons  of  history  are  not  deprived  of 
their  energy  by  tbe  baseness  of  the 
teacher.  Plinj^  mentions  an  author 
who,  after  reciting  a  portion  of  a  his- 
torical nwratiTe,  was  implored  by 
the  friends  of  a  perion  mentioned  in 
it  not  to  recite  the  rest,  so  much  were 
they  ashamed  to  hear  those  actions 
repeated,  which  they  did  not  blush  to 
commit.  The  eye  of  conscience  in- 
voluntarily withdraws  in  terror  nnd 
disgust  from  the  deformity  of  vice, 
thus  thrown  forward  in  the  clear 

tlasa  of  history  and  trutli.  It  is  dif- 
cnlt  lo  reconcile  Johnson's  dislike 
of  history  with  his  own  sense  of  its 
moral  value ;  yet  we  are  told  that 
he  would  insult  a  person  who  intro- 
duced the  Punic  war;  and  he  con- 
fessed to  Mr.  Thrale,  that  when 
the  Conspiracy  of  Catiline  was  men- 
tioned at  the  club,  he  "withdrew 
his  attention,  and  tliought  of  Tom 
Thumb." 

Of  the  life  or  the  history  of  Sal- 
lust,  nothing  but  the  broad  outline  is 
preserved;  and  even  that  is  not 
clearly  defined  in  the  minuter  fea- 
tures. The  composition  of  his  works 
has  been  assigned  to  various  periods. 
The  shade  of  his  luxurious  gardens 
on  the  Quirinal  was  probably  the 


h»t.  195 

scene  of  his  historic  meditations. 
Never  had  scholar  or  voluptuary  a 
more  delicious  abode.  Here  was  col- 
lected together  all  that  could  charm 
the  eye  or  enchant  the  senses,  from  tbe 
most  remote  countries  over  which  the 
wing  of  the  Roman  eagle  had  cast  its 
shadow.  Foctry,  painting,  and  sculp- 
ture, exhausted  their  boms  of  intellec- 
tual plenty.  When  the  sumptuous 
{»lace  passed  into  the  hands  of  royal 
mbabitants,  the  wand  of  luxury  and 
taste  seems  to  have  worked  the  won- 
ders of  a  still  higher  magic.  The 
utuation  was  the  most  derightful  in 
Rome.  The  spot  where  the  bouse 
stood  is  now  marked  by  the  church 
of  St.  Susanna,  separated  by  a  street 
from  the  baths  of  Diocletian,  and  not 
far  distant  from  the  Falarian  gate.* 
During  more  than  three  centuries 
the  palace  of  Sallust  gradually  ex- 
panded beneath  the  affluence  of  its 
unperial  possessors.  But  its  end  was 
at  leugtb  to  approach.  Upon  sn  au- 
tumnal night,  August  24,  a.d.  41U, 
the  Falarian  gate  was  silently  opened, 
end  the  slumber  of  the  Boman  me- 
tropolis was  startled  by  the  tre- 
mendous sound  of  the  Gothic  trum- 
pet. One  can  scarcely  repress  a 
feeling  of  regret,  that  the  eye  of  the 
historian  could  not  hav.e  been  once 
more  opened  to  behold  the  solemn 
spectacle  that  swept  before  bis  lighted 
window  in  that  awful  hour.  Thestem 
Alaric  bad  commanded  his  barbarian 
legions  to  abstain  from  injury  or  in- 
sult to  tbe  churches  and  tbeir  trea- 
sures. The  consecrated  plate  and  or- 
naments were  carried  to  St.  Peter's. 
Art  might  have  felt  its  pencil 
kindled  by  the  astonishing  pro- 
cession, which  then  wound,  in  slow 
magni&cence,  from  the  extremity  of 
tbe  Quirinal  hill  to  the  distant  quar- 
ter of  the  Vatican.  Bands  of  the 
fierce  and  blue-eyed  Goths  marched 
in  battle  array  through  the  principal 
streets,  protecting  wifli  their  glitter- 
ing arms  the  long  train  of  terrified 
citizens,  who  bore  aloft  on  their 
heads  the  sacred  vessels  of  gold  and 
silver.  As  tbe  neighbouring  houses 
ponred  out  their  little  companies  of 
age  and  youth  to  mingle  with  the 
gathering  stream,  the  air  was  rent 
with  the  shouts  of  the  soldiers,  sof' 
ened  into  an  indescribable  sweet' 
by  the  strains  of  religious  psalr 


196 


Latin  Pampkleteers, 


[Februttiy, 


that  melted  into  the  clangor  and 
tumult  Hitherto  the  flash  of  ar- 
mour had  shed  a  feeble  glare  upon 
this  melancholy  expedition;  but  a 
brighter  illumination  soon  broke 
over  the  jMith.  The  Goths  set  Are 
to  the  houses,  partly  with  the  inten- 
tion of  facilitatmg  their  own  advance, 
and  partly  to  bewilder  the  awe- 
stricken  inhabitants ;  the  flames 
quickly  spread ;  the  home  of  genius 
and  of  empire  began  to  blaie;  and, 
in  the  words  of  Gibbon,  the  ruins  of 
the  palace  of  Sallust  remained,  in  the 
age  of  Justinian,  a  stately  monument 
of  the  Gothic  conflagration. 

It  was,  we  think,  within  this  de- 
lightful seclusion  that  Sallust  invoked 
the  muse  of  history.  With  eager 
ambition,  great  experience,  uninter- 
rupted leisure,  and  all  the  aids  that 
power  and  opulence  could  supply,  he 
looked  round  him  for  a  subject  wor- 
thy of  his  pencil  and  his  fame.  We 
can  believe  that  numerous  scenes 
passed  before  his  flashing  eye  in  that 
magnificent  edifice,  where,  in  a  later 
day,  the  voice  of  Augustus  cheered 
the  immortal  labours  of  Livy,  and 
Vespasian  mused  over  the  destinies 
of  tierusalem.  It  was  natural  that, 
in  all  the  brilliant  array  of  historic 
personages,  his  eye  should  lincer 
with  particular  satisfaction  upon  that 
group,  in  which  the  figure  ofCatiline 
towered  >vith  so  disastrous  a  pre- 
eminence. Himself  in  the  full  glow 
of  youth — he  was  twenty-two  years 
old — when  the  insurrection  broke 
out,  he  had  seen  the  actors,  and  wit- 
nessed the  storm  and  terror  in  which 
their  tragedy  had  been  commenced 
and  ended.  But  it  was  not  only  that 
the  subiect  allured  his  fancy  with  its 
blandishments  of  the  picturesque,  and 
its  lights  of  the  rhetorical ;  it  had 
charms  for  other  passions:  by  re- 
cording that  conspiracy  he  might  add 
a  fresh  lustre  to  the  portraits  of  his 
friends,  and  cast  a  deeper  shade  upon 
the  features  of  his  opponents.  He 
might  combine  the  pamphlet  with 
the  picture, — ^the  panegyric  of  Cassar 
with  the  rivalry  oi  Cicero.  This  cir- 
cumstance has  been  lost  sight  of  by 
the  commentators.  Cicero  painted 
Catiline  to  the  senate,  Sallust  deter- 
mined to  paint  him  to  the  world ; 
one  found  a  fVame  in  oratory,  and 
the  other  in  history ;  both  have  with- 
stood the  work  of  time;  both  are 
bright,  both  are  immortal.  Cicero  had 


devoted  all  bis  eanyass  to  the  chief 
Conspirator ;  Sallust  imitated  him, 
not  forgetting,  however,  to  sketch  two 
or  three  figures  in  the  background. 
The  style  of  each  differed :  it  was 
Sebastian  puntine  against  Baffaelle. 
In  truth,  the  colours  of  the  Vene- 
tian, dark  and  repulsive,  yet  poetical 
and  sublime,  recall  the  harsh  and 
sombre,  though  vivid  and  startling 
lineaments  of  Catiline,  under  the  pen 
of  Sallust,  as  the  clearness  and  so- 
lemnity of  Baflaelle  are  revived  in 
the  lucid  brilliancy  of  Cicero's  In- 
suTj^ent.  Upon  the  comparative 
merits  of  the  two  portraiti,  Dr.  Croly  , 
has  some  remarks  in  the  preface  to 
his  tragedy  :— 

"The  cbaracier  drawn  by  Sallott 
stands  no  comparison,  in  point  of  verln- 
militttde,  with  the  expressire  description 
of  Cicero ;  it  is  altogether  ambitious  and 
theatrical.  He  had  palpably  adopted  the 
subject  for  display,  at  a  period  when  be 
mi§^ht  be  anxious  in  his  obsourity  to 
ahare  the  honours  of  the  brilliant  age  of 
Roman  authorship ;  and  when,  firom  the 
death  of  all  the  agents,  and  tho  total 
change  of  government,  he  might  invest 
history  with  somethiof  of  the  &trmnge« 
ness  and  splendour  oT  romance.  The 
Catiline  of  Cicero  is  a  daring  man,  of 
eminent  capacity,  who  for  a  while  pre* 
sents  a  doubtful  aspect  of  good  and  evil ; 
but  at  length,  tempted  or  driven,  rushes 
into  treason.  Tbe  Catiline  of  Sallust 
starts  up  at  once  into  a  vast  embodied 
iniquity.  The  casual  rage  and  miaory  of 
his  final  atniggles  are  assumed  as  his 
liabitual  gesture ;  and  Cicero's  living, 
human  portraiture  of  a  ravaged  Blind  is 
lost  in  the  overcharged,  but  gorgeous  co- 
louring that  makes  the  conspirator  the 
gigantic  central  figure  ofthe  fancy  picture 
of  revolution." 

This  is  very  clever  and  striking, 
but  wron^.  xhe  sudden  birth  of 
iniquity  exists  only  in  the  imagination 
of  the  critic.  Sallust  had  already 
traced,  in  a  few  rapid  but  significant 
lines,  the  early  disposition  and  pas- 
sions of  Catiline,  and  that  wonderful 
combination  of  coura^  and  license, 
of  luxury  and  enterpnse,  of  pleasure 
and  endurance,  which  so  peculiarly 
distin^ished  his  character.  With 
ambition  that  dared  a  kingdom,  and 
dissimulation  that  stooped  to  a  slave. 
Cicero  speaks  more  vehemently  of 
his  great  capacity,  and  of  the  tongue 
that  would  recommend  whatever  tbe 
hand  could  execute.  But  Sallust  is 
not  silent ;  and  if  he  does  not  praise 


1846.} 


Salbtsi. 


197 


his  eloqne&ee  so  wcil,  he  eiempKftes 
it  better.  His  manhood  is  the  ex- 
panded commtion  of  his  youth .  The 
nre  of  vice  nad  scorched  a  blacker 
seam  into  his  forehead.  But  the 
grwth  is  perfieetly  nstaral ;  there  is 
in  it  nothing  instantaneous^  nothing 
that  might  not  be  expected.  When 
Sallust  brings  him  before  us,  he  is 
beginning  to  reap  according  to  what 
he  had  sown.  He  is  not  only  ripe 
for  treason,  but  already  a  traitor. 
He  had  rushed  frcMa  the  temple  of 
Jupiter  with  the  thundex  of  Cicero  in 
his  ears,  and  the  averted  face  of  the 
Senate  in  his  eye.  The  description 
of  SaUust  18  historieally  true,  now- 
ever  melodramatic  it  may  appoir: 
**  Turn  die  furibundus,  ^  Quoniam 
qvidem  eireomventus,*  infuit,  ^ab 
inimiciB  pneceps  agor,  ineendium 
meum  nrina  extin^oam.*  Dein  se  ex 
curia  domum  pronpnit ;" —  '*  Sinee," 
he  exclaimed,  *^  I  am  surrounded  and 
driven  headlong  by  my  enemies,  I 
will  extinguish  the  fire  Uiat  threatens 
me  in  universal  ruin.**  By  this  fierce 
impulse  he  is  hurled  forward  npon 
the  stage  of  history.  It  is  Catiline 
the  conqiirator,  and  him  alone,  whom 
Sallust  portrays.  Nor  has  the  second 
remark  of  Croiy  any  surer  foundation. 
**  The  casual  rage  and  misery  of  his 
final  struggles**  are  certainly  diescribed 
as  his  habitual  gesture,  and  rightly 
SO)  because  it  was  of  these  final  strug- 

?:les  ^one  that  the  historian  wrote, 
t  was  in  the  tumultuous  tragedy  of 
Treason  alone  that  the  Traitor  was 
to  be  exhibited.  But  the  restless 
ferocity  of  his  manner  is  accounted 
fbr  upon  a  more  awful  principle.  A 
Roman  lady  had  refused  to  marry 
him  from  fear  of  his  son ;  he  caused 
hka  to  be  assasnnated,  that  this  ob- 
stacle mieht  be  removed.  Thus 
Murder  glared  upon  Sedition;  and 
the  iron  of  Consdenee  b^an  to  ^oad 
him  into  frenacy.  This  is  the  Catiline 
of  Sallust — his  face  colourless,  his 
eyes  ghastly,  his  step  hurried— as  he 
rushes  on  to  the  stage  of  historv ;  buf- 
feted, and  bleeding,  and  blasted  b^  the 
flame  and  storm  of  terror  and  crime. 
We  said  that  Sallust  introduced 


Bone  sket^es  into  tlie  background 
of  hia  picture.  Such,  however,  is 
the  construction  and  colouring  of  the 
central  figure,  that  it  appears  to  dif- 
fuse light,  as  well  as  gloom,  over  the 
whole;  and  in  this  peculiarity  he 
anticipated  the  achievements  of  Italian 
art.  His  minor  characters  are  drawn 
with  remarkable  elegance,  while  the  { 
colonring  is  subdued  into  a  mild  and 
pleasing  chastity,  that  harmonises 
with  toe  brilliancy  and  fulness  of  the 
principal  figure.  "  Does  he  give 
you  a  character?**  said  Lamb,  speak- 
ing of  the  deseriptions  in  Erasmus's 
letters.  "  The  person  described  is 
your  intimate  acquaintance ;  the 
likeness  is  palpable ;  jrou  shake  hands 
with  him.  We  cannot  say  this  of 
Sallust ;  but  his  gradations  and 
shades  of  disposition  are  most  ad- 
mirably preserved.  We  may  refer  to 
the  parallel  between  Csesar  and  Cato. 

"  Id  deweat,  age,  and  aloqMDee,  they 
were  almost  on  an  equality  *,  they  pes- 
sessad  the  same  greatness  of  mind  and 
the  same  renown,  but  by  different  means. 
Cssar  became  illustrious  by  acts  of  kind- 
ness and  munificence  ;  Cato  by  tbe  strict 
integrity  of  his  life.  The  former  ob- 
tained renown  by  clemency  and  compas- 
sion ;  the  latter  derived  dignity  from  his 
serertty.  Ca$sar  acquired  glory  by  giv- 
ing, relieving,  and  forgiving;  Cato  by 
bestowing  nothing.  In  the  one  the 
wretched  found  a  refuge ;  in  tbe  other 
tlie  guilty  encountered  destruction.  The 
easy  disposition  of  the  former,  the  un- 
bending firmness  of  the  latter,  were  ob- 
jects of  admiration.  Lastly,  Cassar  had 
devoted  himself  to  labour  and  watch- 
fulness ;  intent  on  the  interests  of  his 
friends,  he  was  careless  of  hia  own  ;  he 
refused  to  grant  nothing  which  was  wor- 
thy of  acceptance  ;  his  wishes  were  for 
extensive  nower,  an  army,  a  fresh  war, 
in  which  ms  talents  might  be  diatin- 
gutshed.  Cato's  only  study  waa  mode- 
ration, honour,  and  especially  a  rigorous 
severity*.  He  did  not  contend  in  riches 
with  the  rich,  nor  in  faction  with  the  fac- 
tious ;  but  in  bravery  with  the  brave,  in 
modesty  with  the  modeat,  and  in  purity 
with  the  innocent.  He  was  more  anxious 
to  appear  than  to  be  good  ;  thus  the  less 
be  courted  fame,  the  more  she  pursued 
him. 


"• 


•  Peacock,  p.  79.     In  transferring  these  exquisite  portraits  to  a  wider  canvass, 
it  wiH  not  be  expected  that  every  touch  of  the  original  pencil  should  be  preserved.     W^ 
do  not  tlunk  that  the  force  of  >ji/u/  largiundo  is  seen  in  the  "bestowing  notliing" 
Mr.  Peacock's  version;    and  the  energetic  brilliancy  of  uhi  virtm  eniteseere  ftof 
gliiirmers  very  ftrintly  indeed  in  the  phrase  **  m  which  his  talents  might  be  dis 
guithtd:'    But  his  version,  on  the  whole,  is  very  good. 


198 


Latin  Pampkleieeri. 


[February, 


And  in  reading  this  exquisite  pa- 
rallel between  Geito  and  Ciesar,  ve 
naturally  inquire  why  Cicero  is  not 
added  to  the  number.  But  Boling- 
brokers  caution*  with  regard  to 
pamphlets  on  English  history,  aj)- 
plies,  with  at  least  equal  force,  to  this 
clcTerest  of  all  contributions  to  the 
prejucUoe  of  Latin  parties.  He  said 
that  they  should  be  read  with  suspi- 
cion, as  deserving  to  be  suspected; 
be  advised  the  student  to  ques- 
tion the  epithets,  and  submit  the 
judgments  again  to  the  scale; 
to  pass  over  the  declamation,  and 
melt  down  the  rhetoric  into  fact. 
With  such  precautions,  he  thought 
that  even  Bumet*s  history  might  be 
of  use.  This  is  the  bitterness  of  a 
partisan  abusing  party.  The  re- 
mark is  to  be  remembered  in  reading 
Sallust.  He  admire!  Caesar,  and 
envied  or  disliked  Cicero.  Accord- 
ingly, in  that  picture  of  the  Catiline 
conspiracy,  where  vou  look  for  him 
in  the  front,  you  have  only  a  slight 
miniature,  or  rather  outline,  in  the 
comer.  He  is  introduced — it  would 
be  difficult  to  write  of  the  American 
War  without  mentioning  Chatham — 
in  that  part  of  the  pamphlet  which 
records  the  appearance  of  Catiline  in 
the  senate-house.  "•  On  this,  Marcus 
Tullius,  the  consul,  either  alarmed  at 
his  presence,  or  roused  by  anger,  de- 
livered that  splendid  oration  so  ser- 
viceable to  the  state,  which  he  after- 
wards published."  That  is  all.  We 
have  Cfsesar  and  Cato  at  full  length, 
but  not  Cicero.  Why  was  this  ?  To 
contrast  him  with  hb  contemporaries 
as  a  man  of  literary  genius,  would  be 
an  idle  task.  He  makes  all  their  fires 
pale  with  the  glory  of  his  name.  But 
m  the  attributes  of  the  highest  phi- 
losophy— in  whatever  distinguishes, 
elevat^,  or  illuminates  the  nature  of 
man, — he  occupied  a  still  hi^ber  rank. 
There  he  was  unapproachable.  Sal- 
lust  has  enabled  us  to  make  this 
comparison.  He  introduces  his 
reader  into  the  senate-house,  while 
the  debate  is  proceeding  upon  the 
punishment  of  the  conspirators. 
Should  it  be  death,  confiscation,  im- 

?risonment,  or  banishment?     Hear 
JsBsar:— 

"  With  regard  to  the  punisbmeot,  we 
inay  state  the  plain  fact  that  in  sorrow 


and  misery  death  becomes  the  nUeviator 
of  aufferiog,  and  not  a  torment, —  the 
ditsolver  of  aU  haman  woee;  and  that 
beyond  the  grave  exists  neither  care  nor 

joy." 

A  sentiment  which  Cato  ap- 
plauds : — 

'*  C.  Caesar  hns  just  now»  in  this  as- 
sembly, discussed  well  and  accurately 
the  subject  of  life  and  death,  regarding 
as  fictions,  I  ooocei?e,  the  accounts  usu- 
ally given  of  the  infernal  world — that  the 
wicked,  passing  by  different  paths  from 
the  good,  inhabit  regions  squalid,  loath, 
some,  and  full  of  terror." 

Bead  these  passagjes,  and  remem- 
ber that  there  sat  in  that  council- 
chamber  one  who  had  made  his  page 
luminous  with  the  doctrine  of  im- 
mortality, and  the  destruction  of 
whose  writings  was  afterwards 
thought  necessary  to  complete  that 
of  the  Scriptures. 

Cicero  has  recorded  his  own  opinion 
of  every  historian's  obli^tion  to  give 
the  characters  of  the  leadmg  men,  their 
passions,  their  influence,  and  their 
conduct.  If  Sallust  married  the  di- 
vorced Terentia,  the  n^lect  of  her 
outraged  husband  will  not  surprise 
us ;  and  if  the  orator's  censure  of  a 
dark  style  be  justly  interpreted  to  be 
aimed  at  Sallust,  we  shall  be  safe  in 
concluding  that  Cicero  looked  upon 
him  with  no  feeling  either  of  per- 
sonal or  literary  regard. 

One  remark  may  be  added.  Bru- 
tus wrote  a  memoir  of  Cato,  and,  in 
recording  the  debates  on  the  plot  of 
Catiline,  he  assigned  to  Cato  the  pro- 
minent place  to  the  exclusion  of 
Cicero.  Middleton  suggests  that  Sal- 
lust shaped  his  narrative  from  this 
biography,  choosing  to  copy  the  error 
of  Srutus  rather  than  to  render  jus- 
tice to  Cicero. 

Sallust  is  not  only  happy  in  the  com- 
position of  his  characters,  but,  also,  in 
their  employment.  He  excels  in  what 
may  be  called  the  dramatic  action  of 
his  narrative.  The  speeches  of  bis 
chief  actors  are  admirably  introduced 
and  arranged.  Ben  Jonsonhas  no- 
ticed this  excellence : — 

"  It  is  no  wonder  men's  eminence  ap« 
pears  but  in  their  own  way.  Virgil's 
felicity  left  him  in  prose,  as  I'uUy's  for- 
sook him  in  verse.    SaHust's  orations  are 


*  History  and  SUte  of  Europe,  Lett.  YIU. 


1846.] 


Sallust. 


199 


nad  ia  the  honoiir  of  story ;  jet  the  most 
eloquent  Plsto's  speech,  wbich  he  made 
for  Socrates,  is  neither  worthy  of  the  pa- 
tron  nor  the  person  defeoded." 

Alison  saw  the  extreme  import- 
ance of  this  historical  feature  when, 
in  describing  the  French  Revoliition, 
he  laid  down  two  ri^d  rules :  1.  To 
^ve  on  every  occasion  the  authori- 
ties for  his  statement;  and  2.  To 
give  the   arguments   about   public 


measures  in  the  words  of  those  who 
brought  them  forward.  Sallust  did 
this,  and  Thucydides  did  not.  The 
s|>eech  of  Pericles,  for  instance 
(li.  60),  is  the  composition  of  the 
historian.  We  shall  give  a  specimen 
of  Sallust,  with  a  free  translation  bv 
one  of  the  most  nervous  of  English 
vrriters — Ben  Jonson.  It  is  part  of 
the  address  of  Catiline  to  his  various 
band  of  desperadoes : — 


Speech  of  Catiline. 

SALLUST. 

"  Etenim  qois  mortalium, 
cui   virile  ingenium,  tolerare 
potest,  illis  divitias  superare, 
quas  profundant  in  eztniendo 
man  et  mootibus  cosquaadis ; 
nobis   rem  familiarem   etiam 
ad  necessaria  deessel     Illos 
binas,    aut    amplios,    domes 
continuare ;  nobis  larem  fami- 
liarem nnsquam  allum  esse  1 
Cum    tabulae,  signs,    toreu- 
mata   emunt ;   nora  diruunt, 
alia  sdificant,  postremo  om- 
nibus modis    pecuniam    tra- 
hant,  vexant;  tamen  summa 
lubidine    divitias  vincere  ne- 
qoeunt.      At  nobis  domi  io- 
opia,  foris  es  alienum  ;  mala 
res,  spes  multo  asperior ;  de- 
nique,  quid  reliqui  babemus, 
pneter     miseram     animam  ? 
Quin   igitnr  expergiscimiDi  1 
En  ilia,  ilia  quam  saepe  op- 
testis,  libertas,  prsterea  di- 
vitias, decus,  gloris,  ia  ocalis 
sita  sunt !  fortona  omnia  vio- 
toribus  prasmia  posuit.    Res, 
tempos,     pericula,    egestas, 
belli  spolia  mognifica  magis, 
cjuam  oratio,  bortentor.     Vel 
imperatore,  vel  milite  me  oti- 
roioi ;    neque  animus,  neqoe 
corpus  a  robis  aberit.     Hsbc 
ipsa,  ut  spero,  vobiscum  con- 
sul agam;  nisi  forte  animus 
falUt;    et  vos  serrire,  quam 
imperare,  parsti  estis." 


HENO£R£D  BY  BXN  JONSO.V, 

"  It  doth  Strike  my  soul. 
And  who  can  'scape  the  stroke  that  hath  a  soul. 
Or  but  the  smallest  air  of  man  within  him  ? 
To  see  them  swell  with  treasure,  which  they  pour 
Out  in  their  riots,  eating,  drinking,  building, — 
Ay,  in  the  sea !  planing  of  hills  with  valleys. 
And  raising  valleys  above  hills;  whilst  we 
Have  not  to  give  our  bodies'  necessaries. 
They  have  their  change  of  houses,  manors,  lord* 

ships ; 
We  scarce  a  fire,  or  a  poor  househqld  Lar. 
They  boy  rare  Attic  statues,  T^rian  hangings, 
Ephesian  pictures,  and  Corinthian  plate, 
Attalic  garments,  and  aome  new-found  gems 
Since  Pompey  went  for  Asis,  which  they  purchase 
At  price  of  provinces !    The  river  Phasis 
Cannot  afford  them  fowl,  nor  Lucrine  lake 
Oysters  enow  ;  Circei,  too,  is  search'd 
To  please  the  witty  gluttony  of  a  meat. 
Their  sncieut  habitations  they  neglect, 
And  set  up  new  ;  then,  if  the  echo  like  not 
In  such  a  room,  they  pluck  down  those,  build 

newer. 
Alter  them,  too,  and  by  all  frantic  ways. 
Vex  their  wild  wealth  as  ibey  molest  the  people. 
From  whom  they  force  it !     Yet  they  cannot  tame 
Or  overcome  their  riches  ;  not  by  making 
Baths,  orchards,  fish-ponds,  letting  in  of  seas 
Here,  and  then  there  forcing  them  out  again 
With   mountainous   heaps,   for  which    the    earth 

hath  lost 
Most  of  her  ribs  as  entrails,  being  now 
Wounded  no  less  for  marble  than  for  gold ! 
We,  all   this  while,  like   calm,  benumb*d   spec- 
tators. 
Sit  till  our  seats  do  crack,  and  do  not  hear 
The  thund'ring  ruins }  whilst  at  home  our  wants. 
Abroad  our  debts,  do  urge  us ;  our  states  daily 
Bending  to  bad,  our  hopes  to  worse, — ^and  what 
Is  left  but  to   be  orush*d1     Wake,  wake,  brave 

friends ! 
And  meet  the  liberty  you  oft  have  wished  for. 
Behold  !  renown,  riches,  and  glory  court  you ! 
Fortune  holds  these  to  you  as  rewards. 
Methinks,  though  I  were  dumb,  the  affair  itself. 
The  opportunity,  your  needs  and  dangers. 
With  tne  brave  spoil  the  war  brings,  should  in- 
vite you. 
Use  me  your  general,  or  soldier ;  neither 
My  mind  nor  bodv  shall  be  wanting  to  you. 
And,  being  consul,  I  not  doubt  to  effect 
All  that  you  wish,  if  trust  not  flatter  me. 
And  you'd  not  rather  still  be  slaves  tbaa  fiee !" 


t 
I 


200 


Latin  Pamphleteers, 


[Fetewy, 


"  TiMM,"  rMMirkft  Mr.  Oifford,  in  «llii. 
noo  to  the  lines  of  Jonsoa,  "  concludM 
tbo  fine  ■pcech  of  Catilino  se  given  by 
Salluat.  We  have  manj  good  versioae 
of  it,  but  not  one  that  comes  near  the 
bold  and  aniqaated  trauslalloo  of  our  au. 
thor,  who  yet  is  accused  by  chose  who 
*  make  their  ignorance  their  wantonness/ 
of  creeping  serrilely  after  his  original.'* 

The  ardour  of  Jonson^s  editor  car- 
ried him  a  little  too  far  into  pon^ny- 
ric.  In  all  the  higher  qualitiee  of 
scholarship,  the  English  harangue 
deserves  the  warmest  praise ;  the  ori- 
ginal is  translated,  not  construed; 
every  corner  of  the  passage  is  accu- 
rately investigated,  and  the  mind  of 
the  author  is  transferred.  But  Jon- 
son  can  only  be  said  to  have  included 
a  translation  in  his  amplification.  A 
portrait  bj  Titian,  enlarged  to  four 
times  the  size,  could  scared y  be  called 
a  copy;  the  features  ana  the  cos- 
tume might  be  preserved,  but  some 
accessories  of  drapery  would  be  in- 
troduced to  relieve  tne  extension  of 
the  design.  This  Jonson  has  done 
in  the  speech  of  Catiline,  as  the  reader 
will  immediately  perceive  from  a 
literal  version  or  the  original  Latin, 
as  subjoined  in  a  note.'*'  We  will 
add,  that  Jonson  does  not  shine  in 
his  Ciceronian  addresses ;  and  it  was 
eertainly  imprudent  to  put  into  the 
mouth  of  the  illustrious  orator,  in 


SEMPHONIil. 

Painted  by  Saliust, 

"  Sed  in  liis  erat  Semprouiii,  qua: 
mttha  ssepe  virilie  audacie  facinora  com- 
miserat.  Haec  mulier  genere  atque  for- 
ma, pnsterea  viro,  liberis,  satis  for- 
tunata ;  Itteris  Grawis  atque  Latinis 
doeta;  psaUere,  saltare  elegantius,  quam 
necesse  est  probae :  multa  alia,  qus  in- 


the  field  of  Mars,  tiie  yery  wofds 
which  Saliust  ascribes  to  Marios 
upon  a  similar  oceasioo. 

It  was  not  alone  upon  miGtary  or 
civil  portraits  that  Suluai  era^ored 
his  pen^.  He  has  relieved  bis  his- 
torical group  ¥rith  one  remarkable 
feminine  portrait,  that  of  Sempronia, 
who  seems  to  have  offered  in  her  own 
person  a  strange  combination  of  ele* 

Sance  and  license,  of  Aspasia  wad 
lessalina.  AVc  shall  quote  the  cha- 
racter of  her  by  Saliust,  together  vrith 
the  lively  scene  from  Jensen's  tragedy, 
in  which  the  vaiioos  and  diaeordant 
traits  are  so  well  embodied.  It  was 
to  this  little  eonversaticm  that  Dryden 
particularly  alluded,  when  observing, 
m  his  characteristic  way,  that  in  the 
poet*s  Catiline  you  may  <'  see  the 
parliament  of  women ;  the  little  envies 
of  them  to  one  another,  and  all  that 
passes  between  Curius  and  Fulvia; 
scenes  admirable  in  their  kind,  but 
of  an  ill  mingle  with  the  rest."  Th^ 
objection  brings  down  upon  Dryden 
the  weighty  truneheon  of  Gimnrd; 
and  with  some  reason.  It  is  not 
easy  to  understand  why  this  lighter 
interlude  should  not  harmonise  with 
the  graver  tone  of  the  drama ;  though 
it  must  be  acknowledged  that  the  poet 
has  somewhat  defac^  the  dignity  of 
the  historian.  lie  has  given  us  a 
Lely  instead  of  a  Yaudyk : — 


THE  SAUt, 

After  the  Original,  by  Boh  Jamtn. 

"  Gall.  I  did  dream 

Of  Lady  Sempronia. 

"  Ful.  Ob,  the  wonder's  out 
That  did  infest  thee !     Well,  and  how  ? 

"  Gall,               Methougbt 
She  did  discourse  the  best 

"  Ful,  That  ever  thou  heard'att 


*  "  For  who,  possessed  of  manly  fealinga,  can  endure  that  those  men  should  lavish 
their  superfluous  wealth  in  building  up  the  ocean  and  in  levelling  mountains,  while 
we  are  not  able  to  prooore  the  necessaries  of  life  ;    that  they  should  add  house  to 
bottee,  and  we  have  no  hearth  to  call  our  own  1    And,  although  they  purchase  paint, 
ings,  statues,  and  works  of  art,  destroy  new  buildings  and  erect  otners,— in  short, 
squander  and  abuse  their  wealth  in  every  possible  way,  they  slill  find  it,  after  grati- 
fying every  canrice,  uncoosumed.    As  to  ourselves,  want  is  our  portion  at  home,  debt 
abroad  ;  our  circumstances  are  bad,  our  prospects  still  more  desperate.    In  a  word, 
what  Imvc  we  remaining  but  a  miserable  existence?     Why  not,  then,  arouse  your- 
selves?    Behold  libertv — that  very  liberty  so  oft  the  object  of  your  wishes  —  is  at 
hand;  richea  also»  and  honour  and  glory  are  before  your  eyes;  all  these  rewards 
fortune  offers  to  the  victorious.    Let  th«*  affair  itself,  the  time,  our  dangers,  our  wants, 
id  the  splendid  spoils  of  war,  stimulate  you  more  than  mj  harangue.    Command  my 
ertions  either  as  your  general  or  your  comrade ;  ray  mind  and  person  never  shall 
absent  frees  you.    I  truat,  however,  that  as  consul  I  sball  join  you  in  this  enter- 
ise;  unless,  perehance,  my  mind  deceive  me,  and  you  prefer  slavery  to  empire.*' — 


1846.]  Sal 

unuMoto  luinrix.  8«d  ei  ctriora  Mm- 
p«r  omnii,  qtm  d«CDB  ttqne  padidlia 
rmt ;  prconis  u  hma  miaai  parceret, 
ktud  faoila  diucnierHt.  Sad  ea  iBpa 
aaCehao  fidam  pradident,  eraditam  «b. 
jaraTerat.  cndia  comcia  fnernt,  luxoria 
atqne  iaopia  prscept  abiaral.  Varum 
ingeaium  ejus  haud   abaardum  ;   poue 

nli,  Tcl  TPodflBlo,  Tt\  inoni,  rel  procaeJ. 
Pronua  mplta  TaetliK,  mulloaque  Icpot 


The    boldest    effort   of  Jonson's  borro 

pen  in  thi*  tngedj  ia  the  description  he  boi 

of  Catiline's  prepantions  for  the  great  It  is  1 

battle,  on  which  hehadaet  hiafortune  Hhrini 

and  his  life ;  the  imagination  of  tlic  ating 

poet  Icindleg    at   the  trumpet ;    he  iitipct 

catches  only  a  few  spirkB  from  the  We  h 

historian,  but  the;  igntte  his  thoughts  versef 

aliead;  inflamtd  ;   his  words  burn ;  whid 

and    a    dazzling,    though   a  lurid  into  I 

brigbtiWM,  eneiKles  his  nero.    One  toren 

of  bis  commentators,  WbaUey,  has  remin 

elaimed  ftr  Jonaon  cMnpIete  or^n-  confei 

alitf  in  this  noble  description.    He  tions 

atwms  the  whole  to    be    derived,  of^ 

withont  ehusieal  transcript  or  assist-  of  thi 

ance,  flitua  his  own  invention.     This  descH 

claim   cannot  be  maintained.     He  Uuse 


"  LVIII.  Nunc  quo  in  loco  rea  noatrB 
siol,  iuita  m«um  ,omnea  iutetlagitii. 
Eieroilua  hoslium  duo,  onui  ab  urbe, 
alter  iGallia,  obaliDl ;  diutfua  inhialacu 


That  A»a  bad  na'at  audowd  h 
plaaaad  Fil* 
aka  n*  tl>'  obJMt  of  bia  dti 
Nam  maltitoda  cboioe. 


202 


Latin  Pamphleteers* 


[February, 


hcMtiom  necireumTenire  qiiMt,  prohibeot 
anguftias." 


*<  LX.  Interea  Catilina  cum  ezpeditii 
in  prima  acie  Tersari ;  laborontibui  8uo<- 
cnrrere,  integros  pro  aauciis  aroeasere, 
omnia  proTidere,  multum  ipse  pugnare, 
aaspe  hoatam  farira." 


"  LXI.  Nam  fere,  qoem  quiaque  pug- 
nando  looum  ceperat,  eum,  amtasa  anima, 
corpora  tagebat.'* 


"  LX.  Poatqnam  fusas  copias,  aequo 
cum  paocia  raUctum  videt  Catilina ;  me- 
mor  generis  atque  pristine  digitalis,  in 
confertiaiimoa  hoatea  incurnt,  ibique 
pugnana  oonlbditar.'\ 


Wherein  the  danger  almoat  poiaed  tlie 

honour; 
And,  as  he  roae,  the  dajr  grew  black  with 

him, 
And  Fate  deacended  nearer  to  the  earth, 
As  if  she  meant  to  hide  the  name  of 

thinga 
Under  her  wings,  and  make  the  worid 

her  quarry. 
At  this  we  roused,  lest  one  small  minote'a 

Btay 
Had  left  it  to  be  inquired  what  Rome  waa; 
And,  aa  we  ought,  arm'd  in  the  confidence 
Of  our  great  cause,  in  form  of  battle  atood ; 
Whilst  Catiline  came  on,  not  with  the 

face 
Of  any  man,  but  of  a  public  ruin  : 
His  countenance  was  a  civil  war  itself; 
And  all  bis  host  had  standing  in  their 

looks 
The  paleness  of  the  death  that  was  to 

come. 
Yet  cried  they  out  like  vultures,  and  urged 

en. 
As  though  they  would  precipitate  our  fiite. 

Nor  atayed  we  longer  for  them ;  but  him- 

aelf 
Struck  the  first  stroke,  and  with  it  fled  a 

life. 
Which  cut,  it  aeem'd  a  narrow  neck  of 

land. 
Had  broke  between  two  mighty  seas,  and 

either  . 
Flow*d  into  otiier ;  for  so  did  the  alaugh* 

ter; 
And  whirl'd  about,  as  when  two  violent 

tidea 
Meet,  and  not  yield.  The  Furies  stood  on 

hills. 
Circling  the  place,  and  trembling  to  see 

men 
Do  more  than  they ;  whilst  Piety  left  the 

field. 
Grieved  for  that  side,  that  in  so  bad  a 

cause 
They  knew  not  what  a  crime  their  valour 

was. 
The  sun  stood  still,  and  was,  behind  a 

cloud 
The  battle  made,  seen  sweating  to  drive 

up 
His  frighted  horse,  whom  still  the  noise 

drove  backward : 
And  now  had  fierce  £nyo,  like  a  flame. 
Consumed  all  it  could  reach,  and  then 

itself; 

Had  not  the  fortune  of  the  Commonwealth 
Come,    Pallaa  -  like,    to    every  Roman 

thought. 
Which  Catiline  seeing,  and  that  now  hia 

troops 
Cover*d  that  earth  theyM  fought  on  with 

their  trunks, 

Ambitious  of  great  fame  to  crown  his  ill, 
Collected  all  his  forr,  and  ran  in, 
Arm*d  with  a  glory  high  as  his  despair^ 
Into  our  battle,  like  a  Lybian  lion 


1846.] 


SallHst. 


203 


^'  LXI.  Caliliiia  vero  longe  a  suis  inter 
bosttam  cadarera  repertus  est,  paaloluin 
etiam  spiraos ;  ferociamque  aaimi,  qaam 
habaerat  Tivnt,  in  vultu  retinens.*' 


Upon  his  buotars;  acornful  of  oar  wea- 
pons. 
Careless  of  wounds,  plucking  down  Uvea 

about  him 
Till  he  bad  circled  in  himself  with  death ; 
Then  fell  he  too,  t'  embrace  it  wbereit  lar. 
And  as  in  that  rebellion  'gainst  the  gods, 
Minerva,  holding  forUi  Medusa*s  head. 
One  of  the  gisnt  brethren  felt  himself 
Grrjw  marble  at  the  killing  sight,  and  now. 
Almost  made  stone,  began  t'  inquire  what 

flint, 
What  rock  it  was  that  crept  through  all 

his  limbs ; 
And,  ere  he  could  think  more,  *t  was  that 

he  fear'd  ; 
So  Catiline,  at  the  sight  of  Rome  in  us. 
Became  his  tomb ;  jet  did  bis  look  retain 
Some  of  his  fierceness,  and  hb  hands  still 

moved. 
As  if  he  labour *d  ^et  to  grasp  the  state 
With  those  rebellious  patta.*^ 


This  is  very  splendid ;  blemished, 
indeed,  by  the  melodrama  of  Lucan, 
but  breathing  also  tbe  valour  and 
truth  of  Homer.  The  fall  of  Catiline 
reminds  us  of  a  contemporary  of 
Jonson,  far  more  illustnous  than 
himself.  It  is  probable  that  no 
reader  of  Sallust  has  ever  thought 
of  comparing  him  with  Shakspeare 
in  tbe  delineation  of  character ;  and 
yet  we  really  think  that  the  parallel 
miffht  be  very  fairly  instituted  and 
ca^edout.  indd^rendingtopar- 
ticular  instances,  we  observe  a  strong 
resemblance  between  the  Catiline  of 
of  the  historian  and  the  Richard  of 
the  poet;  and  this  resemblance  be- 
comes especially  manifest  in  the  ^uick, 
ea^r,  fiery  temperament  which  is 
assigned  to  both,  and  darts  out  in 
swift  flashes  of  passionate  impatience 
and  rage.  Every  one  remembers  the 
scene  in  which  message  after  message 
of  peril  and  hostility  pours  in  upon 


tbe  infuriate  usurper ;  especially  his 
burst  of  unconquerable  duins,  when 
the  fourth  messen^r  gives  nim  in- 
telligence of  the  rising  of  Sir  Thomas 
Lovel  and  Lord  Dorset  in  York- 
shire,— 

"  March  on,  march  on,  since  we  are  up 
in  arms!" 

And  again,  when  Catesby  informs 
him  that  the  Earl  of  Richmond  is 
landed  with  a  considerable  force  at 
Milford : — 

"  Away !  awav  to  Salisbury  !  while  we 

reason  here, 
A  royal  battle  might  be  won  and  lost  V* 

And  once  more.  Catesby's  de- 
scription of  the  prowess  of  Richard  in 
the  field  reads  lute  an  abridgement  of 
the  striking  picture  of  Catiline*8  zeal 
and  bravery  in  a  similar  crisis;  of 
the  two  the  historian  paints  with  the 
most  lively  pencil : — 


SnAKSPBABE. 

Richard* 

*'  The  king  enacts  more  wonders  than  a 

man, 
t)ariog  an  opposite  in  every  danger.*' 


8ALLU8T. 

Catiline. 

"  Tnterea  Catilina  cum  expeditis  in 
prima  acie  versari,  laborantibus  succur- 
rere,  integroa  pro  sauciia  arcessere; 
omnia  proridere,  multum  ipse  pu^are  ; 
siepe  hostem  ferire,  strenui  mihtis  et 
boni  imperatoris  oiBcia  simul  exsequeba- 
tur." 


»i 


The  picture  of  Catiline,  breathing 
)iatred  in  death,  which  Jonson  has 
hapmly  copied,  will  recall  to  many 
reaoers  the  splendid  representation 
which  Keaagave  of  the  last  moments 


of  that  fiunous  English  conspirator, 
whom  he  portrayed.  His  Kichard 
seemed  really  to  bring  Catiline  on 
the  boards;  the  hand  itSl  moving  is 
a  feature  of  ylTid  truthfulness  not 


204 


Latin  Pamphleteers. 


[February, 


found  in  the  pijge  of  Sbtlapeara. 
Kean  introduced  it ;  whether  taught 
by  some  audden  flash  of  geniuf,  or 
accidentally^  acquainted  with  this  pic- 
tttre8q[ue  circumstance  in  the  death 
of  the  Koman  incendiary.  The  dying 
hour  of  Marmion  is,  after  that  of 
Catiline,  the  most  vividly  painted  of 
any  which  we  remember.  Dnu^ed 
from  beneath  the  trampling;  ofthe 
horses,  his  shield  batter^,  his  helmet 
dinted,  his  fUeon*plame  torn  away, 
the  fierce  instinct  of  courage  yet  re- 
mained:— 

'*  His  baml  still  strain 'd  the  broken 
brand!" 

Croly,  departing  altogether  from 
the  footprints  of  Sallust,  lias  invested 
the  closing  hour  of  Catiline  with 
dramatic  mterest.  Wc  hear  him 
from  without  urging  forward  his 
drooping  band : — 

"  Once  more !  and  put  your  souls  into 

jour  blows ; 
Be  iron,  like  your  lances  !  fierce  as  fire ! 
Strong  as  the  whirlwind !     Charge!  the 

word's'  Revewoe*.'" 

And  we  then  behold  him  rushing  on 
without  his  helmet,  wounded  and 
bleeding,  and  finally^  expiring  in  a 
glorious  frenzy  of  victory  and  des- 
peration.* 

It  might  be  interesting,  if  time  and 
raace  permitted,  to  turn  our  eyes  to 
tne  French  treatment  of  this  subject, 
and  to  see  how  Crebillon  exhibited 
the  fierce  Roman  upon  a  narrower , 
stage.  His  tnffedj  had  in  Paris  the 
success  of  Cato  in  London.  Its  chief 
defect  lies  in  the  perversion  of  his- 
lorical  truth ;  but  Gcs^  oonsidered, 
this  objection  being  waived,  the  sen- 
timents and  versification  fine,  and 
the  principal  character  to  be  painted 
vriih  great  spirit. 


The  conspiracy  of  Catiline  contains 
some  of  the  most  brilliant  touches  of 
the  author*s  pencil,  but  it  embraced 
only  a  short  period  and  few  charac- 
ters. It  was  a  pamphlet  by  an  acute 
and  virulent  partisan.  A  pamphlet, 
indeed,  of  singular  energy  ana  im- 
pression ;  such  as  Bolingbroke  might 
nave  hurled  at  Wyndham,  or  Burke 
at  Hastings,  or  Junius  at  the  Duke 
of  Grafton ;  but  without  the  luxuri- 
ance of  the  second,  or  the  intensity 
of  the  third. 

The  harmony  of  the  work  is  marred 
by  one  important  omission.  Every 
student  has  learned  by  experience 
the  rarity  of  clear  and  perfect  intro- 
ductions to  historical  narratives ;  un- 
derstanding by  the  term,  not  only  the 
combination  of  previous  circumstances 
into  a  connectmg  chain,  but  the  au- 
thor*8  power  of  presenting  to  the  reader 
a  distinct  and  uninterrupted  view  of 
the  surrounding  scenerv  of  events. 
Bolingbroke  caJ^ed  such  an  intro- 
duction a  political  map.  He  remem- 
bered no  ancient  writer  who  had  de- 
signed or  coloured  one  with  accural 
and  vigour.  lie  thought  that  Thu- 
cydides  or  Sallust  mignt  have  pre- 
fixed their  introductions  to  any  other 
portion  of  Greek  or  Latin  story. 
I^ven  Folybius  disappointed  him  m 
this  particular.  While,  among  the 
modems,  he  could  find  no  better  spe- 
cimens of  historical  mappingthan  hi 
Macchiavelli*s  Annals  of  Florence, 
and  Father  FauPs  history  of  Bene- 
fices. Undoubtedly  the  complaint  is 
true  with  reG;ard  to  Sallust.  We  de- 
sire to  be  lea  up  into  the  height  of  a 
political  summary,  from  which  we 
may  behold  the  windings  of  na- 
tional feeling  and  the  perplexing 
intricacies  of  policy.  We  want  a 
commentary  upon  the  saying  of 
Montesquieu,  that  when  Sylla  sought 
to  restore  Rome  to  her  liberty,  she 


*  Richard,  bearing  that  Richmond  has  crossed  the  marsh  in  BosForth  Plain, 
exclaims,— 

"  Advance  our  standards,  set  upon  our  foes; 
Oar  ancient  word  of  courage,  fair  St.  George  ! 
lospiiie  us  with  the  spleen  of  fiery  dragons ! 
Upon  them !" 

With  this  compare  Catiline*8  summons  to  march,  not  forgetting  the  momentary 
pause,  **'  Cum  vos  coosidero,  milites,  et  cum  facta  veatra  mstumo,  magna  me  apes 
▼ictorin  tenet.  /*  *  *  Qnod  si  rirtuti  reatna  fortnna  inviderit,  cavets  inulti 
«BMiiam  amittatia ;  neu  oapti  potius,  sicuti  pecora,  trucidemini,  quam,  virorum  n^re 
fmiEttaaiaB,  cru«itam  atqne  luctuoaam  victoriam  hoaiibaa  celinquatis.'  Iloic  ubi  di;iit, 
Mlnhim  oomnMratua,  signs  oasMe  jubet :  akqoe  instiuctos  ofdioes  in  locum  equom 


1846.] 


Sallust. 


205 


WIS  incmdtfe  of  teodwkm  it;  to 
learn  the  slow  progeess  of  fier  wist- 
ing  ferer,  m  her  mssmificent  frame  of 
enipire  grew,  and  uie  heart  of  pa- 
triotism best  with  a  slower  actioa. 
What  an  introduction  to  the  con- 
spiracy might  we  have  reoeived  from 
Tacittts ! 

Another  historical  pietnre  awaits 
the  rising  of  the  curtain,  one  in  which 
the  beauty  and  variety  of  the  design 
and  the  figures  supi^y  the  absence  of  a 
richer  ana  more  isnpressiye  colouring. 

Tke  Jftgwrihme  war  opened  to 
Sallust  a  wider  field  lor  the  display 
of  his  genius.  He  says  that  he  cnosc 
it,  Ist,  because  the  conflict  was  im- 
portaut  and  saoguinary,  and  the  suc- 
cess yarious;  and,  2d,  because  dnring 
its  continuance  tiie  inaolenoe  of  the 
nobility  receiyed  its  first  check .  The 
eye  of  the  historian  took  in  a  far 
more  diyersified  landscape  than  this. 
He  saw  at  onee  that  the  African 
campaigns  comprised  all  that  was  in- 
teresting in  national,  with  much  that 
was  attraetiye  in  personal  narratiye 
and  adyenture;  sufiicieotly  near  to 
come  home  to  the  hearts  and  sym- 
pathies of  his  readers,  and  sufficiently 
remote  to  excite  the  passions  of  won- 
der and  fear; — a  subject  in  whidi 
tmth  itself  wore  the  charm  of  fiction, 
and  the  picturesque  was  the  natural 
deyefepement  of  the  real.  He  knew 
the  country,  and  had  himself  been 
among  liie  soeaes  which  he  described. 
Of  that  coatrast  of  characters  which 
is  the  poetry  of  history,  he  has  made 
effectiye  use.  The  refinements  of 
civilisation  and  the  grace  of  bar- 
barism are  opposed  to  each  other; 
and,  perhaps,  the  Roman  consul 
never  comes  out  more  vividly  to  the 
eye  than  when  we  behold  him  emerg- 
ing from  the  dark  cloud  of  Numidian 
chivalry.  We  may  be  sometimes  dis- 
posed to  think  that  the  picture  would 
nave  been  enriched  by  a  little  more 
drapery ;  that  the  African  and  Latin 
costume  might  have  been  introduced, 
like  the  crimson  curtain  of  the  painter. 
But  the  warriors  themselves  are  ad- 
mirably delineated.  If  we  miss  Ve- 
ronese, we  find  Bubens.  Jugurtha 
and  Marius  are  drawn  with  uncom- 
mon briflhtness  and  strength;  and 
the  revelations  of  their  minds,  as 
eiven  in  their  harangues,  possess  the 
nnest  discrimination  of  the  pencil. 
The  >PM^  by  which  Marius  sought 
to  inflame  tlie  mmd  of  the  popmar 


aasemUy  at  Borne,  and  incUne  tbem 
to  promote  his  dengns  on  the  war  in 
Africa,  is  one  of  ue  noblest  speci- 
mens of  military  eloquence  in  any 
I'uiguage,— clear,  rapid,  and  impas- 
sioned ;  the  language  of  Nature  aad 
Shakspeare.  We  can  readily  believe 
the  assurance  of  the  histonaa,  that 
the  populace  crowded  to  the  staadard 
of  the  orator. 

Recent  circomstanoes  in  European 
history  impart  a  wanner  iaterest  to 
this  episode  in  the  annals  of  Rome. 
The  French  bayonet  now  glitters  in 
the  sun  that  played  over  the  Roman 
javelin  eighteen  centuries  ago.  The 
country  is  the  same,  with  its  deserts, 
its  heat,  its  Uiirst,  aad  the  terrible 
luxuriancy  of  infecti<m  and  death ; 
its  olive-trees  burned  yellow,  and  its 
yawning  cbi»»B  in  the  bdced  groiiiid, 
m  which  a  grenadier  might  hide  him- 
self, musket  and  all !  Lucan*s  fearless 
declamation  has  not  lost  its  signifi- 
cance, though  no  splendid  Stoic  pours 
the  precious  water  on  tiie  sand.  The 
terrible  snakes,  that  roll  their  glitter- 
ing lengths  through  the  narrative  of 
Siulttst,  still  hiss  and  shine  in  their 
modem  representatives.  Kow,  as 
then,  serpents  of  fiirmidable  diaien- 
sions  glide  away  before  the  adyanciQg 
column;  the  scorpion  sleeps  under 
the  stony  pillow  of  the  soldier ;  and 
an  indignant  seatiael  is  occasionally 
carried  off  by  a  hraia  going  out  to 
sapper.  If  anianl  life  tnus  ooDtiane 
UBGlianged,  human  life  has  under- 
gone very  slight  alteratioBS.  If  we 
? glance  over  the  field  of  African  war- 
iEure,  what  do  we  behold  ?  Marius  is 
r^resented  by  Bu^ud,  and  Ju- 
gurtha by  Abd-el-Kader.  The  Ku- 
midian  is  described  as  handsosie  in 
person,  vigorous  in  form,  quick  in 
intellect,  and  accomi^shed  in  all  the 
military  exercises  of  his  nation ;  tor- 
passing  his  nobilk^  in  renown,  bat 
retaining  their  aroction;  the  most 
eager  in  performing  exploits,  and  die 
most  backward  in  proclaiming  them. 
The  Arab  diief  has  some  of  l£e  more 
dashing  qualities  of  his  fianous  pre- 
decessor. He  is  very  attracttve  in 
features  and  expression,  resolute  in 
batUe,  and  patient  of  fatigue  and 
suffering.  He  seems,  however,  to  be 
singulany  deficient  in  the  modesty  of 
Jugurtha.  He  is  a  brave  Bombas- 
tes,  but  with  a  fine  vein  of  humaaity 
running  through  the  saTageaew  ol 
cwnpanttiye  barbarism.     ^I  coaU 


206 


Latin  Pamphleteers, 


[Februafy, 


not  help  watching  this  man,**  says 
Lieutenant  Lamping,  **  with  a  certain 
degree  of  admiration,  for  he  alone  is 
the  soul  of  the  whole  resistance  to 
the  French;  without  him  no  three 
tribes  would  act  in  common.  I 
heartily  wish  him  a  better  fate,  for 
his  lot  will  be  either  to  fall  in  battle, 
or  to  be  betrayed  by  his  friends  like 
Jugurtha." 

The  invasion  of  the  Romans  is 
the  razia  of  the  French.  When 
Sallust  tells  us  that  Metellus  pro- 
ceeded into  the  richest  parts  of 
Numidia,  laid  waste  their  fields,  seized 
and  burnt  numerous  citadels  and 
toMms,  put  their  youth  to  the  sword, 
and  alwndoned  every  thing  else  to 
his  soldiers  for  booty, — we  seem  to  be 
reading  a  paragraph  from  the  Sikcle, 
or  a  fragment  from  one  of  Joussoufs 
despatches.  The  modem  Bedouin 
is  the  ancient'  Numidian  under  a 
different  name.  The  only  variation, 
observes  Lamping,  being  that  the 
I^umidians  fought  with  bows,  and 
the  Bedouins  have  gunpowder.  He 
forgets  the  elephants,  upon  which 
the  nope  of  victory  was  chiefly  placed. 
We  read  that,  in  one  of  the  battles 
between  Jup^rtha  and  the  Romans, 
the  Numidians  remained  firm  only 
while  the  elephants,  forty-four  in 
number,  were  uninjured;  the  mo- 
ment they  saw  them  entangled  in  the 
branches  of  trees  or  surrounded  bj 
the  enemy,  they  threw  down  their 
arms  and  fled.  Abd-el-Kader*s  atte 
gun,  with  a  touchhole  so  large  that 
the  powder  rushes  out  in  a  stream  of 
fire,  is  a  poor  substitute. 

The  tactics  of  Jugurtha  are  pre- 
cisely those  of  Abd-el-Kader.  One 
might  suppose  them  to  have  stu- 
diS  the  art  of  war  in  the  same 
academy.  Thus  Sallust  writes  of 
the  former :  "  He  now  presented 
himself  before  Metellus,  occasion- 
ally before  Marius ;  he  attacked 
the  rear  in  their  march,  and  instantly 
retreated  to  the  hills ;  he  now  threat- 
ened this  quarter,  now  that;  he 
would  neither  hazard  a  battle,  nor 
allow  them  any  repose:**  and  the 
German  lieutenant  records  of  the 
troops  belonging  to  the  Arab, 
that,  without  offering  any  resist- 
ance to  the  head  of  the  column, 
Uiey  hovered  round  it  all  day,  vrith 
wild  yells  of"  Xii,  lu !  **  They  gallop 
without  any  order,  and  singly,  to 

Hhin  eighty  or  a  hundred  paces  ot 


the  sharpshooters,  and  dischaige 
rifles  at  full  speed,  llie  horse  then 
turns  of  his  own  accord,  and  the 
rider  loads  his  piece  as  he  retreats ; 
and  this  is  repelled  again  and  again 
all  day  long.  The  Bedouins  never 
wait  for  a  close  encounter  hand-to- 
hand  ;  when  charged  by  the  cavalry, 
they  disperse  in  all  directions,  but 
instantly  return.  Another  peca- 
liarity  of  the  Numidian  warfare  ia 
noticed  in  the  fact,  that  the  royal 
guards  only  followed  the  king  in  case 
of  flight ;  the  rest  of  the  army  broke 
up  in  every  direction.  Thus  it  hap- 
pened to  Jugurtha  after  his  defeat  by 
the  consul.  Now  we  think  that 
something  like  this  may  be  traced  in 
the  present  day  in  Algeria.  The  real 
army  of  Abd-el-Kader  consists  of 
2^0  horsemen  and  500  foot-soldiers, 
whom  he  pays  and  clothes ;  and,  with 
this  select  force,  he  is  said  to  drive 
all  the  neighbouring  tribes  to  battle. 
Of  course,  after  a  defeat,  they  dis- 
perse, like  the  Numidians,  and  find 
their  way  home  to  their  tent  or  vil- 
lage in  the  best  way  they  can.  Again, 
every  now  and  then  the  public  ear  is 
surprised  with  intelligence  of  the 
cowardism  and  flight  of  the  Sul- 
tan, who  is  represented  to  have 
abandoned  his  soldiers  in  the  most 
disgraceful  manner.  But  here,  too, 
he  is  only  reviving  Jug^urtha,  who, 
when  Sylla  had  routed  his  army  near 
Cirta,  being  surrounded  on  every  side 
by  the  Roman  cavalry,  and  seeing  all 
his  men  falling  by  his  side,  ^  rusned 
singly  througn  the  darts  of  the 
enemy  and  escaped.**  So  we  con- 
tinually hear  of  Abd-el-Kader*s  re- 
appearance after  every  discomfiture ; 
and  Jugurtha,  crippled  and  stripped 
by  Metellus,  only  retired  into  forests 
and  places  defended  by  nature,  to 
collect  an  army  more  numerous  than 
the  former. 

The  Bedouin  cavalry  still  per- 
plexes the  invader  witn  the  same 
restless  energy  that  harassed  the 
Roman  conmianders.  The  principle 
of  their  warfare  was  diffused  and  un- 
ceasing assaults;  on  the  rear,  the 
wing,  the  flank;  every  where  and 
ever  the  chaige  was  to  be  looked  for« 
and  when  the  nature  of  the  hilly 
ground  seemed  to  be  more  convenient 
for  flight  than  the  plain,  the  Numi- 
dian horse  escaped  through  the  * 
thicket,  while  the  Roman  became 
entangled  ia  the  difficulties  of  the 


1846.] 


Sallust. 


207 


place.  Bugeaud  experiences  the  same 
annoyance  from  the  Arab.  Three  or 
four  thousand  horsemen  are  scat- 
tered by  a  few  field-pieces,  but  only 
toffather  again.  They  never  charge 
coUectiTely,  but  when  their  numerical 
superiority  is  overwhelming.  It  is 
said  that  Abd-el-Kader  has  some- 
times made  the  most  strenuops  ef- 
forts to  induce  the  Bedouin  chiefs  to 
join  in  a  regular  and  organised  attack 
on  a  French  column,  but  vrithout 
success.  There  is  something  Ho- 
meric in  this  individuali^.  The 
horse  stands  hanging  his  head  list- 
lessly by  the  side  of  his  rider,  who 
reclines  indolently  at  the  tent- door. 
But  the  slightest  sound  of  danger 
awakens  both ;  and  we  can  conceive  it 
to  be  a  very  picturesque  spectacle  to 
watch  these  Arabs  springmg  to  the 
saddle,  gprasping  the  rifle,  and  spur- 
ring their  bleeding  horses  one  after 
another  to  the  conflict.  They  are 
said  to  ride  with  matchless  boldness 


dovm  the  most  firightAil  mountain- 
passes.  "  Often,"  writes  a  French 
volunteer, "  when  we  have  been  pur- 
sued by  the  enemy,  and  left  them,  bm 
we  thought,  on  the  very  top  of  the 
mountain,  in  a  few  minutes  we  have 
been  astonished  by  their  bullets 
whistling  about  our  ears.**  The  shape 
and  constitution  of  the  horses  adapt 
them  to  the  perilous  service.  Small  and 
lean,  but  singularly  swift  and  nimble, 
they  not  only  maintain  a  fast  gallop, 
but  elude  the  pursuit  through  tnicket 
and  defile  with  all  the  skill  of  their 
Numidian  ancestors.  To  hardships 
they  are  insensible.  Never  shod, 
never  groomed,  with  a  heap  of  blan- 
kets for  a  saddle  and  a  splash  of  water 
for  a  currycomb,  they  defy  all  Eu- 
ropean breeds  to  compete  with  them. 
We  said  that  the  Koman  invasion 
was  the  French  razia ;  let  us  offer  an 
example  in  the  following  night- expe- 
dition, so  well  related  by  Sallust, 
and  not  ill  translated  by  Peacock  : — 


A  Roman  Sutpria, 

8A  I.LU8T. 

"  Jamque  dies  consumtus  erat.  cum 
tamftii  barbari  nihil  remictttre,  ntque,  uti 
regea  prseceperant.  iioctero  pro  se  rati, 
acriua  inatare.  Turn  Mariua  ex  copia 
rerum  cun>iliuro  trakit,  atque,  uti  suis 
receptu  locus  easct,  colies  duos  pro- 
pinquos  inter  ae  ocoupat ;  quorum  in 
ano,  castna  parum  ample,  fons  aquas 
magoua  erat ;  alter  usui  opportuous,  quia 
magna  parte  editua  et  praetceps.  pauco 
iDunimento  egebat.  Ceterum  apudaquam 
Sullaro  cum  equitibua  noctem  agitare 
jubet.  Ipse  pauUatim  disperses  militea, 
neque  minus  hostibus  contuibatis,  io 
anum  contrahit  :  dein  cunctos  pleno 
gradu  in  collem  lubducit.  Ita  regea, 
lori  difficnltate  coacti,  praelio  deterrentur ; 
neque  tamen  suos  longius  abire  sinunt. 
Bed,  utroque  colle  multitudioe  circum- 
date,  effusi  consedere.  Dein  crebris 
ignibus  factis,  plerumque  noctis  barbari 
SQO  more  lstari,ez8ultare,  strepere  voci- 
bos;  ipsi  duces  feroces,  quia  non  fuge. 
rant,  pro  victoribus  agere.  Sed  ea  cunc- 
ta  Roroacis  ex  tenebria  et  edition  bus 
locis  facilia  vitu,  magnoque  bortamento 
eraot.  Plnrimum  vero  Marius  imperitia 
boatium  confirmatus,  quam  maxumum 
silentium  baberi  jubet  :  ne  signa  qui- 
dem,  uti  per  vigiliaa  solebant,  canere ; 
deiode,  ubi  lux  adventabat,  defea&is  jam 
hostibus,  et  paullo  ante  somno  captis,  de 
improviso  vigiles,  item  cohortium,  tur- 
marum,  legionum,  tubicines  simul  orones 
sigua  canere,  milites  clamorem  tollere, 
atque    portis    erumpere.     Mauri    atque 

VOL.  XXXni.  NO.  CXCIV. 


Transferred  from  the  Original, 

BY  P£aCO(.-K. 

"  The  day  was  now  spent,  yet  the 
barbarians  did  nut  relax  ;  but,  according 
to  the  direction  of  their  kings,  thinking 
the  night  io  their  fa?our,  they  pressed 
forward  with  increased  vigour.  Upon 
this,  Marius,  adopting  such  measures  aa 
the  circumstance  permitted,  took  pos- 
session ot  two  hills  near  each  other  aa  a 
place  of  retreat  for  hia  army  ;  in  one  of 
which,  not  aufficiently  large  for  a  camp, 
was  a  copious  spring  of  water  ;  the  other 
was  well  adapted  for  hia  purpose,  being 
for  the  most  part  lofty  and  precipitous, 
and  couaequently  requiring  a  very  slight 
defence.  He  ordered  Sylla  with  his 
cavalry  to  patrol  during  the  night  at  the 
spring.  He  gradually  collected  hia  die- 
persed  troops,  the  enemy  being  in  equal 
confusion,  and  led  them  in  full  march  to 
the  hill.  The  kings,  thua  compelled  by 
the  difficulties  of  the  place,  desisted  from 
the  battle ;  still  they  did  not  auifer  their 
troops  to  be  far  distant,  but  stationed 
them  in  scattered  bodies  around  both  hills. 
Afterwards,  kindling  numerous  fires,  the 
barbarians,  in  their  usual  manner,  spent 
most  part  of  the  night  in  revelling,  leap- 
ing, and  shouting.  Their  commanders, 
fierce  because  they  bad  not  been  routed, 
considered  themselves  as  conquerors.  A II 
this,  being  easily  visible  to  the  Romana 
from  their  dark  and  more  elevated  poai. 
tion,  waa  the  source  of  great  encourage- 
ment.  Marius,  deriving  confidence 
from  the  imprudence  of  the  enemy,  or. 
dered  the  strictest  silence  to  be  observed, 


208 


Latin  Pamphleieers. 


Gstuli  ignoto  et  horribUi  tonitu  repente 
exciti,  neque  fagere  neque  arma  capere 
neque  omoino  facere  aut  providere  quid- 
quam  poterant  ;  ita  cuactos  strepitu, 
damore,  nullo  sobveoiente,  nostris  in- 
atantibuB,     tumultu,     terrore,    forroido, 

Jiuaai  vecordia,  ceperat.  Denique  omnes 
uai  fogatique :  arma  et  aigna  militaria 
pleraque  capta:  pluresque  eo  pr»lio» 
quam  omnibus  auperioribus  interemti : 
nam  somno  et  metu  insolito  impedita 
fuga." — Jugurtha,  cap.  xc?iii. 


Compare  this  expedition  with  Lam- 
ping*8  graphic  sketch  of  a  recent 
chastisement  of  an  Arah  tribe  by  the 
French  army.  They  started  at  mid- 
night, and  pursued  their  journey  in 
deep  silence  until,  just  as  the  day 
began  to  break,  the  crowing  of  cocks, 
and  baying  of  dogs,  gave  notice  that 
human  dwellings  were  nigh  at  hand. 
After  a  short  halt  the  v  started  again. 
The  German  officers  narrative  is 
very  picturesque : — 

*'  The  first  glimmer  of  light  shewed  the 
bats  of  the  tribe  close  before  them.  An 
old  Kabyle  was  it  that  moment  goin<^  out 
with  a  pair  of  oxen  to  plough  ;  as  soon 
at  he  saw  us  be  uttered  a  fearful  howl 
and  fled ;  but  a  few  well-directed  shots 
brought  bim  down.  In  one  moment  the 
grenadiers  and  ▼oltigeurs,  who  were  in 
advance,  broke  through  the  hedge  of 
prickly  pear,  which  generally  surrounds 
a  Kabyle  village,  and  the  massacre  be- 
gan. Strict  orders  hnd  been  given  to 
kill  all  the  men,  and  only  to  take  the 
women  and  children  prisoners.  A  few 
men  only  reeled  half  awake  out  of  their 
huts,  but  most  of  them  still  lay  fHst  asleep: 
not  one  escaped  death.  The  women  and 
children  rushed,  howling  and  screaming, 
out  of  their  burning  huta  in  time  to  see 
their  husbands  and  brothers  butchered. 
One  young  woman  with  an  infant  at  her 
breast,  started  back  at  the  sight  of 
strange  men,  exclaiming,  *  Mahomed  ! 
Miihomed!'  and  ran  into  her  burning 
but.  Some  soUlierg  sprang  forward  to 
aave  ber,  but  the  roof  had  already  fallen 
in,  and  she  and  her  child  perishea  in  the 
flames." 


forbidding  the  trumpets  to  aoand,  as 
is  usualy  at  relieving  the  watches ; 
at  length  when  day  appeared,  and  the 
enemy,  from  fatigue,  were  just  overcome 
with  sleep,  he  ordered  the  trumpeters  of 
the  various  coharta,  troops,  and  legions, 
to  sound  suddenly  and  simultaneously, 
the  soldiers  to  raise  a  loud  shout,  and  to 
sally  forth  from  their  gates.  The  Moors 
and  Getulians,  auddenly  roused  by  so 
uuwonted  and  horrible  a  tumult,  could 
neither  flv  nor  take  up  arms  ;  in  a  word, 
could  neither  do  nor  devise  any  thing  of 
aervice  ;  to  such  a  degree  bad  fear,  like 
a  frenzy,  arising  from  the  uproar,  shout- 
ing, want  of  assistance,  our  violent  at. 
tack,  the  tumult  and  terror  seized  on  all. 
At  last,  all  were  acattered  and  put  to 
flight :  numerous  arms  and  military  stand- 
ards were  taken ;  and  more  pehabed  in 
that  engagement  than  in  all  the  previous 
ones,  their  escape  having  been  impeded 
by  sleep  and  the  unusual  alarm." 


This  is  the  Latin  picture  of  a  night 
attack,  only  drawn  m  darker  colours, 
and  with  a  more  ferocious  hue.  The 
Roman  watches  changed  without  the 
sound  of  the  trumpet,  answer  to  the 
still  march  of  the  French.  The  Nu* 
midians  were  startled  from  sleep  in 
the  same  manner,  by  the  appaUing 
shout  and  clangor  of  the  assailants. 
But  the  sketch  of  Sallust  contains  no 
circumstance  so  afTecting  by  its  con- 
trast, as  the  Arab  going  out  in  the 
grey  dawn  to  his  field  and  his  la- 
bour, and  going,  never  to  return. 

The  author  of  the  Catiline  con- 
spiracy and  the  Jugurthine  war  vrill 
never  die. 

Latin  history  began  with  Sallust. 
He  created  and  reared  it.  He  had 
no  model  either  for  shape  or  style. 
Martial  asserts  his  claim  to  this 
priority  of  invention;  and  Tacitus 
may  be  thought  to  make  the  same 
admission.  Alone  in  Italy,  he  cast 
his  eyes  upon  Greece ;  and  was  drawn 
at  once  by  the  attraction  of  a  kindred 
genius  to  the  majestic  page  of  Thn- 
cydides.  The  flowing  harmony  of 
Iierodotus,  or  the  musical  graceful- 
ness of  Xenophou,  had  few  charms 
for  his  ear.  He  wanted  a  more  war- 
like tune.  But  he  imitated  the  Attic 
manner,  not  the  style ;  and  he  gives 
us  the  sentiment,  not  the  sentence  of 
the  Peloponnesian  annalist.  Of  Thu- 
cydides,  it  is  well  remarked  by  his  ad- 
mirable translator,  that  his  narrative 
is  pithy,  nervous,  and  succinct ;  that 
he  never  flourishes,  never  plays  upon 


1 846.] 


SaUtist. 


209 


words,  never  sinks  into  puerilities, 
never  swells  into  bombast.  Sallust 
must  not  be  flattered  with  this  un- 
broken eulogy.  Yet  that  curious 
person,  Lord  Monboddo,  had  surely 
no  more  authority  for  charging  him 
with  general  incoherency,  or  in  re- 
fusing the  name  of  periods  to  his 
sentences,  than  Addison  had  for  af- 
firming him  to  excel  in  correctness 
and  elegance  all  the  historians  of  an- 
cient Italy.  We  must  neither  crown 
him  with  all  the  flattery,  nor  insult 
bim  with  all  the  invective.  Here, 
as  in  other  investigations,  the  mid- 
dle path  is  the  safer.  There  may  be 
trutn  in  Sir  John  Chekes*  explana- 
tion of  Sallust*s  relative  obscurity : — 

"  Casar  and  Cicero,  besides  a  singular 
prerogative  of  natural  eloquence  given 
unto  tbem  by  God,  were  both,  by  use  of 
life,  daily  orators  among:  the  cummoo 
people,  and  greatest  counsellors  in  tbe 
senate-bouse  ;  and  therefore,  gave  them- 
selves to  use  such  speech  as  the  meanest 
should  well  understand,  and  the  wisest 
best  allow.  But  Sallust  was  no  such 
man." 

lYe  need  not  remind  our  readers 
that  this  literary  union  of  Csssar  and 
Cicero  does  not  extend  beyond  the 
coniunction.    It  is  Wellington  tied 
to  Canning.    And  yet  we  ^ng  him 
^by  the  comparison.    Would  it  have 
been  possible  for  any  Quintilian  to 
have  affirmed  of  the  Duke,  that  ex- 
clusive devotion  to  rhetoric  might 
have  made  him  the  only  rival  of 
Chatham  or  of  Burke?    And  the 
Latin  critic  did  point  to  Caesar  as 
wanting  only  diligence  to  equal,  if 
not  to  eclipse,  the  splendour  of  Cicero. 
Even  in  those  immature  fruits  of  a 
stormy  life  which  he  has  left  us,  we 
behold  the  puritv  and  grace  of  the 
Boman  tongue,  toe  easy  sentences  of 
a  man  whose  conversation  might  have 
been  printed.    His  public  life  was, 
of  course,  indebted  to  his  voice,  his 
action,  his  figure ;  but  his  flexible 
and  unadorned  style  was  eminently 
suited  to  captivate  tbe  vulgar,  while 
it  pleased  the  refined.    Tacitus  said 
very  well,  that  he  seemed  to  place 
the  best  pictures  in  the  best  Tight. 
The  fact  is,  that  the  li^ht  very  often 
makes  an  indiflerent  picture  appear  a 
good  one. 

John8on*s  remark  on  Robertson*s 
History  is  well  known.  '*  He  is  like 
a  man  who  has  packed  gold  in  wool ; 


the  wool  takes  up  more  room  than 
the  gold."  Sallust  could  never  be 
included  in  the  charge.  No  man 
told  more  in  fewer  words.  We  think 
that  Gray  mi^ht  have  admired  in 
him,  as  in  Tacitus,  the  brilliant  wit, 
and  compact  energy  of  his  own,  with 
the  reflective  gravity  of  later,  and 
the  good  sense  of  modem  times.  The 
fervour  of  patriotism,  the  hatred  of 
tyranny,  are  made  to  look  sincere; 
to  be  K)rced  up  by  the  mere  inten- 
sity of  tbe  feeling ;  cracks  in  the  sru* 
face  of  the  history  which  the  flame 
itself  occasions.  Ben  Jonson*s  dis- 
tinction between  the  brief  and  the 
concise  style  may  be  applied  to  Ta- 
citus, or  to  Sallust.  *^  The  brief  style 
is  that  which  expresseth  much  in 
little;  the  concise  style,  which  ex- 
presses not  enough,  but  leaves  some- 
what to  be  understood."  Quintilian, 
who  compares  Herodotus  with  Liv^, 
finds  a  reflection  of  Thucydides  in 
Sallust.  A  stvle,  that  should  com- 
bine Livy  witn  Sallust,  would,  pro- 
bably, present  the  union  of  every 
Roman  grace.  Lord  Brougham  thinks 
that  such  a  model  in  our  own  lan- 
guage has  been  ^ven  to  us  by  Hume. 
Ue  IS  a  noble  writer,  of  whose  page  it 
can  be  said,  as  of  the  Homeric  ora- 
tor*s  harangue, — 

Uav^a   fAtf,   «XX«  futXa  XtyttSf   tint    «ir 

Ot^  a^mfiut^Tcurnt' — B.  iii.  2 J  4. 

Sallust  was  not  more  fortunate  in 
his  aee  than  in  his  subjects,  or  ra- 
ther the  age  itself  provided  him  with 
the  most  picturesque  of  themes.  He 
had  no  Ennius  to  tempt  him  into 
tbe  romance  of  history.  The  early 
Latin  Annalists  had  only  contributed 
to  make  history  a  gazette.  It  con- 
sisted of  births,  deaths,  and  promo- 
tions. No  Greoffrey  of  Monmouth 
had  risen  to  win  the  homage  of  a 
Latin  Shakspeare,  a  Milton,  or  a 
Dryden.  Not  that  the  earlier  days 
of  Latin  history  were  deficient  in 
any  of  the  elements  of  historic  de- 
lignt.  In  the  words  of  Arnold,  the 
r^  and  unretd  were  mingled  together, 
making  up  a  general  picture ;  "  sin- 

?^le  trees  and  buildings  may  be  copied 
rom  nature,  but  their  grouping  is 
ideal;  and  they  are  placed  in  the 
midst  of  fairy  palaces  and  beings, 
whose  oriffinals  this  earth  has  never 
witnessed.  Arnold  was  speaking  of 
the  later  Roman  kings.    But  when 


210 


Latin  Pamphleteers. 


[February, 


the  twilight  of  &ble  had  brightened 
into  the  dear  dawn  and  fulness  of 
historic  day;  when  objects  became 
defined,  and  the  dispersing  haze  re- 
duced the  heroic  outline  to  its  just 
proportions,  the  pencil  was  ready  to 
transfer  the  scene  and  the  figures  to 
the  canvass  of  history.  Rome  had 
her  Herodotus  in  Livy ;  of  all  histo- 
rians the  least  accurate,  and  the  most 
delightful ;  the  scomer  of  statistics, 
and  the  lover  of  the  Graces ;  believ- 
ing ""  the  magic  wonders  that  he 
sang.** 

In  a  later  day,  when  the  clouds 
began  to  gather  along  the  horizon, 
when  the  gay  colours  of  romance 
had  faded,  and  the  imperial  despot- 
ism lowered  over  the  world,  another 
pencil  was  found  to  delineate  the 
scenerv  in  all  its  tempestuous  and 
fiery  gloom.  Tacitus  appeared.  There 
was  a  space  between  toe  two  painters 
of  national  life,  and  Sallust  filled  it. 
Slightly  endowed  with  the  tasteful 
eye  of  Livy,  he  had  some  of  the  dark 
power  of  Tacitus.  Murphy  calls 
that  writer's  Annals  a  picture-^lery 
of  history.  The  criticism  is  not 
unjust ;  but  then,  it  is  a  gallery  of 
Rembrandts.  It  has  been  recently 
said  of  Horace  Walpole,  that  he 
looked  only  at  the  low  and  dark  side 
of  a  character,  and  that  we  have  ac- 
coxtlingly  a  picture  of  his  age,  as  mi- 
nute as  Mieris,  and  as  savage  as 
Spagnoletti.  It  may,  indeed,  be  re- 
pliea,  that  his  sombre  colours  only 
preserve  the  dark  complexion  of  the 
society  he  painted.  Something  of 
truth  there  may  be  in  the  suggestion ; 
and  he  pronounced  sentence  against 
bad  men  and  evil  deeds  (is  the  pane- 
gyric of  a  critic)  with  the  firmness  of 
an  upright  judse  who  practised  the 
virtue  which  he  commends.  Pure 
and  disinterested,  he  wrote  with  the 
same  spirit.  And  if  we  can  offer  this 
tribute  to  the  honesty  of  Tacitus,  we 
are  equally  authorised  to  bestow  it 
on  Thucydides,  from  whose  page  you 

g&ther  nothing  of  his  adversaries,  or 
is  friends,  and  whose  impartiality, 
in  the  phrase  of  Smith,  deepened 
into  absolute  annihilation  of  self. 

It  has  been  said  that  compilers  of 
passages  in  the  lives  of  nations  do 
not  often  possess  the  advantage  of 
knowing  those  private  and  concealed 
circumstances,  on  which  public  trans- 


actions depend;  they  cannot  watch 
the  working  of  the  mine,  and  are, 
therefore,  obliged  to  employ  their 
industry  in  collecting  the  maiter 
that  i»  throim  out^  The  excep- 
tions in  our  own  history  are  very 
rare.  Swift  had  the  opportunity  of 
eoing  down  amons  the  machinery, 
but  ne  made  nothing  of  his  pri- 
vilege. Clarendon,  nerhapp,  stands 
alone  in  this  particular.  He  might 
justly  speak  of  himself  as  not  incom- 
petent to  construct  a  memorial  of  the 
Rebellion,  having  been  a  member  of 
the  ^nenil  council  before  and  after 
the  insurrection.  Perhaps,  also,  he 
made  every  effort  that  could  fairly 
be  anticipated,  to  ^*  observe  the  rules 
that  a  man  should  who  deserves  to 
be  believed.**  Nor  is  the  mere  man 
of  letters  the  best  composer  of  a  his- 
tory. He  is  too  deficient  in  a  large 
or  vivid  acouaintance  with  the  pre- 
sent. In  tne  words  of  Arnold,  he 
may  give  the  manners,  customs,  and 
scenery,  but  not  the  mind.  We 
have  the  landscape,  but  not  the  sun. 
Raleigh  wrote  well  of  things  that 
had  been,  because  he  had  been  ac- 
tively engaged  in  things  that  were ; 
and  Arnold  explains  the  charm  of 
Mitford*s  Grecian  history,  by  saying, 
that  he  described  the  popular  par- 
ties in  Athens,  just  as  he  would  have 
described  the  Whigs  of  England. 

Now,  it  happens  that  one  of  the 
few  but  not  unimportant  recommend- 
ations of  the  early  I^tin  annalists,  is 
discovered  in  their  practical  know- 
ledge of  men  and  measures.  They  were 
high  in  military  or  political  station, 
at  the  head  of  legions  or  parties. 
This  distinction  marks  them  down 
to  the  time  of  Sylla. 

It  was  shared  by  Sallust  in  its  full- 
est sense.  But  he  had  other  advan- 
tages. Several  illustrious  (lersons  of 
those  times  wrote  brief  memorials  of 
their  exploits  and  public  services; 
Sylla  and  Csssar  were  among  the 
number.  "What  compilers  of  the 
materia  hisiorica  were  these !  What 
genius  was  necessary  to  finish  up 
the.  picture  that  such  masters  had 
sketched !  Rome  afforded  men  that 
were  equal  to  the  task ;  let  the  re- 
mains, the  precious  remains  of  Sal- 
lust, of  Livy,  and  of  Tacitus,  witness 
this  truth.*  Such  is  the  admiring 
exclamation  of  Bolingbroke.    There 


BoHnebroka. 


1846.] 


A  Letter  from  Rippoldsau, 


211 


18  another  kind  of  infonnation  to 
which  an  historian,  in  the  position  of 
Sallust,  mieht  be  'supposed  to  have 
access,  and  that  is  the  correspondence 
of  the  eminent  persons  of  whom  he 
wrote.  Of  the  value  of  this  intelli- 
gence Lingard  has  justly  spoken.  He 
looks  upon  it  as  drawing  aside  the 
veil  from  the  council  of  princes,  and 
revealing  the  secret  springs  that  set 
in  motion  the  machinery  of  govern- 
ment ;  as  undressing  the  statesman, 
and  presenting  the  man.  And  where 
the  assistance  of  the  correspondence 
mi^ht  be  expected  to  be  slight,  he 
enjoyed  the  higher  benefit  of  conver- 
sation. An  occasional  hour  of  inter- 
course with  Wellington  would  open 
a  deeper  vein  into  the  Peninsular 
campaigns,  than  the  perusal  of  six 
volumes  of  letters.  Sallust  could 
consult  and  employ  both.  The  se- 
nate was  in  the  habit  of  receiving 
frequent  despatches  from  the  scat- 
tereid  commanders  of  its  armies ;  and 
its  Blenheims  and  Yimeiras  only 
wanted  a  Murray,  or  a  Gurwood,  to 
transcribe  them  for  posterity. 


But  we  must  drop  the  curtain 
again  over  these  two  admirable  pic- 
tures, before  which  we  have  lingered 
so  long  in  wonder  and  delight.  It  is 
to  be  expected  from  every  party- 
pencil,  that  the  delusion  of  colour 
will  be  employed  to  conceal  or  to 
heighten  defects.  The  painter,  who 
drew  a  single-eyed  king  in  profile 
is  the  representative  of  the  pam- 
phleteer, and  Sallust  was  a  pam- 
phleteer rather  than  a  historian. 
We  have  seen  that  he  could  intro- 
duce the  profile,  or  the  full-face,  as 
prejudice  or  party  might  suggest. 
Passion  sacrificed  principle  to  the 
pamphlet,  and  even  a  pictorial  grace 
to  personal  jealousy.  Cicero  might 
have  been  painted  ¥rith  the  brilliancy 
of  Catiline ;  and  certainly  no  incident 
in  the  story  of  the  conspirator  is 
more  tempting  to  the  pencil,  than 
the  orator,  at  the  election  of  consuls 
— while  the  rumours  of  insurrection 
dismayed  the  city — throwing  back 
his  gown,  and  exhibiting  a  shining 
breastplate  to  the  people. 


A   LETTER  FROM   RIPPOLDSAU.* 


This  sweet  Rippoldsau! — how  de- 
lightful after  fashionable  Baden- 
Baden,  with  its  gaieties  and  gambling, 
its  saddening  Conversations  Haus, 
where  the  sound  that  rests  longest, 
and  echoes  most  mournfully  on  the 
sensitive  ear,  is  that  which  nas  rung 
like  the  death-doom  of  hope  and 
happiness  through  many  a  heart,  and 
carried,  if  not  a  demoniac,  an  unfeel- 
ing jojr  to  another*s. "  Le  rouge  gagne, 
le  noir  perd — messieurs,  faites  votre 
jeu ;"  and  so  sounds  on  from  minute 
to  minute,  hour  to  hour,  and  night 
to  night,  the  monotonous  indifferent 
voice  of  the  croupier,  while  misery, 
ruin,  it  may  be  death,  attend  his 
accents ; — "  Ije  noir  gagne,  le  rouge 
perd — messieurs,  faites  votre  jeu." 

Even  the  Alte  Schloss  has  become 
a  coffee-house,  and  hundreds  and 
hundreds  daily  penetrate  its  sur- 
rounding shades,  and  ascend  its  once 
commlanding  height — to  regale  them- 
selves with  beer  and  tobacco.  Adieu 
then  to  Baden,  without  one  sigh  of 


regret !  for  there,  solitude  is  peopled. 
Five  German  ladies  screaming  from 
a  hired  carriage,  whose  two  weary 
horses  revolted  from  such  a  burthen, 
and,  asserting  their  claim  to  nation- 
ality, stood  stock-still  at  the  last  hard 
pull  of  the  mountain  ascent,  suffering 
the  carriage  and  its  freight  to  pull 
them  down  again  in  a  backward  di- 
rection, disturbed  the  visions  of  the 
**  olden  time,"  which  I  was  beginning 
to  indulge  as  I  sat  to  rest  beneath 
the  dark  shade  of  the  pines;  and 
when  I^ned  the  summit,  and  beheld 
that  relic  of  feudal  power  and  unci- 
vilised greatness  surrounded  by  well- 
filled  little  tables  with  their  labouring 
waiters,  and  half  enveloped  in  the 
fumes  fVom  pipes  and  cigars,  I  felt 
that  the  spint  of  the  past  had  fied, 
far,  far  away  from  the  Alte  Schloss 
of  Baden-Baden.  I  entered  a  little 
building,  called  "  Sophia's  Repose," 
hoping  there  to  be  alone ;  but  in  it 
I  met  a  French  papa  and  mamma, 
with  a  nurse  and  a  little  boy,  whom 


^   *  "  Rippoldsau,  one  of  the  most  attractive  but  least  known  of  the  Bninnens  of 
Germany.'* — Murray's  Hand-Book, 


212 


A  Letter  from  Rippoldsdu. 


[February, 


they  had  hronght  riding  on  an  ass  to 
see  the  Alte  Schloss ;  and  while  they 
were  all  resting  in  Sophia^s  Repose, 
the  little  dear  was  amusing  himself 
and  his  fond  parents  by  dragging  the 
donkey  round  and  round  the  circular 
table,  while  the  hideous  contortions 
of  the  creature*s  mouth,  being  rati- 
ondJiy  attributed  to  its  obstinacy, 
caused  papa  to  interfere,  and  aid  his 
son's  enbrts  by  sundry  blows  and 
cries,  which  expedited  the  donkey's 
ciTCuit  of  the  table,  and  made  me 
fly  from  "  Sophia's  Repose."  Finally, 
Baden  was  left,  and  the  glorious  view 
from  the  lofty  Kniebis  reconciled  me 
almost  to  the  loss  of  time  I  had  sus- 
tained there ;  for  if  I  had  not  cone 
to  Baden-Baden,  I  should  not  have 
gone  to  sweet,  tranquil  Rippoldsau. 
Some  say  that  the  gambling-tables, 
others  that  the  railroad,  have  spoiled 
Baden,  or,  at  least,  rendered  still 
more  motley  its  motley  society;  I 
know  not  which  is  most  to  blame  in 
that  respect;  and,  perhaps,  to  my 
natural  aversion  to  all  such  places  is 
chiefly  attributable  my  discontent :  a 
Frenchman  assured  me  it  was  a  pa- 
radise, and  an  Irishman  told  me  that 
at  Baden  every  thing  that  any  one 
could  desire  in  this  world  was  to  be 
found. 

"  The  noblest  study  of  mankiDd,  is  man," 

says  our  poet.  Granted;  but  to 
avoid  being  cynical,  let  me  not 
pursue  that  study  at  a  fashionable 
waterins-place.  Rippoldsau,  how- 
ever, acnieved  a  conquest ;  it  was  the 
only  place  where  mineral  waters  or 
minend  water-drinkers  agreed  with 
me. 

"Ah  how  triste ! "  exclaimed  a  young 
baron,  alighting  from  his  carriage, 
and  desiring  his  horses  to  be  ready 
to  start  again  in  a  few  hours.  *^  Oh, 
how  delightful !"  I  ejaculated,  as,  with 
a  heart  that  thanked  God  for  the 
capability  of  enjoying  his  works,  the 
works  of  nature,  1  chmbed  the  plea- 
sant hills,  and  sank  into  the  depths 
of  the  silent  forest. 

Rippoldsau  is  one  house,  or  rather 
a  collection  of  houses,  united,  or 
communicating  together,  forming  a 
most  singular  and  beautiful  village  on 
the  borders  of  the  great  Schwartz- 
wald — ^For^t  noir,  or  Black  Forest — 
within  a  moming*8  journey  of  Stras- 
burgh  or  Baden,  yet  as  retired  as 
if  a  desert  intervened.      From   the 


former  it  is  approached  from  the 
town  of  Offenbibch,  through  the 
charming  vale  of  Kensig ;  and  from 
the  latter,  by  the  romantic  and  better 
known  (though  by  no  means  more 
lovely)  valley  of  the  Mourg;  or,  for 
dili^nce  travellers,  from  the  railway 
station  of  Appenweir,  over  the  lofty 
Kniebis. 

The  pretty  valley  of  Schapbach, 
in  which  it  is  situatol,  possesses  those 
healing  streams  which  have  given, 
and  most  deservedly,  some  celebrity  to 
Rippoldsau ;  I  speak  from  experience, 
and  grateful  experience,  when  I  say 
it  is  impossible  to  taste  the  mineral 
waters  of  Rippoldsau  without  feel- 
ins  that  they  possess  natural  and 
inherent  virtues. 

The  place  itself  is  a  curiosity ;  the 
domain  of  the  landlord  of  the  h6tel, 
who  is  the  lord  of  the  manor,  the 
youngest  son  of  the  former  manager : 
he  was  able  to  purchase  the  entire 

?roperty  twenty  years  ago  from  the 
Yince  of  Furstenburg,  and  since 
then,  to  a^randise  and  improve  it 
'  have  been  his  pleasures  and  his  occu- 
pation. He  is  the  patriarchal  head 
of  his  establishment,  and  takes  as 
much  pleasure  in  promoting  the  en- 
joyment of  its  several  members  as 
any  good-natured  papa  can  possibly 
do.  I  shall  have  to  relate  some  in- 
stances of  this  again ;  at  present,  let 
me  only  say,  that  this  most  amiable 
Monsieur,  or  rather  Herr  Goringer, 
has  cut  walks,  and  placed  seats,  and 
built  little  pavilions,  wherever  a  walk 
or  a  seat,  or  a  pavilion  could  be 
made  on  the  slopes  of  the  pine- 
covered  mountains, — the  dark  Som- 
nierberg  in  front,  and  the  Winterberg 
at  the  back  of  his  mansion,  at  the 
foot  of  which  are  agreeable  gardens ; 
and  in  any  one  of  these  seats  or  pa- 
vilions I  can  And  a  scribbling-place, 
for  few  of  the  bathers  and  water- 
drinkers,  of  which  there  are  generally 
from  one  to  three  hundred, — most 
good-humoured  and  united  folks — 
[not  English]  break  through  the  re- 
gular rules  which  water-drinkers 
usually  observe.  There  they  are, 
hurrying  through  that  little  court, 
running  down  like  night  travellers, 
wrapped  in  their  great  cloaks,  as 
soon  as  the  bell  rings  at  half-past 
five  or  six  o'clock,  hastening  away  to 
begin  with  two,  and  end  pernaps 
with  twelve  glasses  of  that  most 
admirable,  and  to  me  who    never 


1846.] 


A  Letter  from  Rippoldsau. 


213 


exceeded    three,    moet  exhilarating 
water ; — then  up  and  down  the  pretty 
and  silent  road,  which  passes  straight 
through    our  court,    and    leads   to 
Wolfbach  and  Ofienhach,  for  about 
two  hours,  when  the  tables  at  each 
side  of  the  court  become  supplied 
with  guests  partaking  of  coffee  and 
rolls:  after  which,  every  one  dis- 
ajyears.      I  did  not  know  at  first 
what  was  then  ^ornft  on,  but  felt  it 
was  very  unfashionable  in  me  to  be 
rambling  about  hither   and  thither 
between  the  hours  of  ten  and  twelve 
o*clock.     I  found,  however,  it  was 
the  usual  practice  to  take  the  baths 
about  ten  o*clock,  then  go  to  bed, 
and  afterwards  make  the  toilet;  at 
this  time,  one  might  suppose  every 
one,    save   myself,  was  dead  in  the 
hotel.      About  half-past  eleven  or 
twelve    the  gentlemen  become  vi- 
sible, moving  about,  or  sitting  reading 
the  journals,  or  devoutly  smoking. 
Shortly  before  one,  the  ladies  and 
their  parasols  make  their  appearance 
in  the  court,  knitting  as  devoutly  as 
the  gentlemen  smoke;  for  surely,  if 
the  pipe  is  the  symbol  of  the  male 
Grerman,  the  knitting-needle  is  that 
of  the  female.    Thus,  they  await  the 
summons  to  the  table  d*h6te,  and  a 
really  beautiful    and  well-supplied 
table    d*h6te  it  is.       The   salle  k 
manger,  built  over  the  river,  does 
credit  to  the  taste  of  the  proprietor. 
The  Germans  do  not  talk  very  much 
at  dinner,  therefore  that  stunning 
music  in  the  orchestra  is  less  an- 
noying than  it  mi^ht  otherwise  be. 
When  the  table  d'hote  breaks  up, 
the  court  serves  as  the  general  with- 
drawing room :    merry  voices  are 
heard,  and  good-humoured  laughter; 
then,  for  a  short  space,  all  relapses 
into  repose;   and  again,  our  httle 
community  comes  forth,  and  gene- 
rally disperses  in  groups  on  excur- 
sions into  the  delightful  neighbour- 
hood.   Music  usually  enlivens  the 
evening,  for  there  are  almost  always 
some  amateurs  to  give  a  little  exercise 
to  the  grand  pianoforte  in  the  great 
salle  k  danse ;  but  the  day  at  Kip- 
poldsau  may  be  properly  said  to  con- 
clude with  the  arrival  of  the  dili- 
gences, about  eight  o'clock,  one  from 
Appenweir,  the  other  from  Offen- 
bach.   Every  one  cathers  round  to 
behold  the  probable  acquisitions  to 
their  society;  an  Englishman — the 
only  one,  alas !  among  us — told  me 


his  object  was  to  look  at  the  lugga^ 
that  was  dismounted,  by  which  cri- 
terion he  judged  of  the  party  to 
whom  it  appertained!  As  soon  as 
the  diligence  is  unloaded  our  whole 
party  enter  their  quarters,  and  gene- 
rally repair  to  the  salle  k  manger, 
where  a  very  nice  supper  can  be  had 
h  la  carte  by  all  who  wish  for  such. 
I  wish  I  could  give  a  sketch  of  Rip- 
poldsau,  with  its  double  line  of  white 
nouses,  one  side  ancient,  vrith  an  old 
chapel  on  a  small  eminence ;  the  other 
new  and  handsome — both  bounded 
by  the  towering  pines  that  clothe 
tne  lofty  mountains,  and  blend  their 
murmur  with  the  perpetual  music  of 
the  ever-flowing  streams.  The  pro- 
prietor of  this  charminff  spot  com- 
prises every  thin^  within  nis  own 
domain.  There  is  the  post-office, 
and  the  bakery,  and  the  forge,  and  a 
large  hall  appropriated  to  various 
sorts  of  tradespeople,  pedlars  and 
haberdashers.  It  is  a  little  aeig^ 
neufiej  and  Herr  Goringer,  the  master 
of  the  hotel,  is  the  seigneur.  Here 
there  is  no  formality,  no  restraint, 
no  grandeur  and  vul^rity  mixiufi^ 
together,  no  vice,  walking  unabashed 
and  unrepressed  —nothing,  in  short, 
like  what  one  meets  at  Baden-Baden. 
But  I  believe  I  must  for  the 
present  stop  short  in  description,  in 
order  to  relate  a  story,— a  singular 
history.  I  shall  tell  more  about  my 
favourite  Rippoldsau  another  time. 
I  was  invited  one  afternoon  to  join 
a  party  to  visit  the  Wasserfall,  the 
chief  beauty  of  which  consists  in  the 
singularity  of  the  rocks  over  which 
it  falls,  resembling  exactly  the  ruins 
of  an  ancient  castle  cresting  the 
mountain.  Herr  Goringer  made  a 
little  pavilion  here  at  its  foot,  and 
named  it  after  the  Grand  Duchess 
Stephanie,  and  then  ^ve  a  splendid 
f&te  to  celebrate  its  completion. 
There  was  abundance  of  coffee  and 
champagne,  and  the  band  played 
away  as  loudly  as  could  be  desired. 
All  his  guests  had  been  invited,  and 
all  agreed  to  go ;  but  when  the  hour 
arrived,  one  unfortunate  monsieur, 
having  delayed  too  long  to  make  his 
toilet,  or  spent  too  much  time  in 
making  it — could  he  be  German  ? — 
sent  a  message  to  say  he  would 
follow  when  the  said  toilet  was  com- 
pleted. He  did  follow,  but,  un- 
luckily, not  in  the  ri^ht  path — lo*^ 
himself  in  the  mountams  and  wr 


I 


214 


A  Letter  from  Rippoldsau, 


[February, 


out  of  reach  even  of  the  music,  whoee 
noise  might  have  guided  him  aright; 
and  when,  at  last,  he  was  conducted 
back  to  the  hotel,  after  having 
missed  the  fete,  he  found  it  absolutely 
necessary  to  get  rid,  as  quickly  as 
possible,  of  the  toilet  that  had  taken 
so  much  time  to  make. 

Instructed  by  this  warning,  I  did 
not  begin  to  make  excuse  when 
asked  to  join  a  party  to  the  water- 
fall; for,  fond  as  I  am  of  solitary 
walks,  I  had  already  found  it  quite 
sufEcient  to  be  once  lost  in  the  Black 
Forest.  I  went,  therefore,  in  com- 
pany, and  found  there  was  no  chance 
of  having  lost  myself,  even  if  alone. 

But  how  strange  is  often  my  lot  I 
Why  is  it  that  I  am  so  frequently 
brought  into  the  sorrows  of  others  ? 
made  the  depositary  of  woes  which, 
without  greatly  lightening  another, 
do  not  a  little  burden  myself?  I 
know  not — but  God  knows.  This  has 
not  always  been  without  a  purpose, 
without  an  end. 

Returning  from  the  waterfall,  I 
had  been  walking  with  a  grave 
Swiss  professor  of  theology  and 
astronomy,  and  left  him  to  join 
the  ladies,  who  formed  the  advanced 
c  >rps.  I  was  struck  by  the  worn  and 
altered  countenance  of  one  of  these, 
a  widow  lady,  judging  by  her  dress, 
who  was  my  regular  neighbour  at 
the  table  d'hote,  where  she  was  most 
remarkable  from  always  wearing  her 
black  bonnet,  with  a  thick  crape  fall, 
that  entirely  covered  the  upper  part 
of  her  face.  I  inquired  if  sne  were 
fatigued,  or  ill. 

"  Oh  I  yes,  I  am  ill,"  she  answered, 
impatiently ;  '*let  us  go  in  there  and 
get  some  coffee — I  must  be  alone." 

I  entered,  with  her,  a  little  sum- 
mer-house or  refreshment-room,  in 
a  small  garden  fronting  an  inn,  still 
called  the  Klosterle,  that  ancient 
convent,  whose  monks  are  said  to 
have  been  in  the  olden  time  the  pa- 
trons of  the  springs  of  Rippoldsau, 
being  now  converted  into  a  church, 
a  picturesque  and  prominent  object 
in  the  landscape,  and  an  inn  which 
affords,  in  the  height  of  the  season, 
sleeping  accommodation  for  the  sur- 
plus of  Herr  Goringer*s  guests. 

In  this  offset  to  the  Inn  of  IClos- 
terle,  my  companion  threw  herself 
on  a  bench,  and  her  bonnet  on  the 
table,  exhibiting  to  me,  for  the  first 
time,   a  face  which,  without  being 


poritivelv  ugly,  ranked  among  those 
so  well  described  by  the  term  plain. 
It  was  only  for  an  instant,  however, 
for  the  next  it  was  buried  in  her 
open  hands,  with  a  gesture  indicative 
of  emotion  bordering  on  despair. 
She  was  not  only  plain  in  feature, 
but  her  figure  bore  marks  of  early 
debility,  which  had  left  some  deform- 
ity in  its  formation;  one  shoulder 
was  higher  than  the  other,  and  the 
bust,  instead  of  that  open  carriage  so 
charming  in  woman,  was  considerably 
contract^.  Yet  the  early  malady 
which  had  caused  this  irregularity  of 
shape  had  left  an  expression  on  her 
countenance,  which  rendered  it  in 
general  one  of  interest. 

At  this  moment,  however,  its  only 
expression  was  that  of  passion  or  of 
misery. 

"You  are  very  ill  ?"  I  said,  in  an 
inquiring  manner. 

**Yes,  but  it  comes,  from  the 
heart,"  was  her  answer ;  '^  it  is  one 
of  my  bad  moments :  how  insuffer- 
able to  me  was  the  society  I  was  in  !** 
I  thouffht  she  was  really  suffering 
from  a  heart  complaint;  but,  in 
answer  to  my  solicitude,  she  mur- 
mured— **  No  no ;  it  is  feeling — it  is 
the  mind  that  suffers :  these  momenta 
will  come  on." 

^^  Had  she  no  friends  with  her  ?"  I 
demanded ;  ^^  no  family  P  was  she 
quite  alone  ?" 

"Alone!''  she  repeated,  with  a  sort 
of  shiver ;  '^  alone  ? — ye&,  auite  alone ; 
always  alone — I  am  dead  r 

I  became  alarmed;  surely  I  was 
in  company  vrith  a  deranged  person. 
She  saw  my  uneasiness.  *^  Pardon 
me,"  she  added,  in  a  calmer  tone. 
*^  I  am  the  most  miserable  creature 
on  earth  ;  but  I  cannot  excuse  myself 
for  thus  giving  way  to  my  always 
concealed  misery  in  your  presence. 
I  know  not  why  I  have  done  so ;  it 
is  the  first  time ;  and  yet,  you  are 
quite  a  stranger  to  me." 

"  A  stranger,  undoubtedly,"  I  re- 
plied, "but  one  who  can  feel  for 
numan  woe.  Why  will  you  say 
you  are  the  most  miserable?  ah  I 
who  can  say  so? — who  dare  say 
they  will  not  be  yet  more  mise- 
rable? God  is  very  merciful;  we 
are  not  overwhelmed  at  once;  his 
chastisements  are  those  of  a  father 
who  would  draw  his  children  closer 
to  him.  Can  you  not  look  to  heaven 
for  peace  and  comfort  ?" 


1846.] 


A  Litter/ram  Hippoldtau. 


"Ah,  tnil;  I  can— I  do.  Tea, 
God  U  mj  depcDdence;  I  hsve  a 
right  to  look  to  Him :  far,  if  God 
■npporta  ifaow  who  deserve  hit  help, 
He  will  support  me." 

"Deaerve!  th,  there  it  the  root 
of  miser;  I  Pride  deprivea  uh  of  the 
help  we  need— pride  leaves  us  to  our 
«wD  support." 

"  I  am  not  proud,"  she  answered, 
in  amoamful  voice;  "oh,  no!  But 
do  you  not  think  that  those  who 
have  made  great  sacrificeB  for  the 
good  or  happiness  of  his  creatures, 
are  not  entitled  to  believe  that  they 
merit  the  rapport  and  favour  of 
Godr 

"  No,  we  merit  nothing ;  becanse 
nothing  is  perfect  or  entire  on  our 
part :  even  the  sacrifices  we  make  to 
bis  will  and  our  duty  are  seldom 
entire,  or  if  bo,  are  often  regretted  or 
repented  of.  A  single  regret  or  re- 
pentance must  efface  their  merit; 
and  sometimes  the  sacrifices  we  make 
are  made  to  our  own  will,  or  the  will 
and  desires  of  others,  not  to  those  of 
oar  God  :  those  to  whom  we  make 
such  sacriSces  occupy,  perhaps,  his 
place  in  our  souls." 

"  Ah,  there  is  something  in  that !" 
the  murmured,  burying  her  face 
again,  with  a  low  moan,  in  her  ex- 
tended hands. 

"Yon  read   the  Scriptures?"    I 
uked. 
"Yes." 

"  Behold,  then,  in  the  life  of  the 
Redeemer  the  only  entire,  pure,  and 
conttant  sacrifice  of  self,  yet  a  sacri- 
fice continually  sustained  by  prayer, 
and  accompanied  with  perfect  tub- 
missiou." 

"  He  sacrificed  himself  to  others, 
and  was  accepted,"  she  reioined. 

"  Tes,  for  the  spiritual  and  moral 
good   of  others.     The  sacrifices   we 
make  to  those  we  love  or  idolise  are 
generally  made  to   their  temporal 
welfare  or  happiness ;  we  may  mis- 
take, and  do  evil  when  we  would  do 
good ;  and  when  the  effect  of  these 
sacrifices    upon  ourselves  is  that  of 
inducing  a  repining  or  unhappy  spirit, 
we  may  be  sure  there  is  something 
wrong.   Godloveth  a  cheerful  giver. 
"  You  blame  me,  then  ?" 
"Blame  youl  howcanlF    Iknow 
not  what  you  have  done." 
"Ahl  Gud  alone  knows  that." 
"  Then  you  must  look  to  Him  alone 
for  comfort,  support,  direction." 


"  Yes,  I  wUl- 
lo  do  so ;  I  like  you,"  she 
Klancing  at  me  for  an  instai 
liked  you  from  the  first  momt 
spoke  to  me:  it  was  somett 
the  tone  of  your  voice,  I  beli 
think  it  would  do  me  good  to  s 
you  often ;  I  should  weep  the 
than  I  do  now." 

At  this  moment  the  pretty  m 
entered  with  our  coffee,  and, 
we  spoke  in  French,  the  convi 
ceased,  and  was  not  afterwa 
newed.  I  saw  some  large  te 
down  the  pallid  cheeks  of  my 
ing  companion ;  and,  in  her  : 
evident  excitement,  I  felt  thi 
would  probably  afibrd  her  n; 
lief  than  my  words  would  be 
do.  It  was  onlv  two  days  afb 
that  one  of  toose  strange 
which  the  romance  of  real  life 
occurred  in  the  hotel  of  Rip| 
the  nature  of  which  was  knoi 
to  myself  and  the  unfortunate 
of  my  story. 

We  were  seated  at  the  tabl( 
when  a  newly  arrived  coup 
bad  been  arranging  their  toi 
peared  entering  the  largt 
chamber  called  the  taJU-i 
and  approaching  the  folding-i 
the  uiUe-i-m.tager.  It  was 
much  the  splendid  figure  of 
in  the  prime  of  life  —  perha{ 
thirty-five  years  age,  the  eyei 
expression,  lofty  brow,  an 
curling  hair  —that  struck  the 
attention  of  our  whole  part} 
air  of  mingled  happiness  aii 
which  breathed  on  every 
animated  even  his  movemei 
caused  every  beholder's  eye 
upon  bis  companion,  as  if  to  i 
object  that  inspired  such  sen 
Indeed  it  was  one  capable  oft 
Never  did  I  behold  a  sweetc 
of  human  loveliness  in  real 
form  than  in  that  of  the  la 
leaned  upon  his  arm.  She  a 
to  be  two  or  tbree-and-twenl 
exquisite  fairness,  anif  extrei 
cacy   of  feature,   united   to 

fression  i  m  possible  to  describe 
heard  afterwards  the  ren 
peated,  "  When  she  looks  do 
a  Madonna!  when  she  lool 
Hebe  I "  I  recognised  the  sa 
of  idea  that  had  occurred  to 
But  a  cold,  hard  grasp  of 
drew  my  attention  Sova  this 
pair.    I  turned  to  my  unhapp 


216 


A  Letter  from  Rippoldsau* 


[February, 


bour,  the  palenefls  of  death  was  on 
her  face  and  lips,  which  were  over- 
shadowed by  her  crape-fall,  so  as 
only  to  be  seen  when  I  bent  my 
head  beneath  hers ;  her  eyes  rolled 
like  one  in  a  fit.  An  exclamation 
that  had  almost  burst  from  me  aloud 
was  repressed  by  the  word,  pro- 
nounced in  a  hollow  voice,  but  in  one 
that  bespoke  a  determination  to  be 
firm, — 

"  Save  me — save  them!" 

She  seized  my  arm  more  tightly, 
and  arose. 

Led  by,  rather  than  leading  her, 
we  got  out  of  the  room  and  reached 
her  chamber.  She  entered  it  with 
me,  closed  and  bolted  the  door,  and 
sank  fainting  on  the  floor.  I  had 
perceived  enough  to  know  that  it 
might  be  of  consequence  to  her  to 
escape  notice,  and  to  suspect  that 
this  strange  agitation  had  been  pro- 
duced by  the  appearance  of  the  new 
comers.  Nevertheless,  I  proposed 
calling  the  native  physician,  who  re- 
sides on  the  spot. 

This  was,  perhaps,  the  strongest 
cordial  I  could  administer ;  she  rallied 
her  powers,  and  assisted  my  efforts 
to  place  her  on  the  couch. 

*'  No,  no !"  she  cried,  lifting  her 
hands  in  supplication,  ^*  you  will  not 
do  that?  No  physician  can  do  me 
good,  save  he  who  suffers  me  to  die  I 
I  shall  be  better  now — more  tranquil ; 
I  know  all  —  suspense  is  torture  — 
doubt  is  worse  than  certainty ;  yes,  my 

sacrifice  is  accepted— I  have  not  died 

■        *    Iff 
m  vain  I 

Convinced  that  the  unhappy  wo- 
man was  mentally  deranged,  I  re- 
mained quite  silent,  treating  her  as  one 
would  do  a  patient  raving  in  fever. 

^*  You  thmk  me  mad,'^  she  said. 
"  I  am  not  so :  from  this  hour  I  shall 
be  calmer,  better  —  perhaps  happier. 
Oh,  it  is  hard  to  bear ;  the  reflection 
of  their  happiness  —  his  happiness  — 
can  it  reacn  me?  have  they  not 
walked  over  my  tomb  to  gain  it  ?" 

"Compose  yourself,  I  entreat,"  I 
said,  '*  or  I  must  summon  the  doctor." 
I  rose  to  go. 

"  You  will  leave  me  ?  I  deserve 
you  should;  but  you  will  tell  the 
doctor,  you  will  tell  every  one  that  I 
am  road :  they  will  come  to  see  me — 
oh !"  she  turned  her  head  aside,  and 
groaned  bitterly.  "  Ah  I  do  not  do 
HO !  sit  down  b^ide  me — listen  to  me 

» do  not  leave  me !     I  will  tell  you 


all,  you  will  know  then  that  I  am 
not  mad." 

I  sat  down  beside  her  greatly  af- 
fected, and,  requesting  that  she 
would  not  speak  at  all,  promising  to 
come  and  listen  the  next  day  to  any 
thing  she  wished  to  tell  me. 

"  To-morrow  I"  she  exclaimed, "  to- 
morrow you  and  I  may  speak  no 
more,  x  on  are  a  stranger  to  me, 
but  I  love  you.  Listen!  it  will  do 
me  good  to  speak ;  to  think,  perhaps, 
would  make  me,  indeed,  what  you 
imagine  I  already  am." 

She  held  my  hand  tightly  in  hers, 
as  if  fearful  I  should  escape,  and 
thus  began  her  extraordinary  re- 
cital : — 

"  I  was  an  only  child,  and,  being 
delicate,  was  educated  without  dis- 
cipline, and  allowed  to  amuse  myself 
by  reading  whatever  books  I  pleased. 
My  father  died  in  my  childhood  and 
left  me  a  comfortable  fortune,  inde- 

fndent  of  my  mother.  I  thought 
loved  her  even  passionately ;  but, 
perhaps,  it  was  b^use  I  had  then 
no  other  love.  I  was  the  sole  object 
of  her  cares  —  of  her  more  gentle 
affections. 

"  She  had  a  friend  of  her  youth,  a 
Hungarian  lady,  who  married  a  Po- 
lish officer.  The  husband  was  killed; 
and  the  lady  in  her  widowhood  came 
to  reside  in  a  small  house  adjoining 
ours.  She  was  poor,  for  her  hus- 
band*s  property,  which  was  settled 
on  her  only  son,  was  left  in  the 
charge  of  an  uncle  until  the  youth 
entered  his  twentieth  year,  provi- 
sion only  being  made  for  the  ex- 
penses or  his  education  at  oolite. 

"  The  gardens  of  our  houses  com- 
municated. We  had  little  other  so- 
ciety, for  my  mother  was  a  being 
afflicted  from  her  youth  up.  Dis- 
appointed in  the  afiections  of  a  wife, 
she  hoped  to  be  repaid  in  those  of  a 
daughter.  She  had  a  few  intimate 
friends,  and  her  own  feelings  and 
my  delicate  health  rendered  these 
sufficient  to  her  wishes. 

"  The  son  of  her  Hungarian  friend 
was  two  or  three  years  older  than 
myself:  ill  health  and  bodily  de- 
bility rendered  me  capricious  and 
exacting.  I  liked  to  be  quiet  and  at 
rest ;  but  I  never  imagined  that  any 
one  else  might  like  the  same.  Wal- 
demar  was  bold,  active,  full  of  Are 
and  spirit,  and  of  a  noble  and  gene- 
rous disposition.    His  mother,  who 


1846.] 


A  Letter  from  Rippoldsau, 


217 


iras  indebted  to  mine  for  almost 
daily  acts  of  kindness  and  consider- 
ation, wished  her  son  in  return  to 
be  useful  or  agreeable  to  me.  He 
loved  her  fonmy,  and  I  doubt  not 
that  the  poor  boy  tasked  himself  to 
the  utmost  to  accomplish  her  wishes. 
I  believe  that  I  was  always  either 
imperious  and  irritable,  or  nlent,  oc- 
cupied in  my  own  reveries  drawn 
from  the  imaginative  works  which 
formed  my  almost  constant  reading. 
A  disorder  of  the  spine  rendered  it 
necessary  for  me  to  take  exercise  re- 
clining on  a  little  carriage.  Wal- 
demar  was  employed  to  draw  me 
about  the  gardens.  I  believe  he 
hated  the  task;  but  I  read  almost 
all  the  time,  and  never  thought  whe- 
ther he  hated  it  or  not,  uttering  only 
a  peevish  expression  or  an  angry  ex- 
clamation when  some  accident  or 
unfortunate  jolt  disturbed  my  repose. 
At  the  age  of  thirteen,  however,  he 
went  to  college  ;  and  on  leaving  it 
obtained  a  commission  in  an  Austrian 
regiment  of  cavalrv. 

"  I  saw  him  in  nis  twentieth  year, 
just  as  he  came  into  possession  of 
his  property;  and  with  a  generous 
and  boundmg  heart  hurried  to  his 
mother's  humble  abode,  and  would 
have  made  her  leave  it  to  reside  with 
him  in  the  Austrian  capital,  into 
whose  pleasures  he  was  beginning  to 
enter  with  all  the  ardour  of  a  young 
and  glowing  soul.  The  struggle  was 
great  in  the  mother's  heart,  between 
the  desire  to  maintain  her  beloved 
retirement,  and  the  maternal  solici- 
tude that  urged  her  to  watch  over 
her  son,  and  shield  him  by  her  love. 

"  The  latter  triumphed ;  and  Wal- 
demar  only  left  her  to  make  the  ne- 
cessary preparations  for  her  residence 
at  Vienna. 

"  I  saw  him  then,  the  slave  of  my 
girlish  days,  now  young,  rich,  hand- 
some, elegant,  admired,  a  favourite 
even  at  the  Austrian  xourt ;  and  I 
saw  him  all  this  without  ever  dream- 
ing that  he  could  be  more  to  me  than 
any  other  fine  young  man,  brimful 
of  the  world,  life,  and  their  pleasures. 

"  In  the  short  interval  that  was  to 
elapse  before  his  mother  joined  them, 
what  events  and  changes  took  place  I 
The  revolution  broke  out  in  Poland. 
Wddemar  deserted  his  regiment  to 
aid  the  struggle  of  a  country  he 
knew  not  by  experience  against  its 
tyrants. 


"  The  result  of  that  struggle  is  too 
well  known.  Europe  look^  on,  and 
Poland  fell  again  mto  the  jaws  of 
the  vast  monster  from  which  it  would 
have  extricated  itself.  Alas,  alas! 
for  the  subsequent  history  of  its  ex- 
iled, and  too  often  self-abandoned 
ones !  Waldemar  had  not  completed 
his  twentieth  year.  With  unheard- 
of  rashness  he  re-entered  the  Aus- 
trian territories,  and  found  himself 
beside  a  gendarme  reading  his  own 
name  in  the  list  of  the  proscribed, 
which  was  overhung  by  toe  citizens 
with  a  laurel-wreath.  Crossing  the 
Carpathian  mountains  on  foot,  ex- 
hausted, wounded,  foot-sore,  he 
reached  his  mother's  dwelling,  which 
he  had  left  last  in  all  the  pride  and 
flush  of  hope,  and  youth,  and  wealth, 
— an  exile,  deprived  of  all,  save  life 
and  honour  only,  he  returned  to 
sink  his  weary  head  on  that  still 
loving  and  ever  unreproving  heart. 

"  I  had  seen  Waldemar  in  his  bril- 
liant hour,  and  if  I  too  admired  him, 
no  other  sentiment  was  then  in  my 
breast.  Something  more  than  beauty, 
than  brilliancy,  than  wealth,  than  toe 
admiration  of  others,  was  requisite  to 
gain  such  love,  such  fatal  love,  as 
mine.  That  something  was  suffering, 
for  I  believe  a  woman  never  can  love 
the  man  she  admires  as  she  can  love 
him  whom  she  pities.  I  saw  Walde- 
mar again  —  an  exile,  denounced, 
wounded,  faint,  deprived  of  all  save 
honour.  I  loved  him — such  is  wo- 
man's fate." 

She  hid  her  face,  was  silent,  and 
sobbed  deeply. 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  "I  blush, 
though  I  have  been  his  wife,  to  say 
it;  1  loved  one  who  would  never 
have  dreamed  of  such  a  sentiment 
on  my  part  any  more  than  on  his 
own.  1  hid  it  long  in  my  heart. 
The  feelings  I  was  conscious  of 
cherishing  made  me  more  distant  and 
reserved  towards  their  object,  while 
I  envied  his  mother  and  mine  the 
cares  they  bestowed,  the  tender  offi- 
ces his  state  reauired,  for  his  head 
had  been  nearly  laid  open  by  a  sabre- 
cut,  and  the  wound  was  imperfectly 
healed.  I  shrunk  from  the  per- 
formance of  the  least  of  them,  and 
thus,  doubtless,  increased  his  aliena- 
tion, for  if  he  was  kind  or  attentive 
to  me  it  must  have  been  for  the  sake 
of  our  parents.  As  soon  as  he  was 
well  Waldemar  was  to  join  his  com^ 


218 


A  Letter  from  Rippoldsau, 


[February, 


Mitriots,  who  sought  ao  asylum  in 
France,  from  whose  goyemment  he 
had  resolved  to  accept  the  trifling 
pension  allowed  to  the  patriot  Poles, 
mstead  of,  as  his  mother  wished,  re- 
pairing to  England— a  country  which 
owed  less  to  the  Polish  arms  and 
Polish  nation,  but  whose  people,  at 
least  individually,  sympathised  with 
them  as  much. 

*'  It  was  only  when  he  was  actu- 
ally mounted  on  horseback  at  his 
mother^s  door,  about  to  part  from  us 
perhaps  for  ever,  that  some  indica- 
tion of  my  long-repressed  feelings 
appeared.  I  approached  with  a 
rapid  movement  to  the  side  of  his 
horse,  pressed  the  hand  he  offered 
me  to  my  cheek,  and  cried,  *  Fare- 
well I  Heaven  bless  thee,  Waldemar. 
Mayest  thou  at  least  be  happy  I* 
With  a  burst  of  smothered  anguish 
I  rushed  into  the  house.  He  told 
me  afterwards  that  he  had  often 
thought  of  that  unusual  emotion, 
which  he  had  never  believed  me  ca- 
pable of  feeling ;  so  little  known  in 
general  are  those  passions  which  run 
ark  and  low  in  their  own  rarely 
approached  current.  Five  years  af- 
terwards Waldemar  came  once  more 
to  our  retirement,  in  order  to  receive 
the  last  blessing  and  attend  the  fu- 
neral of  his  beloved  mother.  They 
had  been  years  of  trial  to  him.  The 
impoverished  exile*s  lot  is  a  bitter 
and  too  generally  a  ruinous  one ;  but 
he  still  retained  his  noble  character 
and  disposition.  As  for  his  aspect 
— ^you  have  seen  it. 

*'  These  Ave  years  had  dragged 
their  weight  over  me.  I  fancied  I 
had  loved  my  mother.  Alas !  I  did 
not  seek  her  happiness,  that  sole 
proof  of  love  was  wanting.  I  was 
unhappy  myself,  I  did  not  care  for 
the  happiness  of  others.  Oh  !  how 
clearly  one  sees  one*s  conduct  wlien 
the  time  to  amend  it  is  for  ever  gone ! 

"After  his  poor  mother*s  death 
Waldemar  remained,  during  the  rest 
of  his  visit,  entirely  in  our  house. 
He  was  uniformly  kind  and  attentive 
to  me.  I  did  not  then  think,  as  I 
afterwards  did,  that  his  feelings  were 
those  of  gratitude  for  the  kindness 
shewn  to  his  mother.  I  heard  of  all 
his  privations  and  humiliations,  for 
he  was  obliged  to  make  use  of  his 
talents  as  a  painter  to  support  him- 
self, and  I  experienced  a  sort  of  de- 
lirious joy  in  hearing  of  them,  for  I 


knew  that  my  fortune  could  tree 
him  from  them,  and  I  resolved  to 
blind  my  eyes  to  my  own  wishes  and. 
to  cause  m^  mother  to  make  him  an 
offer  of  this,  together  with  my  hand, 
as  an  act  of  generous  friendship  oo 
my  part. 

"  I  told  my  mother  my  wishes,  but 
I  refused  to  listen  to  her  arguments 
against  them  j  I  was  deaf  to  her  per- 
suasions, her  entreaties.  She  loved 
Waldemar,  but  she  opposed  my  pro- 
ject. Perhaps  she  saw  our  unsuita- 
bility;  perhaps — perhaps  she  was 
aware  of  his  total  want  of  recipro- 
city with  my  sentiments. 

"•  Accustomed,  notwithstanding,  to 
obey  me, — at  least,  to  yield  to  my 
will,  for  with  a  spoiled  child  the  pa- 
rentis place  is  always  reversed,  she 
managed  to  make  known  to  Walde- 
mar the  offer  of  my  fortune  and  my 
hand.  He  received  the  proposal  with 
the  deepest,  most  unbounded  grati- 
tude ;  assured  her  he  saw  all  the  mag- 
nanimity that  dictated  it ;  but,  taking 
to  himself,  or  appearing  to  do  so, 
all  the  credit  of  a  generous  self-re- 
nunciation, he  dechned,  as  he  said, 
for  our  sakes,  to  avail  himself  of  it. 

"  We  did  both  give  him  credit  for 
magnanimity,  but  in  consequence  I 
fell  ill.  In  the  hours  of  suffering  I 
opened  my  long-closed  heart  to  my 
mother.  She  saw  all  my  deep- 
rooted  love,  she  knew  that  I  only 
lived  and  breathed  for  Waldemar. 
Probably  she  foresaw  misery  on 
either  side,  but  her  affection  for  me 
conquered  her  scruples ;  she  suffered 
Waldemar  to  be  aware  of  my  affec- 
tion. She  told  me  afterwards  that 
he  turned  pale  as  death  on  hearing 
of  it,  and  pressing  her  hand  in  si- 
lence to  his  lips,  quickly  left  the 
room.  In  a  short  time  he  returned ; 
the  struggle,  whatever  caused  it, 
was  over;  he  requested  permission 
to  see  me  directly.  In  short,  we 
were  soon  afterwards  man  and  wife." 

A  silence  of  some  moments  fol- 
lowed the  last  words.  Raising  up 
her  head  with  a  deep  sigh,  the  un- 
happy narrator  continued : — 

"  Waldemar  wished  to  make 
France  still  his  residence.  We  re- 
moved there  with  my  mother.  Poor 
woman!  I  never  then  reflected  on 
what  it  must  have  cost  her  to  leave, 
at  her  age,  her  own  native  land  to 
live  among  strangers  to  whose  lan- 
guage she  had  a  then  national  anti- 


1846.] 


A  Letter  from  Rippoldsau, 


219 


pathy,  and  which  she  could  not  in 
the  least  understand.  I  had  other 
cares,  other  attentions  to  offer.  I 
never  thought  of  her  nearly  solitary 
existence  in  the  house  of  her  daugh- 
ter. But  now,  oh!  how  drearily 
sounds  upon  my  heart  the  echo  of 
her  oft-repeated  words,  ^  Mein  fader- 
land  r  Poor  woman !  she  was  taken 
from  the  evil, — she  died  before  the 
hour  of  my  punishment  arrived. 
More  than  a  year  after  my  mother's 
death  I  was  then  myself  a  mother. 
The  orphan  daughter  of  one  of  her 
relations,  who  had  entered  into  busi- 
ness in  England  when  a  young  man, 
and  marrioi  an  English  lady,  wrote 
to  me  expressing  her  intention  of 
goinff  to  reside  in  Germany  among 
her  late  father's  connexions,  her 
mother  having  died  in  her  infancy : 
she  had  little  acquaintance  with  her 
English  relations,  and  it  was  her  fa- 
ther's desire  that  she  should  reside 
in  Germany,  where  the  property  he 
left  her  would  render  her  sufficiently 
independent.  A  family  going  to 
France  had  offered  to  convey  her 
there,  and  she  proposed  coming  to 
me  in  hopes  that  I  could  further  her 
on  her  road  to  the  south  of  Germany. 
I  was  glad  to  receive  her  visit,  elad 
to  think  I  might  be  useful  to  her, 
for  I  knew  mv  mother  would  have 
been  so,  and  already  conscience 
made  me  feel  its  sting,  though  not 
yet  had  I  awoke  to  a  sense  of  the 
worth  I  had  lost — of  the  affection  I 
had  latterly  so  scantily  returned. 

"Rosa  came.  Well!  I  see  you 
listen  with  expectation.  You  expect 
that  I  have  some  complaint  to  make, 
some  wrougs  to  deplore,— committed 
against  me,  too,  by  one  who  has  ap- 
peared to  you  so  pure,  so  lovely.  I 
nave  none,  save  that  she  was  too 
good — too  beautiful,  that  her  soul 
was  filled  with  pure  and  noble  senti- 
ments, and  that  a  voice  of  thrilling 
sweetness  conveyed  them  irresistibly 
to  the  listener's  heart.  Yes,  I  admired 
— 1  loved  her.  Her  gentleness,  her 
unassumed  modesty,  the  blush  that 
kindled  on  her  cheek  as  she  uttered 
in  correct  French,  but  in  her  own 
sweet  English  accents,  words  of  wis- 
dom and  heavenly  love,  setting  us 
ri^ht  in  many  opinions  and  notions 
with  the  air  of  a  learner  far  more 
than  that  of  a  teacher, — ^these  would 
have  won  my  regard,  even  without 
the  affection  which  she   constantly 


shewed  to  my  child  and  myself.  She 
came  among  us  when  the  infant  was 
only  a  few  days  old,  and  from  the 
moment  she  took  it  in  her  arms  it 
seemed  to  enter  into  her  affections. 
It  was  during  Rosa's  visit  that  I  be- 
came first  enlightened  as  to  my  hus- 
band's true  disposition  and  character. 

'*  Strange  to  sav,  notwithstanding 
all  my  idolatrv — the  devotion  of  my 
love  to  him — I  was  more  sensible  of 
its  faults  than  of  its  virtues.  But  my 
love  was  not  of  that  nature  which 
seeks  to  remedy  defects  in  its  object, 
and  aims  to  love  perfection.  It  was 
in  Rosa's  society  that  Waldemar 
seemed  to  acquire  a  knowledge  of 
himself,  or,  if  previously  sensible  of 
the  defects  of  a  character  for  which 
education  had  done  little,  it  was  from 
her  that  he  appeared  to  catch  that 
inspiration  which  tends  to  all  that 
is  high,  and  elevating,  and  ennobling 
in  man.  He  felt  her  influence,  and 
was  erateful  for  it.  I  had  never 
thought  of  exerting  any,  even  if  I 
could  have  possessed  it,  and  a  child 
in  comparison  of  age  vras  my  supe- 
rior in  wisdom,  in  virtue,  in  every 
quality  that  renders  woman  the  dig- 
nified and  worthy  companion  of  man. 

"It  was,  as  I  have  said,  during 
Rosa's  visit  that  I  became  enlight- 
ened as  to  my  husband's  real  dispo- 
sition. Alas!  too  late,  too  fatiQlv 
enlightened!  I  discovered  that  it 
was  susceptible,  ardent,  tender,  and 
passionate;  I  found  that  his  deep 
and  fervent  feelings  had  lain  ever 
dormant,  that  he  had  never  loved  I 
This  I  had  sometimes  suspected ;  in- 
deed, from  his  words  even  had  al- 
most concluded ;  but  who  could  see 
the  altered  expression  of  his  face,  of 
those  speaking  eyes,  and  not  now 
perceive  that  a  new,  a  transforming 
passion,  had  for  the  first  time  entered 
his  soul?  I  knew,  I  felt  it — with 
horror  for  him,  far,  far  more  than 
for  myself.  The  victim  of  my  own 
unrestrained  will,  I  had  shrouded 
that  brilliant  life  with  gloom,  and 
cast  the  dull,  chill  shadow  of  death 
over  that  ardent  heart  and  impetuous 
spirit.  I  had  loved  without  being 
beloved,  and  I  must  cling  like  a 
blighted,  destructive  thing  about  the 
object  which  that  love  destroyed." 

"Oh!  spare  yourself,"  I  ex- 
claimed ;  "  ror  pitj^  do  not " 

"  Ah !  do  not  interrupt  me,**  she 
replied,  squeezing  my  hand  tightly 


220 


A  Letter  from  RippoUsatu 


[February, 


in  hen,  **  you  cannot  think  the  relief 
that  worcu  sometimes  impart.  Let 
me  talk  on  for  the  first — the  last 
time. 

**At  first  it  was  for  Waldemar 
only  I  felt,  for  his  conduct,  his  man- 
ner was  snch  as  to  prevent  me  from 
knowing  the  hitter  sting  of  jealousy. 
It  was  not  for  long,  however,  that  I 
was  free  from  that  cruel  pang.  I 
well  remember  the  first  time  I  felt 
it.  Waldemar  was  a  skilful  painter, 
and  in  the  time  of  his  poverty  had 
employed  himself  in  portrait-paint- 
ing. He  still  amused  himself  in 
taking  likenesses,  and  was  employed 
one  Say  on  Rosa^s  when  I  only  was 

E resent.  Pushing  the  portrait  from 
im,  as  if  discontented  with  his  work, 
he  exclaimed  aloud, '  It  is  impossible  I 
who  could  depict  such  a  face  r  When 
she  looks  down  it  is  a  Madonna, 
when  she  looks  up  a  Hebe.* 

"  I  glanced  at  the  opposite  mirror, 
saw  my  own  triste  countenance  and 
plain  features,  and  wished  I  were 
Kosa,  or  that  Rosa  were  in  my  place. 
The  love  I  bore  to  Waldemar  was 
such  that  my  happiness,  even  if  he 
were  outwardly  unchanged  to  me, 
could  never  be  purchasea  at  the  ex- 
pense of  his.  I  knew  now,  that 
though  until  that  time  he  had  been 
content,  he  had  never  known  hap- 
piness, at  least  what  now  appeared 
to  him  to  be  happiness,  and  he  was 
past  the  age  of  vivid  and  momen- 
tary passion  —  he  had  reached  that 
period  when  the  feelings  become  con- 
centrated, deep,  unchangeable. 

^*The  next  circumstance  that 
served  to  confirm  these  sentiments 
on  my  part,  was  one  that  is  ever  pre- 
sent to  my  memory,  even  to  my 
sight.  Rosa  sat  in  a  window  holding 
my  child  asleep  on  her  lap.  She  was 
looking  down  on  its  peaceful  face ; 
her  own  was  as  calm,  as  pure.  I  was 
engaged  on  some  small  household 
occupation  in  the  room,  and  twice 
called  Waldemar  to  my  aid  without 
receiving  a  reply.  I  turned,  and 
saw  him  sitting  opposite  the  nurse 
and  child,  his  regards  fastened  upon 
them,  and  these  regards  so  indicative 
of  that  deep  ana  ardent  affection 
which  dwelt  unelicited  within  his 
soul.  Oh  I  the  serpent's  sting  then 
indeed  pierced  my  very  heart.  I 
felt  that  these  two  were  the  objects 
f  his  love;  I  suffered  myself  to 
ik  that  even  the  child  would  have 


been  more  beloved  had  it  caUed  Boaa 
mother. 

**Ye8,  I  was  wrong;  I  see  joa 
think  so;  but  do  not  intermpt  me. 
The  second  time,  or  perhaps  the 
third,  that  I  called  Waldemar,  Rosa 
looked  up  at  him,  and  caught  that 
same  regard.  He  started  uke  one 
awaking  from  a  dream,  and  mechani- 
cally hastened  towards  me.  She  co- 
loured deeply,  and  meeting  a  sor- 
rowful glance  from  me  turned  very 
pale.  A  few  moments  afterwards, 
though  Waldemar,  without  having 
observed  what  past,  returned  to  his 
seat,  she  rose  up,  and  giving  me  the 
infant,  made  an  excuse  for  leaving 
the  room.  She  never  again  took  it 
in  her  arms  when  he  was  present. 

'*  Just  at  this  time  one  of  his  re- 
lations died,  and  Waldemar  inherited 
his  property.  Alas  I  what  a  few 
years  before  would  have  conferred 
happiness,  perhaps  now  increased  his 
regrets.  Had  he  then  possessed  this 
fortune  I  should  not  have  been  his 
wife, — not  that  he  married  me  for 
money.  No,  it  was  for  pity.  Well, 
I  will  be  calm.  I — There,  do  not 
speak;  let  me  go  on.  Ro6a*s  visit 
had  been  prolonged  from  time  to 
time,  because  we  gave  her  hopes  of 
accompanying  her  into  Germany 
when  our  child  was  a  few  montlis 
older.  She  would,  however,  be  no 
longer  delayed.  I  knew  her  reason, 
I  saw  her  sense  of  delicacy,  and  no 
longer  offered  any  resistance  to  a  de- 
parture that  for  all  our  sakes  both 
pleased  and  pained  me.  I  was  well 
aware  that  Waldemar  had  never  by 
words,  nor,  voluntarily,  even  by  a 
look,  betrayed  the  state  of  his  feel- 
ings, if  this  were  fully  known  to  him- 
self. They  say  love  is  blind,  but 
certainly  it  believes  all  others  are 
so. 

*^  Perhaps,  however,  it  was  the  ap- 
proaching separation  that  clearly  re- 
vealed to  himself  the  truth  to  which 
I  could  not  be  insensible.  It  was  the 
day  before  Rosa^s  departure  that  I 
reached,  without  being  perceived,  the 
arbour  in  the  garden,  which  waa  a 
favourite  resort  with  us  all,  and 
generally  occupied  by  Rosa  and 
Waldemar.  There  they  had  spent 
houn  in  reading,  drawing,  and  »n^- 
ing.  All  her  tastes  and  pursuits 
agreed  with  his — ^none  of  mine. 

"As  I  approached  the  summer- 
house  I  heiu^  the  sound  of  Walde* 


1846.] 


A  Letter  from  Rippoldsau. 


221 


inftr*8  voice  speakinff  in  a  repressed 
tone,  and  saw  him  leaning  vnth  his 
arm  over  the  hack  of  his  seat,  turned 
towards  his  companion,  hut  his  face 
concealed  from  her  hehind  her  shoul- 
der. I  saw  he  was  agitated,  and  cu- 
riosity, which  so  often  brings  its  own 
punishment,  tempted  me  to  stop  and 
listen. 

" '  Yes,'  he  said,  '  I  am  glad  you 
are  going  away.* 

"'You  are  not  complimentary,* 
replied  Rosa,  smiling,  but  her  snille 
seemed  forced,  and  turning  her  head 
over  her  shoulder  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  countenance.  '  Ah  I 
Waldemar,'  she  cried,  *  you  suffer — 
you  are  unhappy  !* 

''  He  turned  suddenly  round ;  that 
voice  of  surprise  and  emotion,  of  un- 
affected anxiety,  was  indeed  irresist- 
ible. He  hastily  caught  her  hand 
and  looked  in  her  face. 

"  *  Yesi,  I  suffer,  I  am  unhappy,' 
he  said;  'the  most  miserable,  the 
most  hopeless  of  men.  Oh,  Rosa,  if 
you  knew  all  I' 

"  *  I  should  perhaps  hate  }^ou,'  she 
abruptly  interrupted,  tummg  very 
pale,  and  withdrawing  her  hand. 
Waldemar's  head  sunk  back  to  its 
former  position. 

"  The  next  moment  Rosa's  sweet 
womanly  feeling  reproached  her 
severity ;  she  turned  entirely  round 
towards  him,  and  giving  hun  back 
her  hand,— 

" '  Waldemar,  my  friend,  and  my 
friend's  husband,'  she  said,  in  a  tone 
that  struggled  for  firmness,  *  do  not 
be  angry  with  me.  Listen  calmly 
to  what  I  say.  I  am  young,  it  is 
true,  and  know  very  little  of  the 
world.  You  have  known  much ;  but 
still,  at  times,  even  a  very  ignorant 
and  inexperienced  woman  may  prove 
a  useful  or  a  consoling  counsellor.  I 
can  scarcely  tell  why  I  said  I  should 
perhaps  hate  you  if  I  knew  all — 
that  is  to  say,  if  I  knew  the  cause  of 
your  unhappiness ;  but  it  is  sin  that 
causes  the  chief  part  of  the  unhappi- 
ness of  mankind;  and  I  have  ever 
been  taught  to  shrink  from  all  that 
is  not  pure,  and  good,  and  virtuous, 
and  just  to  others.  Waldemar,  I  do 
not  wish  to  be  your  confidante.  Lit- 
tle as  I  know  of  life,  my  own  heart 
tells  me  that  a  married  man's  confi- 
dante ought  to  be  his  wife  only.  K 
I  were  a  wife,  I  am  sure  I  snould 
feel  this:  all  other  female  confidences 


may  be  dangerous  or  treacherous. 
You  have  a  devoted  wife.  If  there 
be  nothing  in  your  heart  you  should 
not  conceal  from  her,  open  it  to  her ; 
if  there  be  any  thing  there,  any  single 
sentiment,  you  would  shrinK  from 
unfolding  to  her,  or  blush  to  tell 
her,  oh,  Waldemar  !  you  would  not, 
cotdd  not  impart  it  to  me  f 

"  A  silence  followed  ;  I  feared  to 
stir;  and  anxiety  as  to  Waldemar's 
conduct  contributed  to  keep  me  sta- 
tionary. After  a  long  pause,  during 
which  his  face,  conceded  partly  by 
his  hand,  might  have  shewed  the 
emotion  which  swelled  the  veins  of 
his  temples,  he  looked  up,  pale,  but 
with  composure,  and  raising  the  hand 
he  held  to  his  lips, — 

" '  Rosa,'  he  said,  '  you  have  saved 
me — saved  me  from  sinking  in  your 
esteem ;  saved  me  from  my  own  re- 
morse ;  saved  me  from  shrinking 
from  the  regards  of  my  wife  I  Yes, 
my  sweet  guardian  angel  shall  not 
have  to  blush  for  havine  called  me 
her  friend;  for  still  calling  me  so, 
were  that  title  maintained  by  the  sa- 
crifice of  life.'  His  lips  touched  her 
beautiful  and  open  forehead. 

"  Rosa,  trembling  with  emotion, 
arose,  she  pressed  his  hand  between 
both  of  hers,  and  murmuring,  '  God 
^rant  it  may  be  so ;  and  that  I,  too, 
if  ignorantly  I  have  erred,  may  be 
saved  from  my  own  remorse !'  with- 
drew too  quickly  to  allow  Waldemar 
to  reply  to  these  last  words,  and 
hurried  along  the  path  in  an  oppo- 
site direction  to  tnat  on  which  I 
stood.  Waldemar,  respecting  her 
feelinffs  and  conduct,  did  not  attempt 
to  follow;  but  turned  away  to  the 
other  side,  and  consequently  stood 
before  me  ere  I  had  time  to  escape, 
even  had  I  desired  to  do  so.  An  m- 
voluntary  start  of  surprise  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  avoid,  and  an 
expression  of  conscious  guilt,  equally 
involuntary,  and  perhaps  still  more 
causeless,  mr  an  instant  discomposed 
his  candid  countenance.  The  next 
he  had  recovered  himself;  and  speak- 
ing with  gravity,  and  with  a  manner 
that  might  have  reassured  me  for 
the  future,  he  said, — 

" '  Maria,  have  you  been  here  long 
enough  to  learn  with  me  to  admire 
more  fully,  and  reverence  more 
deeply,  the  noble  and  lovely  cha- 
racter of  your  friend  ?' 

" '  That  was  the  turning  point  in 


in 


A  Letter  from  Rippoldeau, 


[February, 


my  life*8  historjr :  bad  I  used  it 
aright,  Waldemar  migbt  still  have 
been  my  husband.  But  what  wife, 
what  woman  ever  submitted  tran- 
quilly to  such  emotions  of  jealousy 
as  then  tormented  me?  Instead  of 
meeting  the  candid  spirit  of  my  hus- 
band with  meekness  or  affection,  in- 
stead of  causing  him  to  feel,  amid 
the  wanderings  of  his  own  heart,  the 
fixedness  of  mine,  I  coolly  answered, 
in  commonplace  terms,  *  I  have 
been  here  Ions  enough  to  learn  to 
regret  the  folly  that  urged  me  to 

5 lace  myself  or  my  fortune  at  the 
isposal  of  one  who  was  to  prove 
himself  so  regardless  of  an  undesired 
boon.* 

**  Fire  flashed  from  the  proud  eyes 
that  were  bent  upon  me.  A  look  of 
scorn — the  first  I  had  ever  met — 
made  me  feel  the  littleness  that  had 
breathed  in  my  words;  that  lofty 
brow  seemed  to  distend,  the  nostrils 
dilated.  But  Waldemar*s  conscience 
was  not  clear  of  having  wronged  me, 
at  least  in  heart;  impetuous  as  he 
was,  he  checked  the  rising  passion. 
My  own  heart  had  whisperea  to  me, 
*  Throw  yourself  at  his  feet,  into  his 
arms,— it  is  not  yet  too  late.'  But 
pride  and  jealousy  spoke  otherwise. 

**  ^  Maria,'  Waldemar  resumed,  *  I 
will  not  be  angry,  for  in  some  re- 
spects I  deserve  your  reproaches.  As 
for  yourself ' 

'*  1  was  in  hopes  he  was  going  to 
make  some  insulting  remark ;  but  he 
only  added, — 

'^*It  is  too  late  to  think  of  resti- 
tution in  that  respect;  but  as  to  your 
fortune,  from  henceforth  not  a  penny 
of  it  shall  ever  pass  througn  my 
bands.  You  say  these  gifts  were 
unsolicited.  It  is  true ;  but  you  can- 
not believe  that  in  accepting  them  I 
was  influenced  by  mercenary  motives, 
since  they  were  unhesitatingly  de- 
clined when  I  thouffht  that  the  de- 
sire of  freeing  me  irom  the  deplor- 
able condition  of  a  proscribed  man 
alone  dictated  that  generous  offer. 
Yet,  Maria,  though  the  knowledge 
of  your  affection  alone  actuated  me 
in  accepting  them,  I  should,  perhaps, 
have  done  better  had  I  candidly  told 
you  that  the  recollections  of  my  boy- 
hood had  done  any  thing  but  prepare 
the  way  for  a  love  of  riper  years ; 
but,  when  flattered  by  the  hope 
*^at  a  union  with  roe  would  promote 
happiness,  I  was  also  tempted 


to  believe  that  I  should  be  more  sa- 
tisfied with  my  feelings  as  a  husband 
than  I  could  be  with  them  as  a  pro- 
fessed lover.  I  knew  your  disposition. 
I  knew  that,  to  the  man  wno  pos- 
sessed your  strong  affections,  you 
would  prove  a  devoted  wife.  Maria, 
have  I  ever  failed  in  that  respectful 
tenderness  which,  from  the  moment 
you  gave  me  your  hand,  I  ever  de- 
sired to  shew  towards  you  ?  I  speak 
now  without  premeditation,  and  un- 
der peculiar  circumstances.  You 
know  that  I  am  sincere.  Tell  me  if 
I  have  failed  ?' 

" '  Never,  Waldemar  !'  I  cried ; 
and  with  an  effort,  an  unfortunate 
efiTort,  refrained  from  sinking  on  that 
noble  heart  which  had  involuntarily 
wronged  me — yet  not  wronged — 
only  ffiven  to  another  what  I  had 
unjustly  claimed. 

'' '  Then  let  the  past  be  forgotten,* 
he  said,  gently  pressing  my  hand. 
*  Depend  on  my  efforts  to  prove  my- 
self worthy  of'^your  confioence ;  de- 
pend upon  the  gratitude  of  your 
nusbana.* 

**Oh,  that  bitter  word  gratitude! 
how  it  stung  my  inmost  heart  I  and 
Waldemar  unhappily  completed  the 
impression  it  maae,  by  addmg, — 

" '  And  do  not  visit  my  wrongs 
upon  Kosa,  she  is  wholly  guiltless 
even  of  a  thought  injurious  to  you.* 

*^  Ah,  if  he  had  not  added  these 
words !  if  he  had  not  alluded  to  her ! 
But  why  do  I  say  iff  Are  not  these 
things  tne  work  of  destiny,  of  Pro- 
vidence ?" 

"  Oh  I"  I  interrupted,  ''do  we  not 
too  often  make  our  own  destiny  ?'* 

"  Well,  well,  do  not  speak.  Hear 
me.  We  must  not  discuss,"  she  re- 
sumed as  follows :  — 

"I  coldly  answered,  'Waldemar, 
all  shall  y^e  forgiven  C  and  I  turned 
away  by  the  path  Rosa  had  taken, 
leaving  him  to  continue  the  other 
alone. 

"  That  evening  I  was  cold  to  her. 
I  knew  I  was  unjust,  but  I  could  not 
help  it.  I  hated  her  because  she  was 
so  much  better,  sweeter,  lovelier  than 
myself.  She  perceived  my  coldness, 
and  her  eyes  were  constantly  brim- 
ful of  tears,  which  she  took  every 
pains  to  prevent  Waldemar  from 
seeing.  He  was  miserable.  The  hour 
of  separation  was  a  relief  to  us  all. 
The  next  morning  Rosa  left  us. 

"  I  cannot  describe  the  state  of  ex- 


18460 


A  LUterfrom  Rippoldsau, 


223 


btence  that  my  husband  and  I  drag- 
ged on  afterwards;  it  was  that  of 
prisoners  confined  together,  chained 
together;  but  denied  all  social  in- 
tercourse. Yet  there  was  no  enmity 
on  either  side;  a  reproach,  an  in- 
sinuation was  never  heard.  One 
would  have  said  our  feelings  were 
stagnant  at  our  hearts ;  yet,  perhaps, 
they  only  flowed  too  deeply,  too 
w^ildly  there.  This  cruel  state  of 
life  was  entirely  owing  to  me — ^it  was 
my  fault  alone.  I  knew  afterwards 
that  it  was  so.  All  this  time  he  oc« 
cupied  my  entire  thoughts,  my  heart 
and  soul;  but  to  conceal  this  from 
him,  to  affect  indifference, — even 
apathy,  was  my  sedulous  care.  Men, 
I  had  heard,  despise  what  is  easily 
gained.  The  recollection  of  my  of- 
fered hand  made  me  wretched ;  and, 
fool  that  I  was,  I  now  imagined  that 
the  apparent  coldness  of  the  wife 
might  atone  for  the  unsought  love  of 
the  maiden.  What  a  means  of  mak- 
ing him  forget  the  blank  which  the 
departure  of  Rosa  had  left  in  our 
society  I  I  devoted  mjrself,  and  my 
whole  attentions  outwardly,  to  my 
child — ^it  was  the  only  link  between 
us ;  and  when  I  looked  at  it,  it  was 
not  so  much  with  a  mother's  fond- 
ness as  with  a  wife*s  anxieties.  I 
felt  that  my  affection,  my  care  for  it, 
were  all  a  pretence.  I  was  punished 
for  this  also. 

*^  One  day  the  little  thing  was 
standing  on  my  knees,  its  little  feet 
planted  firmly  there,  as  I  held  it 
erect,  wondering  at  its  strength,  and 
sazing  sadly  at  it  while  it  laughed 
Its  infant  joy.  It  suddenly  gave  a 
sort  of  spring,  fell  back,  turned  black 
in  the  face,  and  died.  Yes,  all  was 
over;  the  link,  the  only  link  was 
broken.  I  had  seen  my  error  to- 
wards my  poor  mother  when  it  was 
too  late.  I  always  see  my  errors  when 
I  can  no  longer  repair  them.  I  now 
saw  my  error  towards  my  child.  I 
had  made  it  an  excuse.  I  had  been 
a  hypocrite,  a  false  mother,  because 
a  too  anxious  wife.  My  miserable 
love  for  one  who  had  never  loved 
me  had  lost  me  my  mother  and  my 
chad.    So  I  thought,  so  I  felt." 

"  You  know  well  the  art  of  self- 
tormenting,**  I  interposed. 

*•  Yes,  yes ;  perhaps  so.    However, 

my  griel,  though  unmoderate,  was 

silent,  even  sulkv.    I  refused  my 

}xusband*s  sympatny.    I  appeared  to 

voL<  xxxm.  no,  cxciv« 


think  it  impossible  he  could  share 
my  r^rets.  My  health,  which  was 
always  indifferent,  grew  daily  worse. 

**  One  day  while  conversing  with, 
rather  than  consulting  my  doctor, 
he  expressed  his  regret  that  he  could 
not  prevail  on  my  husband  to  try 
the  effect  of  the  German  waters, 
which  he  had  prescribed  as  abso- 
lutely essential  for  his  restoration  to 
health.  Mv  husband  I  Waldemar! 
Was  he  ill?  He  who  had  never 
known  a  dav*s  illness  in  his  life  save 
from  the  eaecta  of  his  wounds  I  He, 
the  object  of  my  unceasing  medita- 
tion, ill,  suffering  before  my  eyes, 
and  I  knew  it  not ;  uttering  daily  my 
own  complaints ;  sensible  to  the  bur- 
den of  my  own  misery,  I  had  all  this 
time  been  unconscious  of  his  I  Ah, 
if  he  were  to  die  now  ?  I  burst  into 
a  hysteric  laugh  as  the  idea  of  what 
my  state  would  then  be  presented 
itself  to  me. 

**  The  doctor,  alarmed  at  the  effect 
of  his  disclosure,  was  also  astonished 
at  my  previous  ignorance,  and  jusUy 
attributed  it  to  mv  excellent  hus« 
band's  tenderness  for  my  feelings. 
Alas!  he  had  been  silent  because  I 
had  been  to  hun  as  a  stranger.  I 
saw  immediately  the  cause  of  his 
refusing  to  go  to  Germany;  I  saw 
his  unmllingness  to  excite  my  suspi- 
cions, and  I  resolved  to  act  another 
part.  My  eves  once  opened,  I  beheld 
with  astonishment  the  chanoe  in  hia 
aspect,  the  hollows  beneath  nis  eyes, 
the  heavy  brow,  the  faded  complexion 
— all  spoke  pain  of  mind  still  more 
than  that  of  bod^. 

**  That  night,  in  my  silent  cham- 
ber, I  formed  my  plan ;  I  took  my 
solemn,  steadfast  resolution.  It  was 
my  wish  to  be  divorced ;  to  see  Wid- 
demar  again  at  liberty  would,  I 
thought,  render  me  happy.  But 
there  were  no  grounds  for  obtaining; 
a  divorce,  even  in  Germany ;  and,  if 
it  were  obtained,  it  could  not  effect 
the  object  I  now  had  in  view,  for  I 
knew  too  well  Bosa*s  delicate  senti* 
ments  and  English  prejudices. 

**  Another  plan  or  self-sacrifice,  and 
one  that  depended  wholly  on  mvself, 
was  necessary.  I  asked  myself  nad  I 
strength  to  perform  it,  and  I  felt  I 
had. 

^*  The  next  day  Waldemar  found 
me  a  different  person,  such  as  I  had 
been  six  or  eignt  months  before.  I 
spoke  freely  tq  Idm^  apologised  fo^ 


324 


A  Letter  from  Rippoldsau, 


[February, 


my  late  behaviour,  imputing  it  only 
to  miserable  health  and  broken 
nerves.  He  was  surprised  at  this 
return  of  affection,  and  admitted  that 
he  had  suffered  deeply,  and  felt  my 
injustice.  He  imputed  this  change 
in  me  to  the  discoverv  I  had  made  of 
his  state  of  health.  As  the  pledge  of 
our  reconciliation,  I  exacted  a  pro- 
mise that  he  would  obey  the  phy- 
sician, and  repair  to  the  Brunnens  of 
Naussau.  He  proposed  that  I  should 
accompany  him.  I  entreated  that 
this  should  not  be  a  stipulation.  My 
mind,  I  said,  had  need  of  entire  re- 
pose. I  wished  to  change  the  scene 
and  air,  but  could  not  endure  a 
watering-place.  On  the  contrary,  it 
was  my  wish,  if  he  would  consent  to 
it,  to  spend  some  time  in  travel,  es- 
pecially in  those  countries  with  which 
we  were  so  intimately  and  unhappily 
connected,  but  which  he  was  pro- 
hibited from  entering,  Hungary  and 
Poland. 

"  To  this  natural  desire  my  hus- 
band made  no  objection ;  he  believed, 
indeed,  that  such  a  change  would 
tend  to  restore  me  to  the  peace  I  had 
lost. 

"  Finally,  we  both  set  out  and 
separated  in  Germany.  I  had  ar- 
ranged to  take  a  travelling  servant 
from  thence,  and,  after  I  parted  from 
Waldemar,  found  an  excuse  for  part- 
ing also  with  my  female  attendant, 
and  taking  one  who  was  quite  a 
stranger  to  me.  I  then  hastened  to 
the  banker^s  where  my  money  was 
lodged.  Drawing  out  a  part  of  it,  I 
purchased  a  small  annuity  under  an 
assumed  name,  and  leaving  the  re- 
sidue so  that  it  could  be  reclaimwl  by 
Waldemar,  I  set  forth  on  my  pro- 
jected tour.  I  wrote  often  to  Wal- 
demar, and  received  letters  from  him, 
the  tone  of  which,  far  from  that  of 
an  assumed  affection,  was  truly  con- 
solatory to  my  heart.  It  told  me 
that  I  M'as  understood,  that  I  was 
appreciated,  that  I  was  pitied.  I 
felt  that,  so  far  as  depended  on  him- 
self, Waldemar  would  be  a  still  bet- 
ter husband  to  me  for  the  time  to 
come.  But  this  conviction  did  not 
move  me,  my  resolution  was  taken  ; 
his  kindness,  his  goodness,  only  gave 
me  fresh  strength  to  perform  it.  I 
resolved  that  he  should  be  happy. 
Once  beyond  the  frontier  of  Poland, 
my  letters  conveyed  to  him  repeated 
complamts  of  my  stiU  failing  health. 


This,  indeed,  wad  true ;  and  a  severe 
illness  had  nearly  accomptished  my 
purpose  without  a  falsehood.  But  I 
soon  after  carried  that  purpose  into 
effect. 

"  I  easily  got  a  person  of  my  ac- 
quaintance, on  some  trifling  excuse, 
to  write  a  letter  of  my  dictation,  as  if 
to  acquaint  one  of  my  friends  with 
the  event  of  his  wife's  death;  the 
person  who  wrote  it  neither  knowing 
who  it  was  to,  nor  suspecting  that  I 
was  myself  the  wife  whose  death  I 
described.  I  got  another  to  direct  it 
to  Waldemar,  and  carried  it  myself 
to  the  post.  The  letter  contained  an 
enclosure  in  my  own  writing — a  few 
lines,  as  if  written  before  my  death, 
affectionately  addressed  both  to  him 
and  Rosa,  conveying  to  them  jointly 
the  residue  of  my  property,  but  with- 
out the  least  allusion  to  the  connexion 
that  was  to  subsist  between  them; 
they  expressed  only  the  resignation 
with  which  I  quitted  for  ever  all  I 
had  loved  or  known. 

"  This  was  true ;  my  sacrifice  was 
complete ;  I  was  dead  to  the  world- 
There  was  no  chance  of  detection. 
Waldemar  could  never  discover,  even 
were  he  disposed  to  seek  it,  the  place 
of  my  tomb ;  for  it  was  in  Poland,  his 
unhappy  land.  Nearly  two  years 
have  passed  since  my  death  was  made 
known ;  Waldemar  has  b^n  the 
most  of  that  time  a  widower,  but  was 
his  heart  sof    Yet  sure  I  am  he 

gave  me  some  tears,  and  they  were 
onest  ones. 

"  Tlie  change  in  my  appearance, 
my  widow's  dress  and  assumed  name, 
saved  me  from  detection.  I  thought 
I  might  reside  with  safety  in  a  retired 
nart  of  Germany,  my  native  l«id. 
It  was  while  on  my  way  to  the  re- 
treat I  had  selected,  that,  hearing  of 
the  charming  seclusion  of  the  baths 
of  Rippoldsau,  I  was  tempted  to  seek 
relief  from  its  valuable  waters.  Could 
I  have  imagined  an  idea  so  wild  as 
that  Waldemar  my  husband,  with  his 
lovely  and  adored  bride,  would  have 
chosen  to  pass  their  honeymoon  in 
the  same  retreat  P 

"  I  shall  henceforth  be  calm.  Sus- 
pense is  worse  than  certainty— my 
sacrifice  is  accepted — he  is  happy— I 
have  not  died  in  vain ! " 

It  would  be  useless  to  record  here 
the  observations  I  made  when  at 
last  permitted  to  speak.  Ai^gument, 
indeed,  was  now  uselees  with  the  un- 


1846.] 


A  Letter  from  RippaldsaH, 


iU 


happy  victim  of  her  own  sensibility 
and  error.  To  induce  her  to  look  to 
another  world  for  the  happiness 
which  she  had,  perhaps  wilfully,  lost 
in  this  was  all  my  words,  few  and 
feeble  as  they  were,  aimed  to  do. 

The  next  morning  I  went  to  her 
chamber  to  see  how  she  had  passed 
the  night.  It  was  locked,  and  I 
knocked  without  obtainine  an  an- 
swer. Believing  that,  lixe  many 
others  who  expose  their  hearts  to 
their  fellow-creatures,  she  had  now 
repented  of  having  done  so,  and 
shrunk  from  seeing  me,  I  retired, 
intending  after  the  table '  d'hote,  at 
which  I  knew  she  would  not  .ap- 
pear, again  to  make  inquiries  for  her. 
^ut  at  that  table  I  heiurd  a  singular 
tale  related,  and  saw  Bosa  listening 
to  it  with  the  sweet  face  of  a  pitying 
angel. 

The  poor  widow  lady,  it  was  said, 
who  had  been  taken  ill  at  dinner  the 
day  before,  had  the  same  evening 
been  distressingly  summoned  to  her 
home.  She  was  a  most  afSicted 
creature ;  her  huslNiiid*8  sudden  death 
had  plunged  her  into  such  a  state  of 
giief  that  she  was  induced  to  come  to 
Jttippoldsau  to  try  the  *'  cure,"  leav- 
ing her  children  to  the  care  of  a 
nurse,  who,  to  avoid  being  troubled 
by  her  charge,  placed  them  all  on  a 
table  while  she  was  otherwise  en- 
gaged. Endeavouring  to  amuse 
themselves  there  at  play,  the  others 
had  rolled  the  youngest  off  the  table, 
and  if  not  actuallv  dead  when  the 
express  for  its  motner  amved,  it  was 
certain  that  it  would  not  be  alive 
when  she  reached  her  home. 

Stories,  unlike  stones,  gather  by 
moving!  Perhaps  seme  nearly  in- 
coherent expressions  had  escaped  this 
unfortunate  woman  in  her  oistress, 
and  amid  the  bustle  of  a  sudden  de- 
parture, relating  to  her  husband  and 
her  child,  and  these  being  ill  under- 
stood by  the  wondering  madchen, 
were  reuted  to  another  and  another, 


until,  as  the  stor^  passed  on  through 
the  community  it  assumed  its  pre- 
sent connected  form ;  or  another  so- 
lution of  it  crossed  my  mind,  but  I 
did  not  wish  to  believe  it.  Was  it 
possible  she  might  have  herself  given 
rise  to  it  by  making  a  somewhat 
similar  excuse  for  her  abrupt  de- 
parture ?  Only  two  particubrs,  as 
likelv  to  be  facts,  I  ftirther  under- 
stooo ;  namely,  that  she  had  not  gone 
to  rest  that  night,  and  set  off  at  four 
o*clock  in  the  morning. 

In  my  long  and  solitary  walks 
through  the  pine-corered  mountains 
that  border  on  the  Black  Forest,  I 
had  usually  foimd  them  left  to  my- 
self; but  now  I  was  never  sure  of 
being  there  alone.  Many  a  time  I 
saw  the  seat  to  which  I  was  hasten- 
ing already  occupied  by  two  happy 
creatures — like  the  Adam  and  f^ve 
of  my  late  lonely  paradise,  I  beheld 
their  bright  forms  glancing  amid  the 
dark  trees,  and  starting  forth  in  life 
and  joy  from  the  wild  thickets,  or 
bending  their  beamy  countenances 
over  the  mountain-stream ;  I  heard 
the  music  of  their  happy  voices,  I 
felt  the  sunshine  of  their  joyful 
faces  beam  upon  my  own  heart,  and, 
away  from  all  other  sights  and 
sounds,  I  oouM  have  said  the  world 
is  full  of  joy  and  love,  till  a  sudden 
thought  overcast  its  shade,  and  I 
felt  tne  reflec^on  of  their  happiness 
no  longer !  I  had  often  said  to  my- 
self. What  a  sweet  spot  is  Eippoldsau 
to  pass  a  honeymoon  I  I  thought 
so  now  again,  while  these  two, 
doubtless,  snared  the  thought  and 
echoed  the  words;  but  I  shuddered 
while  I  reflected  that  a  word  from 
me,  an  unregarded  stranger,  could 
strike  away  all  the  sweetness  from 
that  place  and  time,  and  cast  the 
gloom  of  the  shadow  of  death  over 
that  beautiful  and  now  blushing 
cheek. 

SfiLIKA. 
Rippoldtati,  Augutt  30,  1945. 


$36 


Lottj  Present  and  Past.  [February ^ 


LOVE,  PRESENT  AND  PA»T. 


Thbt  stood  in  their  yonng  beauty  where  the  shade 
Of  kingly  pines  a  deeper  twilight  jnade, — 
A  girl,  whose  weeping  eyes  were  downward  hent, 
A  youth,  whose  wnispers  love  made  eloquent. 

And  as  he  watcVd  her  colour  come  and  go, 
And  saw  her  tears,  half  sad,  half  timid,  flow, 
And  knew  her  heart  was  his,— all  his,  he  told 
How  heaven  and  earth  must  change  ere  he  grew  cold. 

"  Lift  up  those  dearest  eyes,  and  let  me  read 
A  tale  of  promise  in  their  li^ht !    No  need 
To  bow  thy  drooping  head  m  sorrow  thus, — 
Days,  months,  and  years  of  joy  shall  come  for  us  1 

Mneown!  mine  own!  it  is  a  thought  of  pride 
To  know  that  none  in  all  the  world  heside 
Hath  part  with  me  in  thy  affection — ^none ! 
Fear  not,  I  know  the  blessed  prize  Tve  won ! 

Nay,  love,  I  pray  thee  weep  not  I    Must  I  swear 
That  I  am  even  true  as  thou  art  fair  ? 
Gome,  dearest,  turn,  and,  kneeling  at  thy  feet, 
Let  me  once  more  mine  earnest  vows  repeat.** 

She  heard  him  long  in  silence,  and  at  last 
She  turned  to  him,  as  if  she  strove  to  cast 
Her  grief  aside ;  "  I  need  no  vows,"  she  said, 
^*  Love  such  as  mine  has  no  mistrustful  dread. 

I  feel  all  joy  departs  with  thee ;  no  eye 

WiU  ever  look  upon  me  lovingly 

Till  thou  return ;  the  grave  has  closed  o*er  all 

IVho  would  have  grieved  to  see  these  sad  tears  fall. 

Thou  art  mine  all.    It  is  a  fearful  thing 
To  love  as  I  love  thee  I    I  can  hut  cling 
To  one,  one  only  hope, — that  time  may  ne*er^ 
Bring  change  to  thee,  to  my  poor  heart  despair. 

Surely  thou  wilt  but  smile  when  others  scorn 
Thine  own  betrothed,  the  poor  and  lowly  born. 
Knowing  how  great  a  wealth  of  love  was  given 
To  thee,  mine  only  friend  on  this  side  heaven. 

Go  now,  while  I  am  calm.    God  knoweth  where 
We  two  shall  meet  again !    Go,  with  my  prayer 
Still  soundinff  in  thy  neart !    Go  on  thv  way. 
Mine  own  beloved  I    God  keep  thee  night  and  day  T 

They  parted ;  years  roll'd  on  before  they  stood 
Once  more  togeUier,  in  far  other  mood 
Than  when  they  said  farewell ;  at  last  he  camei 
Gay  as  of  old,  to  all  but  her  the  same. 


1846.]  Lave^  Present  and  Past.  227 

To  her,  alas !  to  her  those  years  had  brought 
A  mournful  change  m  aspect  and  in  thought. 
There  was  a  stillness  in  her  eye  and  air 
That  told  of  eonquer*d  passion,  long-past  care. 

Theirs  was  a  sudden  meeting,  yet  it  woke 
No  change  in  her  pale  ftce ;  and  then  she  spoke 
Of  that  last  parting,  where  the  pines  were  green, 
As  if  her  dream  of  love  had  never  been. 

And  he,  who  thought  to  hear  but  words  of  blame, 
Lau^h'd  lightly,  and  recall*d  his  boyish  flame ; 
^  We  must  be  friends,**  he  cried,  ^^  for  all  the  joy 
Of  that  old  time  when  we  were  girl  and  boy — '^ 

He  stopped ;  for  as  he  spoke,  a  bitter  smile 
Pa8s*d  o  er  her  lips ;  and  o*er  his  thoughts,  the  while. 
There  came  remembrance  of  her  love  and  truth 
Before  his  falsehood  blighted  her  fiur  youth. 

"  We  never  can  be  friends,  for  friends  should  feel 
Kind  sympathy,**  she  said,  ^  in  woe  or  w^. 
My  broken  trust  no  time  can  e*er  renew, 
I  shall  be  lonely  all  this  long  life  through. 

There  was  a  time  when  thou  and  I  were  one 
In  hope,  in  thought,  in  love ;  it  seem*d  that  none 
£*er  loved  with  deeper  earnestness  of  faith, 
Defying  change  and  sorrow,  care  and  death. 

There  was  a  time  when  at  thy  lightest  word 
My  pulse  leap*d  wildly  and  my  heart  vras  stirr*d, 
Re-echoing  tne  passion  of  thine  own, 
Cleaving  in  this  wide  world  to  thee  alone. 

Then  at  thy  footstep  how  the  red  blood  came 
Flushing  my  cheek !  how  at  thy  very  name 
I  trembled,  lest  a  stranger's  eye  should  see 
How  wildly  my  young  spirit  dung  to  thee ! 

I  blame  thee  not,  for  now  my  alter*d  heart 
Is  cold,  and  I  am  tranquil  as  thou  art ; 
Nothing  remains  of  that  old  love  of  mine, 
I  have  no  part  in  joy  or  grief  of  thine. 

At  times  I  weep  to  think  such  love  could  be. 
And  ^et  have  pass*d  away  like  mine  for  thee ; 
To  think  that  I  can  gaze  with  unchanged  brow 
On  thee, — on  thee  I  as  I  am  gazing  now. 

At  times  there  come  old  thoughts  across  my  brain, 
Shadows  of  joy  I  cannot  know  again. 
Come  they  to  thee  ?    Ah,  no !  for  thou  would*st  weep 
If  those  wild  shadows  came  to  haunt  thy  sleep. 

Surely  thou  could'st  not  smile,  if  e*er  to  thee 
Such  visions  came  as  often  come  to  me  I 
I  tremble  at  their  presence,  though  I  know 
My  heart  is  dead  and  cold  to  all  below. 

I  seem  to  hear  again  that  bless6d  stream, 
The  music  of  the  pine-tree'fllls  my  dreain, 
Thy  hand  clasps  mine,  thyfvoice  is  in  mine  ear, 
The  voice  my  wnkinj;  soul  umnoved  can  hear* 


[ 
S28  Xov't  Preteni  and  Past.  [Febratfj, 


Yea!  om  by  one,  pa«t  boon  of  Uin  setam ; 
I  wake  and  weep,  and  tben  my  heart  will  yearn. 
Feeling  one  hour  of  love*8  own  smiles  and  tears 
Were  Mter  Ur  than  these  doll,  hopeless  yean. 

I  do  not  blame  thee  now ;  I  said  the  truth : 
My  heart  is  cold  and  dead,  my  yery  youth 
Ib  withered  with  its  generous  thoughts.    Alas ! 
How  changed  I  am  &om  all  that  once  I  was. 

At  times  I  see  a  vision  dark  and  Strang — 
A  woman  weeping  that  thy  heart  could  change ! 
Loud  is  the  wul  of  her  fierce  agony, 
Bitter  and  wild  her  eager  prayer  to  die. 

Oh !  if  that  dreary  vision  ever  crossed 
Thy  soul,  e*en  now,  when  all  our  love  is  lost. 
Thou  couldst  not  smile  as  thou  hast  smiled  to-day, 
Of  all  the  crowd  most  heartless  and  most  gay. 

Strange !  strange  how  all  are  passed — love,  hope,  and  grief; 
My  love  than  thine  scarce  truer  or  less  brief! 
Strange  how  I  hear  thy  voice  and  tremble  not, 
Even  with  all  the  past  still  unfoigot. 

I  deem*d  that  grief  would  dwell  with  me  for  aye ; 
But  time  roli*d  on,  and  sorrow  died  away, 
And  now  we  meet  as  strangers  meet,  and  I 
Feel  nothing  of  that  long-past  agony. 

We,  who  once  boasted  Death  should  hardly  tear 
Us  two  apart,  not  dreaming  we  could  bear 
All  that  we  since  have  borne,  and  now  can  brook  { 
Thus  meeting  coldly  with  unchanging  look. 

How  those  who  see  us  meet  would  lauffh  to  know 
That  once  the  pasrion  of  thy  soul  eoidl  flow 
In  burning  words  to  me, — *  thy  beaudfid,* — 
Me,  who  am  now  so  spiritless,  so  dull. 

Alas !  methinks  I  would  recall  again 
The  cruel  past  with  all  its  hours  of  pain, 
Bather  tlum  be  the  thing  I  am, — ^unmoved 
To  grief  or  joy  by  thee,  my  once  beloved  !*' 


\ 


1&460 


4  Dinner  in  4ncknt  JSgjfpt. 


829 


A  DIMNEK  IK  ANCIENT  EGYPT. 


CoMFAEED  with  the  profuse  luxury 
of  an  ancient  Egyptian  dinner,  our 
modem  dinners,  with  all  their  gas- 
tronomical  anpliances,  are  little  better 
than  staryeling  sophistications.  J£ 
the  all^;ation  of  last  arti  be  sustained 
or  demonstrated  by  a  critical  suirey 
of  the  Egyptian  laboratory,  work- 
shop, or  factory,  eating  on  a  gigantic 
scale  may  also  be  regarded  as  one  of 
the  artes  perdUiB.  &igland  has  been 
pronounced  to  be  an  ^*  eminently 
dining  nation ;"  and  it  has  been  sar- 
castically said  that  *^  her  hypocrites 
cannot  harangue,  her  knaves  cannot 
intrieue,  her  dupes  cannot  subscribe, 
and  her  cabinet  ministers  cannot  con- 
sult without  the  intervention  of  a 
dinner."  But  let  us  examine  the  his- 
tory of  dinners  in  an  inverse  order, 
tracinff  their  genealogy  backwards 
firom  England*8  Modem  Babylon  to 
Egypt's  "  City  of  Thrones,"  and  we 
mil  be  compelled  to  admit  our  in- 
feriority. The  stream  inverting  the 
natural  order  grows  wider  and  deeper 
as  you  ascend  to  its  source.  The 
gulosity  of  Parson  Adams  and  Tom 
dones  yields  to  Massinger's  Justice 
Greedy,  and  his  ideas  of  various  and 
eubrtantial  dishes  must  give  pre- 
cedence to  Chaucer's  Franklein : — 

'*  Witbouten  bake  mete  never  was  his 

house, 
Of  fish  and  iiesh,  and  that  so  plenteous, 
It  inewed  in  his  hall  of  mete  and  drinke, 
Ofevery  dainty  that  men  could  of  thinke." 

But,  after  all,  what  were  English 
to  the  Roman  gourmands  who  pre- 
ceded, and,  perhaps,  taught  themF 
Thii^  of  Esop*s  nngle  dish  that  cost 
6002.,  of  Domitiairs  rhombus,  of 
Vitdlius*s  shidd  of  Minerva,  of 
]i^udmin*s  elephantine  breakfasts,  of 
Heliogab(dus*s  parrot  tongues!  What 
glory  to  the  imperial  glutton  who 
offered  half  his  empire  for  a  new 
sauce ;  what  spirit  in  the  resolution 
of  Apicius  when  he  destroyed  himself 
because  he  had  only  220,000/.  sterling 
1^  to  be  devoted  to  the  purposes  of 
gastronomy  I 

Look  again  at  the  frequency  of 
the  It(»nan  meals,  and  we  shall  be 
quickly  satisfied  (which  Roman  gas- 
tronomy was  not)  that  our  meals  are 
parshnonious  and  unsatisfactory  in- 
Dovaiiims  on  a  grand  ommiorous 


system.  There  was  iht  jentacvhtm^ 
the  prandium^  the  merenda^  the  ccenuMj 
the  comissatio,  W}iat  an  enviable 
digestion  the  Romans  must  have  had, 
especially  when  we  consider  their 
dishes,  —  their  roast  boars,  swines* 
bellies,  goats  and  squirrels,  cranes, 
peacocks,  swans,  and  guinea-pigs ! 

Yet  what  was  Rmuan  gluttony 
compared  to  the  gigantic  gourmand^ 
ism  of  Egypt !  Rutarch  records  the 
memorable  circumstance  of  fifteen 
boars  being  roasted  whole  for  a  sup- 
per of  Antony  and  Cleopatra;  and 
Lucian  describes  a  dinner  given  by 
the  '^  Gipsy  Queen"  to  Caesar  during 
a  former  UaUorit  which  was  "mount- 
ed" on  the  same  gigantic  scale : — 

"  With  dainties  Egypt  piled  the  grosnipg 
board, 
Whatever  sea,  or  sky,  or  land  afford." 

This,  too,  was  in  the  decline  of 
Egypt  under  the  Greek  dynasty! 
From  that  ex  pede  Hercidem  we  may 
infer  how  Gargantuan  were  her  re- 
pasts in  the  zenith  of  her  greatness. 
Homer,  who  had  grateful  reminis- 
cences of  the  dinners  given  by  the 
kings  and  magnates  of  the  Theban 
City  of  Thrones,  leads  to  a  favourable 
imagination  of  the  scale  on  which 
they  were  conducted  by  describing 
the  fflorious  spreads  in  which  the 
Grecian  heroes  of  the  Iliad,  their 
contemporaries,  indulged.  We  will 
take  the  first  example  that  occurs. 

*'  Patroclus  o'er  the  blsKing  fire 
Heaps  in  the  brazen   vase  thre$  ehiiw 

entire ; 
llie  braien  vase  Automedon  sustains, 
Which  fleih  of  porker,  sheep,  and  goat 

contains  ; 
Acbtlles  at  the  genial  feast  presides. 
The  parts  transfixes  and  with  skill  divides. 
Meanwhile   Patroclas  sweaU  the  fire  to 

raise, 
The  tent  is  brighten'd  with  the  rising 

blaze ; 
Then,  when  the  lingering  flames  at  length 

sabside. 
He  strews  the  bed  of  glowing  embers 

wide; 
Above  the   coals  the    smoking  fragments 

turns, 
And  sprinkles  sacred  salt  from  lifted  nrns. 
With  bread  the  glittering  canisters  tliey 

load, 
Which  round  the  board  Menaetius'  son 

bestowld, 


830 


A  Dinner  in  Ancient  Egypt 


[February, 


Who,  opposite  Ulyitet,  full  ia  ue:ht, 
y»ch  portion  ptrts  aod  orders  all  u'lf^ht. 
The  first  fat  portion  to    tbe  immortal 

£ow*rs 
B  greedy  flames  Patroclns  pours ; 
Then  each  indulging  in  the  social  feast. 
The  rage  of  hunger  and  of  thirst  represt'* 

It  is  a  curiouB  reflection  that  the 
andent  Thebans,  seated  in  chain  in 
the  English  ^not  the  Roman)  fashion, 
the  ladies  being  intermixed  with  the 
gentlemen,  often  dined  off  rotut  beef 
and  goose;  that  they  had  their ^nuf- 
dings  and  pies ;  that  they  drank  their 
beer  out  of  glasses,  and  their  wine 
out  of  decanters;  that  they  challenged 
each  other  as  we  now  do,  and  drank 
toasts  and  healths.  They  had  whets 
before  dinner,  like  the  Russians,  con- 
sisting of  pungent  vegetables  or 
strong  cordials,  handed  round  the 
drawing-room,  previous  to  applying 
the  test  of  the  appetite  to  the  more 
substantial  luxuries  of  the  dining- 
room. 

Thouffh  beef  and  goose  (mutton 
was  excluded  in  compliment  to  the 
ram-headed  Ammon)  constituted  the 
staple  articles  of  a  good  dinner  in  the 
**  City  of  Thrones,  other  rarities  and 
Bubstantials  were  added  at  the  tables 
of  the  rich,  such  as  widgeons,  quails, 
wild  ducks,  kid,  and  fish  of  various 
kinds,  intermixed  with  an  endless 
succession  of  vegetables. 

In  one  respect  we  might  take  a 
lesson  from  the  Egyptian  bon  meant. 
The  torture  of  suspense  to  which  a 
dinner-party  in  our  civilised  times  is 
exposed  during  the  awful  hour  which 
precedes  dinner  has  often  furnished 
the  enayist  and  the  Cockney  with 
materials  of  eloquent  complaint. 
''  They  managed  these  things  better*' 
in  the  '^  hundred-gated"  metropolis. 
The  Eg3^tian  hon  viwaUs  had  music 
to  entertain  their  ffuests  both  before 
and  after  that  meal,  which,  according 
to  a  learned  authority,  constitutes  the 
most  serious  as  well  as  agreeable  oc- 
cupation of  our  existence. 

(generally,  dinner  was  served  with- 
out a  cloth ;  although  there  are  in- 
stances of  linen  coverings  in  imitation 
of  palm-leaves.  Plates  were  occa- 
sionally used;  perhaps  knives,  as 
both  are  seen  among  the  painted 
frescoes  of  the  tombs  exhibited  on 
sideboards.  There  was  no  **  silver' 
fork  school^*''  because  there  were  no 
forks.  There  might,  nevertheless, 
bave  been  a  *•  sUver'spoon  school/' 


without  any  xefleetion  on  the  mental 
acuteness  of  the  real  Theban  ^  Am- 
pbytrion,**  for  he  is  the  *'  real  Am- 
phytrion  with  whom  one  dines.** 
Spoons  were  used  instead  of  forks, 
with  a  similar  bowl,  but  with  a 
shorter  handle  than  ours.  Those  in 
the  British  Museum  are  of  orna- 
mented tortoise-shell,  ivory,  and  ala- 
lN»ter.  There  can  scarcely  be  a 
doubt  that  similar  utensils  of  silver 
and  gold  were  used  at  the  great  tables. 
Considering  that  the  chief  dishes  were 
rich  soups  and  stews,  s^ns  were  at 
all  events  a  more  civilised  custom 
than  Chinese  chopsticks  or  Turkish 
fingers.  It  is  not  improbable  that 
botn  knife  and  silver  spoon  were 
used.  Dinner  was  served  on  a  round 
table.  Near  the  dishes  were  placed 
ornamented  rolls  of  wheaten  bread ; 
trays  of  which,  in  readiness,  were 
also  profusely  heaped  on  adjacent 
sideboards.  Homer  says,  spealon^  of 
a  Theban  banquet,  **  the  glittenng 
canisters  were  piled  with  bread ;  **  nap- 
kins and  water-ewers  were  supplied 
the  guests  by  beautiful  slaves  of  both 
sexes  who  waited  on  them,  and  who 
presented  them  wine  in  goblets, 
ionians  and  Greeks,  as  well  as 
Negroes,  are  undoubtedly  among 
them.  The  dessert  generally  conasted 
of  grapes,  dates,  and  figs.  Changes 
were  made  by  removing  the  table, 
with  all  the  dishes  upon  it,  and  sub- 
stituting in  this  manner  a  second  and 
third  course. 

The  frescoes  which  record  these 
circumstances  depict  the  luxurious 
variety  of  a  Thelmn  dinner.  Others 
record,  a  ponderous  profusion  and 
abundant  simplicity,  more  consonant 
to  the  banquet  of  Achilles. 

Complete  pictures  are  seen  in  the 
tombs  of  the  whole  preparatory  pro- 
cess, ah  ovo.  First  appears  the  poul- 
try-yard, with  the  cooped  and  fat* 
tened  poultry  in  the  process  of  se* 
lection  and  plucking ;  next,  the 
shambles;  and  lastly,  the  kitchen, 
where  we  have  the  whole  culinary 
process  laid  open  before  us.  First 
the  ox  is  slaughtered  and  divided 
into  joints;  some  for  roasting  and 
stewing,  and  some  for  boiling.  Ribs 
of  beet,  fillets,  legs  of  beef,  calves*- 
bead,  liver,  hearts,  and  tongues,  seem 
to  be  the  favourite  joints.  But 
some  are  perfectly  indescribable  by 
any  modem  designation ;  and  others, 
though  unique^  are  stiU  tmditioiuaiy 


1846.] 


A  Dinner  in  Ancient  Egypt. 


231 


wto)iiMed  by  the  bon  vivanU  of  Cairo. 
We  are  next  introduced  to  the 
kitchen,  where  we  see  a  large 
caldron  of  bronze  placed  in  a  tripod 
over  the  fire,  and  nearly  as  porten- 
tous in  size  as  that  which  figured  at 
the  Achillean  festival, — 

"  A  brazen  caldron  of  capacious  frame 
They  bring  and  place  abore  the  roaring 
flame." 

We  behold  one  of  the  cook*s  assist- 
ants stirring  the  fire  with  a  poker ; 
another  blowing  it  with  bellows;  a 
third  skimming  the  surface  of  the 
hash  or  soup ;  a  fourth  stirrine  the 
ingredients  of  a  caldron  with  a  large 
fork;  a  fifth  pounding  salt  or  pepper, 
and  seasoning  the  savoury  viands. 
In  one  instance,  a  spit  is  passed 
through  a  goose  intended  to  be 
roasted ;  a  dwarf  slave  (such  as  the 
Romans  patronised  on  account  of 
their  grotesque  drollery)  holds  and 
turns  it  over  a  charcoal  fire,  while 
he  uses  a  fan  to  keep  the  charcoal 
bright.* 

The  pastrycook's  or  confectionary 
department  was  separated.  In  this 
department  we  see  assistants  engaged 
in  sifting  and  mixing  flour,  kneading 
paste,  spreading  it  and  rolling  it, 
making  sweetmeats  and  maccaroni, 
or  forming  the  paste  into  various 
shapes  of  biscuits  and  rolls,  cakes 
and  tarts,  over  which  were  sprinkled 
seeds  of  the  sesamum  and  carraway. 
Cakes  and  puddings,  mixed  with  fruit, 
are  also  observable  in  process  of 
formation ;  we  may  trace  them  to  the 
baker,  and  afterwards  to  the  shelves, 
on  which  they  are  deposited  until 
required. 

A  wise  man  has  said,  *^Is  there 
any  thing  of  which  it  may  be  said, 
Lo,  this  is  new  I  Behold,  it  has  been 
of  old  time,  even  before  us !  The 
thinff  which  has  been  is  the  thing 
whidi  shall  be,  and  there  is  no  new 
thing  under  the  sun.**  The  dinner 
frescoes  under  survey  abundantly 
pryve  the  axiom. 

Butchers,  it  has  been  shewn,  were 
employed  in  the  kitchen  for  the  pur- 


pose of  dissecting  the  joints.  In 
Bosellini's  CivU  Monuments  of  Egypt 
(plate  83),  one  of  these  assistant 
butchers  is  sharpening  a  knife  upon  a 
steel  suspended  from  his  waist,  and 
which  IS  exactly  similar  to  the 
butchers*  steels  employed  at  the  pre- 
sent day. 

Encore  un  coup :  the  preparations 
for  a  great  dinner  on  a  sumptuous 
and  extensive  scale  are  seen  m  the 
tomb  of  Menoptha  at  Saccareh.  A 
subordinate  tableau  represents  two 
pastrycooks  occupied ;  the  one  in 
moulding,  the  other  in  baking,  cer- 
tain delicacies  of  a  round  or  flat  form, 
which,  be3rond  a  doubt,  represent 
tartlets  or  patties,  which  seem  to 
have  been  much  in  request  among 
the  Theban  gastronomes,  and  for 
which  the  mmlem  pastrycooks  of 
Cairo,  according  to  the  ludicrous  tes- 
timony of  little  Hunchback,  in  the 
Arabian  Nights,  have  been  tradi- 
tionally famous.  In  another  com- 
partment, a  pastrycook  appears  with 
a  tray  of  these  tartlets  on  his  head, 
to  which  the  symbol  implying  the 
arithmetical  number  "one  thousand** 
(in  Oriental  language,  the  '^  man  of 
a  thousand  tarts  )  ia  appended, — no 
doubt,  with  a  view  of  signifying  the 
large  consumption  of  his  trade.  A 
Theban  lad  (perhaps  a  schoolboy) 
beneath,  with  admiring  hands  ai- 
rected  towards  the  tray,  is  in  the  act 
of  making  a  purchase  of  the  tempting 
luxuries.  Well  do  we  remember,  in 
our  schoolboy  days,  purchasing  of 
the  school  pastrycook  (whom  the 
boys  characteristically  designated  as 
Mr.  Joseph  Stale)  certain  compound 
friandises  of  fruit  and  pastry,  in- 
geniously constructed  in  the  shape 
of  geese,  lambs,  and  pigs.  Who 
would  not  ima^e  that  these  were 
modem  inventions  in  deference  to 
juvenile  gulosity  f  But  no  such 
tiling.  Lo  and  behold!  the  same 
unctuous  rarities  appear  on  the 
shelves  of  the  *^  man  of  a  thousand 
tarts.** 

One  little  incident  in  a  dinner 
fresco  or  tableau  is  really  new—or, 


*  The  geese,  in  this  instance,  are  plucked  and  broiled  ;  but  the  favourite  mode  of 
treating  tbem  waa  to  salt  them,  as  is  still  practised  in  Ireland  and  Yorkshire.  A 
modem  epicure  has  pronounced  the  Irish  salted  goose  a  "  dish  fit  for  Olympus/*  and 
few  ^071  vivants  are  ignorant  of  that  noble  combination  of  rich  interior  and  decorated 
exterior  which,  under  the  name  of  a  Yorkshire  Goose  Pie,  so  often  cheers  and  orna* 
meats  the  Cbristiaas  boaid» 


S32 


A  False  Aiarm, 


[February, 


at  leaat,  it  inay  be  pronounced  new  to 
modero  practice.  Itoccursinthetomb 
of  a  "learned  Theban"  at  Eilithyss, 
a  gentleman  in  the  shipping  trade, 
who  has  held  an  admirars  commis- 
Bon  in  the  wars  of  ThothmoB  UI.,  and 
who  18  represented  as  giving  an  official 
dinner  to  his  brother-officers  and  the 
mercantile  interest.  There  are  two 
compartments.  You  see  on  one  side 
the  arrival  of  the  aristocratic  guest  in 
his  chariot,  attended  by  a  train  of  run* 
ning  footmen,  one  of  whom  hastens 
forward  to  announce  his  arrival  by  a 
knock  at  the  door,  sufficient  to  satisfy 
the  critical  ear  and  rouse  the  som- 
nolent obesity  of  the  sleepiest  and 
fattest  hall -porter  of  Grosvenor 
Square.  The  other  compartment 
presents  you  with  a  coup  d*cnl  of  the 
poultry-yard,  shambles,  pantry,  and 
kitchen ;  and  is  completed  bv  a  side 
view  of  the  novel  inciuent  to  which  re- 
ference has  been  made.  Agfrey-headed 
mendicant,  attended  by  his  "  faithful 
doff,"  and  who  mi^ht  pass  for  Ulysses 
at  nis  palace  gate,  is  receiving  from  the 


hands  of  a  deformed  but  charitable 
menial  a  bulFs-head,  and  a  draught 
of  that  beer  for  the  invention  of 
which  we  are  beholden  to  the 
Thebans. 

Au  restsy  the  busy  preparations  for 
the  dinner  represented  m  the  latter 
compartment  render  the  last  tableau 
the  most  remarkable  of  all  prandial 
frescoes.  Boiling,  baking,  stewing, 
roasting,  peppenng,  and  salting,  are 
goinff  on  wito  a  bustling  vivadty 
whicn  does  honour  to  the  wealthy 
hospitality  and  learned  gastronomy 
of  tne  host,  while  the  profuse  ampli- 
tude of  the  preparations  bear  equal 
testimony  to  the  gij^antic  f^[>petite8 
and  admirable  digestion  of  the  ship- 
ping-ma8ter*s  convives.  To  quote  a 
French  proverb,  which  is  certainly 
more  expressive  than  reverential,  they 
are  as  restlessly  active  as  "millea 
diables  dans  un  benitier ;"  which 
may  be  done  into  the  joiner  fing^iish 
of  the  "shipping  interest"  by  an 
analogous  proverb,  "  As  busy  as  the 
d in  a  gale  of  wind," 


A  FALSE  ALARM. 


▲  TBUE  8T0BT. 


Hail,  happy  times !  when  man  may  lay  his  head 
On  downy  pillow,  free  from  strife  and  dread ; 
When  deeds  of  forty  thieves  are  only  told 
As  bygone  fears,  and  wondrous  tales  of  old ; 
When  goblin  grim,  and  fearful  warning  sprite, 
No  more  disturb  our  real  Arabian  night. 
Ah,  happy  times !  but  how  can  these  things  be, 
When  oread,  through  sin,  was  made  man's  destiny  f 

There  is  a  happy  land,  where  Churdi  and  Stale 
Together  work  to  lighten  human  fate ; 
Laws  and  Religion  nave  both  ably  wrought. 
And  peace  and  safety  to  its  children  brought ; 
And  yet  e*en  there,  where  Confidence  should  dwell. 
Old  Dread  starts  up,  and  breaks  the  happy  spell. 

*T  was  in  that  land  a  peaceful  pastor  dwelt. 
He  plann*d  no  harm  nor  fear  of  evil  felt ; 
It  was  a  beauteous  spot  his  cottage  graced. 
Nature  and  Art  there  lines  of  beauty  traced. 
One  greater,  too,  than  Nature  blessed  the  man, 
And  for  him  meet  help  furnished ;  heaven's  wide  span 
Ne'er  threw  its  mantle  o'er  a  fairer  form 
Than  hers,  whom  he  call'd  wife — his  .dearest  diaixn  I 
For  sun  ne'er  lighted  up  moore  loving  eye. 
Or  warm'd  a  heart  more  f\ill  of  chanty. 


1846.]  A  False  Alarm.  S3S 

From  th^e  there  sprang  fiye  daughien,  goch  «i  they,-— 

Fious,  and  wise,  and  fair ;  and  many  say 

Such  gifted  creatures,  so  brought  up,  need  fear 

No  hi^  hereafter,  and  no  dimger  nere. 

A  happy  family !  tibough  means  were  small, 

Those  means  were  plenty  to  that  happy  all. 

With  ^ood  and  pious  works  their  days  we^  fiird, 

In  canng  darling  pets  their  leisure  wiled ; 

Abroad  to  distant  climes  they  would  not  roam 

To  gratify  their  fancVs  wants, — ^at  home 

Was  fdl :  Canary  Isles  and  Java's  shore, 

Or  India's  GToyes,  teeming  with  feathered  store. 

Were  nouffnt  to  them ;  the  glebe  their  wants  supplied, 

Horses,  and  pigs,  and  poultir,  were  their  pride. 

A  nimble  squirrel  and  a  finch  or  two 

Pereh*d  on  the  hand  or  in  the  window  flew. 

And  once  they  had, — ^it  was  wild  fimcy's  love, 

For  Venuses,  of  course,  would  choose  a  dove — 

They  had  a  daw — ^black,  noi^,  without  sense, 

They  loved  liim  dearly  for  his  impudence : 

Msixij  a  trick  he  play'd,  and  passed  his  jest  I 

Pert,  prymg,  prigging,  peppery —a  pest ! 

Yet  they  loved  him ;  but  one  they  lov^d  more— 

Loved  as  no  friend  was  ever  loved  before. 

A  dear  and  darling  pet  was  that;  ah,  me ! 

Fair  lady,  J,  too,  venerated  thee ! 

It  was  their  friend — ^her  father's  only  child — 

No  swan  so  graceful,  and  no  dove  so  mild. 

Oft  would  she  come,  though  rain  and  mire  would  say, 

"  Put  not  thy  angel  foot  on  earth  this  day," — 

Would  come  to  oieer  her  friends  both  young  and  old 

With  beaming  eye  and  words  that  comfort  told» 

And  once  she  came,  'twas  an  eventful  hour, — 

Breathe  softly,  muse !  and  tell  the  tale  once  more : 

Flushed  from  her  broken  sleep,  portending  storm, 
Aurora  rose,  when  fair  Maria's  form 
Stepp'd  from  her  father's  door,  and  bent  her  way 
To  Diess  the  pastor  with  her  beams  that  day. 
Arrived,  the  angel  guest,  for  friendship's  sake. 
Brake  with  her  friends  the  fast  that  mortals  break. 

The  day  was  pass'd  in  profitable  joy — 
September's  day,  when  Nature,  growing  coy 
Of  failing  beauty,  casts  the  veil  of  night 
Early  o'er  her  departing  charms,  from  sight  ^ 
To  screen  her  blemishes ;  but  'neath  that  veil 
Art  loves  to  shine,  and  many  a  happy  tale. 
And  notes  of  music  soft,  and  softer  still 
The  voice  of  melody,  did  through  the  bosom  thrill, 
As  darkness  lay  upon  the  land,  and  late 
Was  the  grieved  hour  that  did  that  oharm  abate. 
Then  all  was  hush'd,  and  day's  last  work  was  done— 
The  spindle,  needle,  book  and  all  were  gone  ; 
The  glossy  trees  in  paper  nicely  placed ; 
And  then,  'neath  muslin  shroud^,  neatiy  faced 
With  frill  and  crimp,  safely  the  head  is  borne 
On  downy  pillow,  there  to  lie  till  mom. 
Rash  confidence  I    One  maid  kept  'wake  that  night, 
From  China*s  nervous  draught :  she  thought  she  might 


334  A  False  Alarm.  [February, 

Or  hair  the  secrets  of  the  talking  dreftm, 

Or  tell  who  sang  the  songs*  that  wives  demean. 

As  wiline  thus  the  ni^ht^  she  seemed  to  hear 

A  knocking  noise  without — so  very  near. 

It  louder  grew ;  she  waked  her  fellow  quick. 

She  heard,  <'*Tis  thieves  the  kitchen  window  hreak  !** 

Fast  to  the  pastor*s  room  like  doves  they  fly, 

"  Thieves,  master,  thieves  I  **  the  pastor  rubb*d  his  eye. 

"Who— what — ^where — when— which ! *•    out  from  bed  he 

jumped, 
And  on  the  landing  on  all  hands  he  plumped. 
This  roused  the  house,  the  dreadful  panic  flew. 
All  from  their  beds  rush*d  out  like  shipwrecked  crew. 
Shivering  and  shrinking  all ;  but  one  eye  tum*d 
Upon  the  pastor,  and  his  courage  bum*d. 
"Fall  in  I**  he  cried  aloud,  "each  maid  now  take 
A  taper  in  her  hand  for  safety  sake.** 
Then  from  the  scabbard  which  adom*d  the  wall 
He  drew  a  rusty  blade,  and  *fore  them  all 
Begg*d  pardon  from  above  for  blood  that  might 
Flow  from  that  blade  that  melancholy  night. 
A  prudent  leader !  he  his  troop  reviewed. 
As  there  array*d  in  uniform  they  stood. 
White  was  the  dress,  the  cheek,  the  trembling  hand — 
From  head  to  foot  it  was  a  nulk- white  band ; 
But  still  they  followed  onward,  near  the  spot 
Where  noise  was  heard,  and  where  was  laid  the  plot. 
In  manner  firm  the  pastor  challenged  loud, 
In  voice  that  spoke  of  death,  without  a  shroud — 
"  Who's  there  ?    Why  this  ado  ?    Who  breaks  the  law  ?•* 
With  tap-tap- tap  the  answer  caiJie — "  Caw !  Caw  T 
"  Ah,  Jack,  you  rogue  I  'tis  you !"  "  Ah,  Jack,  you  dear !" 
£xclaim*d  the  Amazons  in  front  and  rear. 
The  daw  replied,  "  'Gainst  me  the  door  was  shut : 
To  be  n^lected  is  a  cruel  cut — 
More  cruel  still,  when  in  the  heart  we  see 
Another  dwelling  where  we  used  to  be." 
Now  once  again  the  cheeks  with  blushes  bloom. 
And  back  the  maidens  rush  within  their  room. 
And,  strange !  that  she  who  arm'd  the  breast  for  fight, 
Was  now  observed  to  be  the  first  in  flight. 
"  Stop  I  to  conclude,"  the  pastor  spake  with  stress, 
"  This  trying  night  a  moral  doth  express. 

MOKAL. 

Learn,  timid  youths,  from  this  eventful  story. 
That  valour  is  the  safest  road  to  glory ; 
And,  maidens,  mind !  raise  not  your  nope  or  fear 
On  ev'ry  word  that's  whisper'd  m  the  ear." 


*  Mute  is  pleaaed  to  call  snoring  a  *'  song  ** — oUfuando  dormUat  Hcmimt, 


1^46.] 


with  lUuitrations/rom  Familiar  ttisiory. 


23ft 


of  course,  required ;  and,  though  it 
wrung  Stim*8  proud  heart  to  be  even 
thus  far  indebted  to  his  brother^s 
friend,  he  found  himself  obliged  to 
say,  that  Mr.  Crawford,  if  he  choee 
to  inquire  there,  would  have  hia 
doubts  solved.  The  inquiry  was 
made  accordingly.  The  answer  to  it 
proved  more  than  satis&ctory,  and 
Stim  forthwith  removed  himself  and 
his  sac  de  niut  to  the  school-house  in 
Cross  Street. 

His  first  friends  had  lost  sight  of 
Stim  for  nearly  three  weeks,  when 
Mr.  Cravrford^s  inquiry  informed  them 
of  his  new  place  of  abode.  Once  more 
the  clerk  from  the  Foreign  Office 
found  him  out,  and  pressed  his  ser- 
vices upon  him,  offering  to  forward 
his  views  with  all  his  influence,  pro- 
vided the  young  man  would  state 
them,  and  begging  of  him  to  return 
again  and  partake  of  his  hospitalities. 
The  latter  proposition  Stim  coldly 
declined,  but  said,  that  if  the  woras 
of  friendship  to  which  he  had  listened 
were  sincere,  their  sincerity  might  be 
proved  by  procuring  for  him  a  com- 
mission in  the  army.  The  clerk  of 
the  Foreign  Office  looked  aghast. 
He  knew  that  of  all  positions  under 
the  Sim  that  at  which  his  prot^i 
now  aspired  was  the  one  for  which 
he  was  least  fitted ;  and  he,  therefore, 
in  a  hurried  manner,  brought  their 
conference  to  a  close,  and  departed. 

Great  was  Stim*s  iudignation  when 
he  perceived  that  his  proposal  met 
with  so  little  encouragement.  He 
refrained,  to  be  sure,  from  pouring 
out  the  expressions  of  his  fury  on  the 
heads  of  tnose  about  him ;  indeed,  it 
was  a  remarkable  trait  in  this  strange 
man*s  character,  that  among  his  in- 
feriors, or  those  who  appeared  to 
admit  that  they  were  sucn,  he  was 

fmtle  and  considerate  in  the  extreme, 
ut  he  went  about,  after  the  business 
of  the  school  was  over,  like  one  de- 
mented, and  roused  in  no  trifling 
degree  both  the  curiosity  and  the 
fears  of  his  employer. 

Time  ran  on,  and  with  the  wear 
and  tear  of  a  school  life  Stim  put  up 
wonderfully.  Without  trying  to  con  - 
dliate  the  boys,  he  managed,  never- 
theless, to  secure  their  affections; 
being,  in  trath,  both  a  scholar  and  an 
accomplished  gentleman,  they  re- 
spected to  the  taU.  as  much  as  thev 
esteemed  him.  It  was  not  so  witn 
Mr.  Crawford  or  any  member  of  hds 
VOL.  xxua,  von  czciv. 


fkmily.  Constant  bickerings  oecurred 
there ;  constant  slights  were  assumed 
and  resented,  sometimes  with  an 
energy  which  it  was  difficult  to  with- 
stand, and  always  most  offonsivdy. 
Nevertheless,  the  prudent  pedagogue, 
havit^  made  a  capital  biur^in  with 
his  teacher,  threw  out  no  hmts  as  to 
the  necessity  of  a  separation.  He 
waged  a  war  of  words  as  well  as  he 
could,  but  took  good  care  neither  to 
threaten  nor  to  understand  such 
threats  on  the  other  side  as  had 
any  reference  to  a  rupture. 

Things  were  in  this  state  when 
some  ofthe  clergy  of  the  neighbour- 
hood, having  heard  a  rumour  of 
Stirn's  acquirements  and  social  posi- 
tion, made  advances  to  him.  He 
received  them,  as  was  his  w(mt, 
coldly;  and  looked  and  spoke  as  if 
he  suspected  that,  under  every  pro- 
fession of  interest  on  their  side,  mere 
lurked  a  design  to  insult.  Hence, 
when  it  was  proposed  to  support  him 
at  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  and  so  to 
rear  him  for  the  service  of  the  Eng- 
lish Church,  though  he  evidently 
relished  the  idea,  his  uncontrollable 
jealousy  threw  the  whole  fabric  to 
the  ground,  just  as  it  seemed  ap- 
proacning  its  completion.  The  rec- 
tor of  St.  Anne*B  happening  to  say 
something  in  his  presence  as  to  the 
necessitv  oi  exercising  a  strict  eco- 
nomy, he  covered  him  with  abuse, 
demanding  whether  or  not  it  was  ex- 
pected that  he  should  look  upon 
himself  as  a  pauper,  and  telling  the 
reverend  gentleman  that,  if  this  was 
his  purpose,  he,  Stim,  would  have  no 
fnrtner  connexion  with  him.  There 
was  an  end,  of  course,  to  that  pl«ti ; 
and  the  young  man  continued  to 
drudge  on  as  an  usher,  at  a  wretch- 
edly inadequate  amount  of  remune- 
ration. 

It  were  long  to  tell  how  often  and 
how  absurdly  he  permitted  his  tem- 
per to  get  the  better  of  him.  If  any 
one  exhibited  an  inclination  to  to 
kind  to  him,  that  individual  was 
sure,  sooner  or  later,  to  be  grossly 
insulted.  Nor  was  he  at  all  particu- 
lar as  to  the  nation  or  kindred  ofthe 
parties  whom  he  suspected  of  seekinR 
to  lower  him  in  his  own  esteem  and 
in  that  of  others.  It  is  told  of  him, 
that  having  ffone,  on  a  certain  occfr* 
sion,  to  spend  the  day  with  a  Dutch 
merchant  at  Muswell  Hill,  where 
he  was  to  be  joined  at  the  dinner* 

R 


240 


The  Philoiophy  of  Crtme^ 


[February, 


hour  by  Mr.  Crawford  and  a  Prus- 
sian, he  managed,  ere  the  arrival  of 
these  gentlemen,  to  conduct  himself 
with  such  extreme  indecorum,  that 
Mynheer  von  Dunk  caused  his  ser- 
vants to  thrust  him  to  the  door.  He 
returned  home  furious,  and  could  with 
difficulty  be  dissuaded  from  believing 
that  Mr.  Crawford  and  his  companion 
were  not  the  real  authors  of  the 
wrong  which  he  had  suffered. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Stirn 
began  to  find  himself  drawn  into  a 
sort  of  intimacy  with  a  surscon  of 
the  name  of  Matthews,  who  hved  in 
Hatton  Garden,  and  attended  Mr. 
Crawford's  pupils  when  they  were 
sick.  Mr.  Matthews  apnears  to  have 
been  a  coarse-minded  and  selfish  man, 
who,  perceiving  of  what  stuff  Stirn 
was  made,  desired  to  secure  him  as 
a  teacher  of  music  to  his  wife  and 
daughter,  and  as  a  classical  tutor  for 
himself.  His  scheme  was  to  get  the 
young  man  into  his  family,  by  pro- 
mising a  liberal  salary,  from  which, 
however,  he  intended  to  make  large 
deductions  under  the  head  of  expenses 
of  board ;  and  he  set  about  it  with 
the  degree  of  art  which  was  neces- 
sary in  such  a  case  to  ensure  success. 
He  began  by  insinuating  all  manner 
of  evil  against  Mr.  Crawford ;  as  that 
he  knew  how  completely  the  pro- 
sperity of  his  school  was  owing  to 
tne  eminent  qualities  of  his  assistant, 
Tet  that  he  was  mean  enough  to 
keep  the  author  of  his  own  fortunes 
in  a  state  of  poverty,  and,  of  course, 
of  dependence. 

He  had  struck  the  chord  which  was 
ever  ready  to  vibrate  and  produce 
harsh  and  dissonant  music  in  the 
mind  of  his  victim.  Stirn*s  manner 
to  Crawford  underwent  an  entire 
change.  Instead  of  yielding  to  alter- 
nate bursts  of  violence,  and  bitter 
contention,  he  grew  cold  and  haughty 
throughout;  and  Crawford  became, 
in  consequence,  stern  and  distant  to- 
wards him,  and  at  last  told  him 
that  he  kept  him  on  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  he  felt  for  his  con- 
dition as  a  fiiendless  man  in  a  strange 
land.  As  might  be  expected,  Stirn 
repeated  what  Mr.  Crawford  had 
said  to  his  friend  Matthews,  and 
Matthews  lost  no  time  in  driving  the 
wedge  home.  **  It  was  a  base  false- 
ItAAd.  There  was  no  generosity  of 
'*  the  bad  man  that  uttered 
lividual  possessed  of  so 


many  accomplishments  as  Stirn  could 
not  fail  to  make  his  own  way  in 
London ;  and  Crawford,  knowing  this, 
stood  between  hun  and  his  advance* 
ment  for  his  own  vile  purposes.  He 
(Matthews)  was  a  poor  man  in  com- 
parison with  Crawford,  yet,  if  he 
could  persuade  such  an  accomplished 

geutlenian  to  become  a  member  of 
is  family,  and  give  up  a  portion  of 
his  time  to  the  instruction  of  its 
members,  he  would  think  that  he 
had  made  an  excellent  bargain  if  he 
offered  three  times  the  amount  of 
salary  which  Crawford  was  under- 
stood to  pay."  Stirn  started.  The 
idea  of  being  treated  as  an  article  of 
barter,  and  so  bid  for,  seems  to  have 
come  across  him  now  for  the  first 
time ;  and  he  walked  away  from 
Matthews  with  the  air  of  one  who 
felt  that  he  had  been  grossly  in- 
sulted, yet  knew  not  how  to  revenge 
the  insult. 

Matthews  was  determined  to  carry 
his  point ;  and  being  pretty  well 
aware  of  the  disposition  of  his  quarry, 
held  aloof  for  a  season,  and  made  as 
if  he  erieved  at  having  spoken  out  so 
plainly.  Meanwhile,  nowever,  he 
managed  that  Mr.  Crawford  should 
be  led  to  believe  that  there  was 
a  negotiation  on  foot ;  and  this 
person  being,  in  point  of  fact,  as  sel- 
fish as  the  other,  forthwith  changed 
his  tactics  in  regard  to  Stirn.  He 
tried  to  win  him  back  to  their  for- 
mer intimacy ;  spoke  of  the  emi- 
nent services  which  he  had  rendered 
him ;  and  concluded  by  offering  to 
raise  his  salary,  provided  he  would 
consent  to  abide  at  the  school.  Nei- 
ther did  he  stop  there.  He  went  to 
Matthews,  cautioned  him  against  re* 
ceiving  an  insane  person  into  his  fa- 
mily ;  and  in  so  doing  overshot  the 
mark  effectually.  AU  that  he  said 
was  repeated,  with  sundry  additions, 
to  the  subject  of  it ;  and  Stim^  boil- 
ing with  indignation,  caused  his 
clothes  to  be  removed  from  the 
school,  and  took  possession  of  the 
apartment  in  Matthews*  house  which 
had  been  prepared  for  him. 

The  lapse  of  a  few  days  sufficed  to 

Erove  that  Matthews  and  he  might 
ope  in  vain  to  get  on  amicably  to* 
eether.  The  former,  while  wiling 
him  into  a  change  of  residence,  had 
offered  to  enter  into  a  legal  bond  for 
the  fulfilment  of  certain  conditions. 
The  latter,  ^vith  all  the  chivalrous 


1846.] 


with  Illustrations  Jram  Familiar  History. 


241 


feeling  which  in  ;pQint  of  &ct  apper- 
tained to  him,  rejected  the  proposi* 
tion.  He  wanted  no  other  bond  than 
the  word  of  a  man  of  honour ;  indeed 
all  that  went  beyond  this  was  a  bur- 
den. It  does  not  exactly  appear 
upon  what  ground  a  difference  be- 
tween the  surgeon  and  his  inmate 
first  arose,  but  there  had  been  many 
such ;  when  an  accident  so  trivial  as 
scarcely  to  be  credited,  were  not  the 
facts  of  the  case  well  ascertained, 
blew  the  spark  all  at  once  into  a 
flame.  It  happened  one  day,  that 
Stim  had  stayra  abroad  till  after  the 
usual  hour  of  dinner,  and  on  his  re- 
turn found  in  the  parlour  two  or 
three  broken  pieces  of  bread  and  but- 
ter upon  a  plate.  The  absurd  yonUi 
came  at  once  to  the  conclusion,  that 
these  crumbs  were  set  out  as  viands 
sufficiently  dainty  for  a  beggar  and  a 
foreigner.  He  became  penectly  out- 
rageous at  the  thought;  and  rush' 
ing  to  the  door  of  Matthews*  bed- 
room, endeavoured  to  burst  it  open ; 
and  called  upon  him,  if  he  had  the 
courage  and  feeling  of  a  gentleman, 
to  give  him  satisfaction.  Now  Mat- 
thews chanced  that  evening  to  be 
from  home,  and  his  wife  was  alone 
in  the  chamber ;  and  in  great  alarm 
told  him  so,  entreating  that  he  would 
not  disturb  the  neighbourhood ;  but 
he  refused  to  credit  her,  and  con- 
tinued to  batter  the  chamber-door, 
till  the  hall-door  suddenly  opened, 
and  Mr.  Matthews  himseu  entered. 
A  hurried  explanation  now  took 
place.  Mr.  ana  Mrs.  Matthews  both 
asseverating  that  the  broken  bread 
had  been  left  by  the  child  where  the 
lodger  found  it  at  the  conclusion  of 
her  supper ;  while  Stim  persisted  in 
the  assertion  that  his  poverty  had 
been  rebuked,  and  that  he  would 
make  this  trick  a  dear  one  to  the 
party  by  whom  it  had  been  played. 
It  appears,  however,  that  by  degrees 
his  better  judgment  gained  the  as- 
cendancy, for  he  went  to  bed  at 
length;  and  on  the  following  day 
called  upon  Mr.  Crawford,  to  whom 
he  gave  a  detailed  account  of  the 
whole  proceeding,  interlarding  it  with 
much  censure  of  himself  and  his  ex- 
ceeding folly. 

But  the  evil  was  done.  A  breach 
had  been  made  between  the  parties 
which  would  not  admit  of  remedial 
measures ;  and  every  succeeding  day 
tended  only  to  widen  it.    Strange 


BtorieB  were  told  on  boUindes.  With 
tears  in  his  eyes,  Stim  came  again  to 
Crawford,  and  complained  that  Mat- 
thews chaiged  him  with  having  en- 
deavoured to  corrupt  the  chastity  of 
his  wife, — a  crime  of  whidi  the  young 
man  declared  himself  incapable  <n 
entertaining  the  idea.  It  appeared, 
also,  that  Matthews  gave  him  warn- 
ing to  quit  his  house,  which  the 
young  man,  as  much,  perhaps,  in  the 
spirit  of  perverseness  as  because  he 
really  did  not  know  whither  to  be- 
take himself,  refused  to  acknowledge. 
Whatever  Crawford*s  behaviour  may 
have  been,  while  yet  Stim  was  an 
inmate  of  his  own  family,  he  seems 
on  the  present  occasion  to  have  dealt 
very  kindly  by  him.  He  consulted 
a  magistrate  on  his  behalf,  courudled 
him  to  proceed  cautiously,  and  would 
haye  done  more  had  it  been  possible 
to  serve  effectually  one  so  entirely 
misled  by  a  morbid  sensitiveness. 
Meanwhile,  Matthews  told  his  UJe 
of  outrage  and  indecency  in  like 
manner.  Moreover,  he  also  con- 
sulted a  magistrate,  who,  having  been 
assured  that  there  was  no  written 
agreement  between  them,  told  the 
suigeon  that  he  might  turn  the  of- 
fensive inmate  out  of  hb  house 
whenever  he  chose.  And  to  turn 
Stim  out  into  the  streets  Matthews 
made  up  his  mind. 

Having  arrived  at  this  determina- 
tion, Matthews,  acting  still  under  the 
advice  of  a  magistrate,  arranged  his 
measures  so  as  to  obviate  the  risk  of 
yiolence,  should  both  remonstrance 
and  command  fail  to  induce  a  volun- 
tary retreat  on  the  part  of  Stim. 
He  engaged  two  friends  and  a  con- 
stable to  be  at  his  beck  when  he 
should  send  for  them;  and  taking 
advantage  of  the  temporary  absence 
from  home  of  his  lodger,  he,  with 
the  assistance  of  these  parties,  ga- 
thered Stim*8  clothes  and  other  bajg;- 
gage  together,  and  placed  them  in 
the  passage,  near  the  street  door. 
The  confederates  then  sat  down  in 
the  parlour  to  await  the  issue  of  an 
adventure  which  all  seemed  to  con- 
sider perilous.  Meanwhile,  Stim  was 
again  with  Crawford,  who  advised 
him  on  this  occasion  to  withdraw 
voluntarily  from  Matthews*  iamily, 
as  bein^  the  only  step  which  could 
place  hun  in  a  just  light  before  the 
world,  as  well  as  relieve  others  from 
veiy  painful  suspidonB  and  anno^T" 


334  A  FaUe  Alarm.  [February, 

Or  hair  the  secrets  of  the  talking  dream, 

Or  tell  who  sanff  the  songs*  that  wives  demean. 

As  wiling  thus  Uie  night,  she  seem*d  to  hear 

A  knockmg  noise  without — so  very  near. 

It  louder  grew ;  she  waked  her  fellow  qniek. 

She  heard,  "*Tis  thieves  the  kitchen  window  break  !** 

Fast  to  the  pastor's  room  like  doves  they  fly, 

"  Thieves,  master,  thieves !"  the  pastor  rubb'd  his  eye. 

"Who — ^what — ^where — when— which ! **   out  from  bed  he 

jump'd, 
And  on  the  landing  on  all  hands  he  plump*d. 
This  roused  the  house,  the  dreadful  panic  flew. 
All  from  their  beds  rush*d  out  like  snipwreck'd  crew, 
Shivering  and  shrinking  all ;  but  one  eye  tum*d 
Upon  the  pastor,  and  his  courage  bum*cl. 
"Fall  in !"  he  cried  aloud,  "each  maid  now  take 
A  taper  in  her  hand  for  safety  sake.** 
Then  from  the  scabbard  which  adom*d  the  wall 
He  drew  a  rusty  blade,  and  'fore  them  all 
B^gg'd  pardon  from  above  for  blood  that  might 
Flow  from  that  blade  that  melancholy  night. 
A  prudent  leader !  he  his  troop  reviewed, 
As  there  array'd  in  uniform  they  stood. 
White  was  the  dress,  the  cheek,  the  trembling  hand — 
From  head  to  foot  it  was  a  milk-white  band ; 
But  still  they  follow'd  onward,  near  the  spot 
Where  noise  was  heard,  and  where  was  laid  the  plot. 
In  manner  firm  the  pastor  challenged  loud. 
In  voice  that  spoke  of  death,  without  a  shroud — 
"Who's  there?    Why  this  ado?    Who  breaks  the  law  ?- 
With  tap-tap- tap  the  answer  caiiie — "Caw !  Caw !" 
"  Ah,  Jack,  you  rogue !  'tis  you !"  "  Ah,  Jack,  you  dear !" 
Exclaim'd  the  Amazons  in  fVont  and  rear. 
The  daw  replied,  "'Gainst  me  the  door  was  shut : 
To  be  neglected  is  a  cruel  cut — 
More  cruel  still,  when  in  the  heart  we  see 
Another  dwelling  where  we  used  to  be." 
Now  once  again  the  cheeks  with  blushes  bloom, 
And  back  the  maidens  rush  within  their  room. 
And,  strange  I  that  she  who  arm'd  the  breast  for  flght, 
Was  now  observed  to  be  the  first  in  flight 
"  Stop !  to  conclude,"  the  pastor  spake  with  stress, 
"  This  trying  night  a  monu  doth  express. 

MORAL. 

Learn,  timid  youths,  from  this  eventful  story, 
That  valour  is  the  safest  road  to  glory ; 
And,  maidens,  mind !  raise  not  your  nope  or  fear 
On  ev'ry  word  that's  whisper'd  m  the  car." 


*  Muie  it  pleased  to  call  snoring  a  <*  song  ** — aUquando  dormiiat  H(m$rM, 


]846.] 


with  Illuitraiioni  from  Familiar  History. 


241 


feelii^  which  in  point  of  fiict  apper^ 
tained  to  him,  rejected  the  proposi- 
tion. He  wanted  no  other  bond  than 
the  word  of  a  man  of  honour ;  indeed 
all  that  went  beyond  this  was  a  bur- 
den. It  does  not  exactly  appear 
upon  what  ground  a  difiPerenoe  be- 
tween the  surgeon  and  his  inmate 
first  arose,  but  there  had  been  many 
such ;  when  an  accident  so  trivial  as 
scarcely  to  be  credited,  were  not  the 
fiicts  of  the  case  well  ascertained, 
blew  the  spark  all  at  once  into  a 
fiame.  It  happened  one  day,  that 
Stim  had  stayra  abroad  till  after  the 
usual  hour  of  dinner,  and  on  h»  re- 
turn found  in  the  parlour  two  or 
three  broken  pieces  of  br^and  but- 
ter upon  a  plate.  The  absurd  youth 
came  at  once  to  the  conclusion,  that 
these  crumbs  were  set  out  as  viands 
sufSciently  dainty  for  a  b^s;ar  and  a 
foreigner.  He  became  pemctly  out- 
rageous at  the  thouffht;  and  rush- 
ing to  the  door  of  Matthews*  bed- 
room, endeavoured  to  burst  it  open ; 
and  called  upon  him,  if  he  haa  the 
courage  and  feeling  of  a  gentleman, 
to  give  him  satisfaction.  Now  Mat- 
thews chanced  that  evening  to  be 
from  home,  and  his  wife  was  alone 
in  the  chamber ;  and  in  great  alarm 
told  him  so,  entreating  that  he  would 
not  disturb  the  neighbourhood ;  but 
he  refused  to  cre£t  her,  and  con- 
tinued to  batter  the  chamber-door, 
till  the  hall-door  suddenly  opened, 
and  Mr.  Matthews  himseu  entered. 
A  hurried  explanation  now  took 
place.  Mr.  ana  Mrs.  Matthews  both 
asseverating  that  the  broken  bread 
had  been  IdTt  by  the  child  where  the 
lodger  found  it  at  the  conclusion  of 
her  supper ;  while  Stim  persisted  in 
the  assertion  that  his  poverty  had 
been  rebuked,  and  that  he  would 
make  this  trick  a  dear  one  to  the 
party  by  whom  it  had  been  played. 
It  appears,  however,  that  bv  degrees 
his  better  judgment  gainea  the  as- 
cendancy, for  he  went  to  bed  at 
length;  and  on  the  foUowing  day 
calwd  upon  Mr.  Crawford,  to  whom 
he  save  a  detailed  account  of  the 
whole  proceeding,  interlarding  it  with 
much  censure  of  himself  and  his  ex- 
ceeding folly. 

But  the  evil  was  done.  A  breach 
had  been  made  between  the  parties 
which  would  not  admit  of  remedial 
measures ;  and  every  succeeding  day 
tended  only  to  widen  it.    Strange 


stories  were  told  on  both  sides.  With 
tears  in  his  eyes,  Stim  came  again  to 
Crawford,  and  complained  that  Mat- 
thews chaiged  him  with  having  en- 
deavoured to  corrupt  the  chastity  of 
his  wife, — a  crime  or  which  the  young 
man  declared  himself  incapable  of 
entertaining  the  idea.  It  appeared, 
also,  that  Matthews  gaye  him  warn- 
ing to  quit  his  house,  which  the 
young  man,  as  much,  perhaps,  in  the 
spirit  of  perverseness  as  because  he 
really  did  not  know  whither  to  be- 
take himself,  refused  to  acknowledge. 
Whateyer  Crawford*s  behaviour  may 
have  been,  while  yet  Stim  was  aa 
inmate  of  his  own  family,  he  seems 
on  the  present  occasion  to  have  dealt 
yery  kmdly  by  him.  He  consulted 
a  magistrate  on  his  behalf,  counselled 
him  to  proceed  cautiously,  and  would 
have  done  more  had  it  been  possible 
to  serve  effectually  one  so  entirely 
misled  by  a  morbid  sensitiveness. 
Meanwhile,  Matthews  told  his  tsle 
of  outrage  and  indecency  in  like 
manner.  Moreover,  he  also  con- 
sulted a  magistrate,  who,  having  been 
assured  that  there  was  no  ivritten 
agreement  between  them,  told  the 
sur|[eon  that  he  might  turn  the  of- 
fensive inmate  out  of  his  house 
whenever  he  chose.  And  to  turn 
Stim  out  into  the  streets  Matthews 
made  up  his  mind. 

Having  arrived  at  this  determina- 
tion, Matthews,  acting  still  under  the 
advice  of  a  magistrate,  arranged  his 
measures  so  as  to  obviate  the  risk  of 
yiolence,  should  both  remonstrance 
and  command  fail  to  induce  a  volun- 
tary retreat  on  the  part  of  Stim. 
He  engaged  two  firiends  and  a  con- 
stable to  be  at  his  beck  when  he 
should  send  for  them;  and  taking 
advantage  of  the  temporary  absence 
from  home  of  his  loager,  he,  with 
the  assistance  of  these  parties,  ga- 
thered Stim*s  clothes  ana  other  ba|^- 
gage  together,  and  placed  them  m 
the  passage,  near  the  street  door. 
The  confederates  then  sat  down  in 
the  parlour  to  await  the  issue  of  an 
adventure  which  all  seemed  to  con- 
nder  perilous.  Meanwhile,  Stim  was 
again  with  Crawford,  who  advised 
him  on  this  occasion  to  withdraw 
voluntarily  firom  Matthews*  iiunily, 
as  being  the  only  step  which  could 
place  him  in  a  just  light  before  the 
world,  as  well  as  relieve  others  from 
very  painful  suspicions  and  anno^r* 


Ui 


The  Pkihsophy  of  Crimpy 


[February, 


aneefl.  It  was  good  advice,  and 
lyffered  in  an  honest  spirit ;  but  it 
operated  on  the  suspicious  temper  of 
Stim  like  a  spark  on  a  train  of  gun- 
powder. He  overwhelmed  Crawford 
with  abuse,  accused  him  of  having 
conspired  with  Matthews  to  ruin  his 
character,  and  drive  him  with  shame 
out  of  England;  and  threatened  if 
he  spoke  another  word  on  the  sub- 
ject, that  it  should  be  his  last.  He 
then  sat  down,  and  for  a  good  while 
continued  silent.  But  when  Craw- 
ford, imagining  that  he  had  become 
more  composed  was  about  to  reiterate 
the  advice  which  had  been  so  ill  taken, 
the  Unhappy  youth  gave  way  with 
increased  violence  to  his  anger,  de- 
claring that  he  neither  could  nor 
would  survive  the  loss  of  his  honour. 
"You  tell  mc,''  cried  he,  "that  if 
I  refuse  to  go  quietly  Matthews  will 
turn  me  to  the  door.  Let  him  try 
it.  He  will  never  so  insult  another 
human  being." 

It  was  to  no  purpose  that  Craw- 
ford strove  to  pacify  the  young  man. 
He  would  listen  neither  to  reason 
nor  remonstrance,  so  Crawford  held 
his  peace. 

The  clock  of  St.  Anne's  struck 
eleven,  and  Stim  hearing  it  started 
up.  It  ^vas  a  clear,  starlight  night, 
in  the  month  of  August,  and  the  air 
warm  and  soft :  so  Mr.  Crawford 
made  no  opposition  to  his  goinff 
forth,  though  he  had  neither  cloak 
nor  wrapper.  Indeed  the  school- 
master was  relieved  by  the  departure 
of  his  quondam  usher,  of  whose  sanity 
he  had  begun  of  late  to  entertain 
serious  doubts.  Neither  was  Mat- 
thews at  all  put  out  when  a  knock 
at  the  street  door  gave  notice  that 
the  decisive  moment  was  come.  ^lat- 
thews  himself,  however,  did  not  open 
the  door :  he  left  one  of  his  friends 
to  perform  that  office;  and  heard 
witnout  surprise  the  fierce  demand, 
which  sounded  through  the  hall 
into  the  parlour, — 

"  Who  has  done  this  ?" 

"  I  have  done  it,*'  cried  Matthews, 
without  moving  fVom  his  seat.  "  You 
told  me  you  would  not  leave  my 
house  except  by  force ;  and  now,  I 
am  resolved  that  you  shall  go ! "  ^ 

In  an  instant  Stim  rushed  into 
the  parlour.  There  were  no  terms 
of  abuse  which  he  did  not  heap  upon 
the  surgeon,  calling  him  among  other 
base  thmgs  a  coward ;  and  assert- 


ing that  he  would  not  have  dared  to 
speak  or  act  as  he  had  done,  but 
for  the  presence  of  the  parties  whom 
he  had  called  on  to  protect  him. 
Matthews,  however,  took  the  mat- 
ter coolly;  and  having  waited  till 
the  young  man*s  breatn  failed,  beg- 
ged of  him  to  take  a  class  of  wine 
?therc  were  bottles  and  glasses  on 
the  table),  and  not  to  disturb  him- 
self unnecessarily.  "  It  can*t  be 
helped,  David.  We  couldn't  get  on 
together,  and  it's  best  to  part;  but 
let  us  part  as  friends." 

Stim  made  no  reply,  but  looking 
wildly  round  the  room  exclaimed,  as 
if  to  himself,  "  I  will  play  my  last 
tune."    The  reader  >vill  observe  that 
Stim  was  an  enthusiast  in  music. 
At  all  hours  in  the  night  and  day 
he  would  seat  himself  at  the  harp- 
sichord,    and    bring    forth    tones, 
composed  as  his  fingers  swept  the 
keys,    sometimes   bold,    sometimes 
touchingly  plaintive.    His  reading, 
likewise,  being  chiefly  among  the 
poets,  appeared  not  unfrequently  to 
work  him  into  a  state  of  high  ex- 
citement ;  whereas,  for  mathematics, 
or  even  for  the  graver  study  of  his- 
tory, he  had  little  taste.    Accord- 
ingly, he  sat  down  this  night,  and 
drew  from  the  instmmcnt  strains  of 
such  surpassing  melody,  that  the  re- 
solute men  who  had  assembled  to  push 
him  into  the  streets  held  their  breath 
to  listen.    He  ceased;  and  turning 
abmptly  round,  said  to  Matthews,— 
"  I  want  but  half-a-^inea.    You 
may  do  what  you  will   with   my 
books  and  clothes." 

"Tell  me  what  you  mean  to  do 
with  half-a-guinea,  replied  Mat- 
thews, "  and!  will  lend  it  to  you.'* 

Upon  this,  Stim  took  from  his 
pocket  some  loose  money  and  began 
to  count  it. 

"  No,"  he  then  exclaimed,  "  I  have 
as  much  as  I  want.  Do  you  know 
that  I  spoke  to  a  man  to-day,  who 
will  write  your  life  and  mine? 

"  Have  a  care  what  you  say,"  re- 
nlied  Matthews.  "This  is  not  the 
first  time  you've  held  lan^age  to 
me,  for  which,  if  I  were  vindictive, 
I  would  lay  you  by  the  heels." 
''What  have  I  said?" 
"You  said,"  replied  Matthews, 
"that  Crawford  might  thank  God 
for  having  got  rid  of  you  as  he  did, 
but  that  you  would  nave  your  rc- 
yeng«  of  me." 


1B4&] 


with  lUuiiraHom  from  Familiar  History. 


249 


Stim  roee  from  the  music-stody 
adyanced  towards  Matthews,  and  de- 
sired him  to  give  him  his  hand; 
which,  when  ALitthews  did,  he  took 
it  between  both  of  his  own,  and 
wrung  it.  "  You  are  right!*'  he  ex- 
claimed, ^*I  have  said  the  words 
which  you  repeat ;  and  mark,  here 
is  my  hand  that  I  mil  hare  revenge 
ofvou!'' 

Ue  then  threw  the  hand  of  Mat- 
thews from  him;  and  followed  by 
the  constable,  who,  however,  made 
no  effort  to  arrest  him,  walked  out 
into  the  street. 

Where  this  wayward  and  un- 
haj^y  young  man  passed  the  nk^ht 
does  not  appear.  Probably  he  wal£ed 
the  streets,  or  went  forth  into  tho 
fields,  for  in  those  days  the  green 
fields  were  not,  as  they  are  now,  a 
ffood  day's  journey  from  Hatton 
Garden ;  but  however  this  may  be, 
neither  that  nieht  nor  throughout 
the  fbllowing  day  was  he  seen  by 
any  of  his  acquaintances.  On  Friday, 
the  15th,  however,  Mr.  Crawford 
met  him;  and  compassionating  the 
dejected  and  melancholy  air  of  the 
youth,  carried  him  home  with  him 
to  dinner.  While  the  meal  went 
forward,  no  man's  behaviour  could 
be  more  sedate  or  rational  than  that 
of  Stirn;  but  just  after  the  cloth 
had  been  removed,  he  broke  out  into 
an  abrupt  tirade  against  Matthews, 
speaking  loud,  and  with  a  rapid  ar- 
ticulation, "Not  onlv  an  adulterer, 
but  a  thief!  He  called  mc  a  thief; 
can  I  be  expected  to  bear  that  ?" 

So  saying,  he  rose,  and  went  awa^. 
The  same  evening  Crawford  agam 
met,  or  rather  overtook  him  going 
down  Cross  Street ;  and  the  expres- 
sion of  his  countenance  was  so  woe- 
warn,  that  the  schoolmaster's  heart 
bled  for  him.  It  appeared  to  him 
that  he  certainly  meditated  self-de- 
struction, which  it  was  said,  indeed, 
that  he  had  attempted  unsuccess- 
fully about  six  months  previously. 
In  the  hope  of  diverting  him  from 
sQch  a  subject  of  contemplation, 
Crawford  began  to  speak  of  the 
Bible,  in  which  he  once  took  great 
delight,  and  of  the  comforts  which 
arise  from  religion ;  but  other 
thoughts  were  in  Stim's  mind.  The 
point  of  honour  was  that  which  he 
wished  to  settle ;  '^  For,"  continued  hev 
^*  if  we  come  short  of  that,  of  what 
ii9D«fit  will  religioa  be  to  us  ?  Am  I 


Bot  an  outcast  ?  Who  will  entertain 
an  adulterer  and  a  thief?" 

"No,  no,"  replied  Crawford,  "here 
the  tide  may  have  set  against  you ; 
but  England  is  not  the  world.  Why 
not  return  home  to  your  brother? 
you  will  find  shelter,  and  a  new  iield 
of  exertion  there." 

"To  my  brother  I"  said  Stirn. 
"  No.  Neither  my  brother  nor  my 
country  can  receive  me  disgraced  aa 
I  am  with  the  imputation  of  crimes 
so  heinous." 

As  he  uttered  these  words  he  burst 
into  tears ;  and  Crawford,  no  longer 
able  to  sustain  the  pressure  of  such  a 
conference,  quitted  him. 

They  had  not  been  long  parted 
ere  a  growing  persuasion  that  Stirn 
meant  to  destroy  himself  induoed  this 
man,  whose  feelings  were  neither  de- 
licate by  nature  nor  much  refined 
through  culture,  to  go  again  in  search 
of  the  youth.  He  found  him  in 
Owen's  Coffee-house,  and  the  con- 
versation fell  at  once  into  the  former 
channel,  only  the  young  man  ap- 
peared upon  the  whole  to  be  more 
composed,  though  he  started  from 
time  to  time  as  the  door  opened,  and 
declared  that  in  every  one  who  en- 
tered he  expected  to  see  Mr.  Mat- 
thews. Thus  they  sat  together  till 
about  ten  at  night,  when  Stirn  rose 
and  avowed  his  determination  of  go- 
ing to  an  ale-house  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, which  Matthews  and  his 
friends  were  in  the  habit  of  frequent- 
ing. It  was  to  no  purpose  that 
Crawford  urged  him  to  return  to  his 
lodgings  and  go  to  bed.  The  only 
answer  which  he  got  was  a  squeeze  of 
the  hand,  so  enen;etio  that  it  well- 
nigh  brought  the  blood  from  the  tips 
of  nis  fingers,  after  which  they  quitted 
Owen's  together  and  proceeded  to- 
wards the  house  of  which  Stirn  had 
spoken. 

At  the  door  of  that  house  the 
friends  (for  such  they  had  now  be- 
come) parted,  Crawford  making  the 
best  of^  his  way  to  Hatton  Garden, 
while  Stirn  entered.  He  found  a 
good  many  persons  in  the  coffee- 
room,  and  among  the  rest  Matthews, 
with  two  others,  who  occupied  a 
table  apart.  Towards  it  Stirn  im- 
mediately ailvanced,  and  took  a  scat 
beside  them.  It  is  necessary  to  state 
that,  previously  to  this  meeting,  Stirn 
had  seat  Matthews  a  challenge  to 
fight  a  duel,  whieh  the  latter  de- 


ui 


The  Phihsophy  of  Crimiy 


[February, 


ftneefl.  It  WM  good  advioe,  and 
eifettd  in  an  honest  spirit ;  but  it 
operated  on  the  suspicious  temper  of 
Stim  like  a  spark  on  a  train  of  gun- 
powder. He  overwhelmed  Crawford 
with  abuse,  accused  him  of  harit^ 
conspired  with  Matthews  to  ruin  his 
character,  and  drive  him  with  shame 
out  of  England;  and  threatened  if 
he  spoke  another  word  on  the  sub- 
ject, that  it  should  be  his  last.  He 
then  sat  down,  and  for  a  good  while 
continued  silent.  But  when  Craw- 
ford, imagining  that  he  had  become 
more  composed  was  about  to  reiterate 
the  advice  which  had  been  so  ill  taken, 
the  unhappy  youth  gave  way  with 
increased  violence  to  his  anger,  de- 
claring that  he  neither  could  nor 
would  survive  the  loss  of  his  honour. 
"  You  tell  mc,''  cried  he,  "  that  if 
I  refu5?e  to  go  quietly  Matthews  will 
turn  me  to  the  door.  Let  him  try 
it.  He  will  never  so  insult  another 
human  being." 

It  was  to  no  purpose  that  Craw- 
ford strove  to  pacify  the  young  man. 
He  would  listen  neither  to  reason 
nor  remonstrance,  so  Crawford  held 
his  peace. 

llic  clock  of  St.  Anne*8  struck 
eleven,  and  Stim  hearing  it  started 
up.  It  was  a  clear,  starlight  night, 
in  the  month  of  August,  and  the  air 
warm  and  soft  :  so  Mr.  Crawford 
made  no  opposition  to  his  goins 
forth,  though  he  had  neither  cloak 
nor  wrapper.  Indeed  the  school- 
master was  relieved  by  the  departure 
of  his  quondam  usher,  of  whose  sanity 
he  had  begun  of  late  to  entertain 
serious  doubts.  Neither  was  Mat- 
thews at  all  put  out  when  a  knock 
at  the  street  door  gave  notice  that 
the  decisive  moment  was  come.  Mat- 
thews himself,  however,  did  not  open 
the  door :  he  left  one  of  his  friends 
to  perform  that  office;  and  heard 
without  surprise  the  fierce  demand, 
which  sounded  through  the  hall 
into  the  parlour, — 
"  Who  has  done  this  ?*' 
"  I  have  done  it,"  cried  Matthews, 
without  moving  from  his  seat.  "  You 
told  me  you  would  not  leave  my 
house  except  by  force ;  and  now,  I 
am  resolvea  that  you  shall  ro  ! " 

In  an  instant  Stirn  rusned  into 
the  parlour.  There  were  no  terms 
of  abuse  which  he  did  not  heap  upon 
the  surgeon,  calling  him  among  otner 
base  things  a  coward  ;   and  assert- 


ing that  he  would  not  have  dared  to 
fl^^ak  or  act  as  he  had  done,  but 
for  the  presence  of  the  parties  whom 
he  had  called  on  to  protect  him. 
Matthews,  however,  took  the  mat- 
ter coolly;  and  having  waited  till 
the  young  man*s  breath  failed,  beg- 
fl[ed  of  him  to  take  a  glass  of  wine 
(there  were  bottles  and  glasses  on 
tne  table),  and  not  to  disturb  him- 
self unnecessarily.  "  It  can*t  be 
helped,  David.  We  couldn*t  get  on 
together,  and  it*s  best  to  part;  but 
let  us  part  as  friends." 

Stim  made  no  reply,  but  looking 
wildly  round  the  room  exclaimed,  as 
if  to  himself,  "  I  will  play  my  last 
tune."    The  reader  will  observe  that 
Stim  was  an  enthusiast  in  music. 
At  all  hours  in  the  night  and  day 
he  would  seat  himself  at  the  harp- 
sichord,   and    bring    forth    tones, 
composed  as  his  fingers  swept  the 
keys,    sometimes   bold,    sometimes 
touchingly  plaintive.    His  reading, 
likewise,  being  chiefly  among  the 
poets,  appeared  not  unfrequently  to 
work  him  into  a  state  of  high  ex- 
citement ;  whereas,  for  mathematics, 
or  even  for  the  graver  study  of  his- 
tory, he  had  little  taste.    Accord- 
ingly, he  sat  down  this  night,  and 
drew  from  the  instrument  strains  of 
such  surpassing  melody,  that  the  re- 
solute men  who  had  assembled  to  push 
liim  into  the  streets  held  their  breath 
to  listen.    He  ceased;  and  turning 
abruptly  round,  said  to  Matthews, — 

"  I  want  but  half-a-a;uinea.  You 
may  do  what  you  will  with  my 
books  and  clothes." 

"Tell  me  what  you  mean  to  do 
with  half-a-guinea,  replied  Mat- 
thews, "  and  1  will  lend  it  to  you." 

Upon  this,  Stim  took  from  his 
pocket  some  loose  money  and  began 
to  count  it. 

"  No,"  he  then  exclwmed,  "  I  have 
as  much  as  I  want.  Do  you  know 
that  I  spoke  to  a  man  to-day,  who 
will  write  your  life  and  mine? 

"  Have  a  care  what  you  say,"  re- 
plied Matthews.  "This  is  not  the 
first  time  you've  held  lan^age  to 
me,  for  which,  if  I  were  vindictive^ 
I  would  lay  you  by  the  heels." 

''What  have  I  said?" 

"Yon  said,"  replied  Matthews, 
"that  Crawford  might  thank  God 
for  having  got  rid  of  vou  as  he  did, 
but  that  you  would  nave  yoUr  re- 
venge of  me." 


1S4&] 


with  Illu$tration$  from  Familiar  History. 


249 


Stim  rose  from  the  music-stoo!, 
•dTanced  towards  Matthews,  and  de- 
sired him  to  gi7e  him  his  hand; 
which,  when  A^itthews  did,  he  took 
it  hetween  both  of  his  own,  and 
wrung  it.  "You  are  right  P*  he  ex- 
claimed, "I  have  said  the  words 
which  you  repeat ;  and  mark,  here 
is  my  hand  that  X  will  haye  reyenge 
ofvoul" 

He  then  threw  the  hand  of  Mat* 
thews  from  him;  and  followed  by 
the  cimstable,  who,  howeyer,  made 
no  effort  to  arrest  him,  walked  out 
into  the  street. 

Where  this  wayward  and  un- 
happy young  man  passed  the  nk;ht 
does  not  appear.  Probably  he  walked 
the  streeto,  or  went  forth  into  the 
fields,  for  in  those  days  the  green 
fields  were  not,  as  they  are  now,  a 
good  day's  journey  from  Hatton 
uard^i ;  but  howeyer  this  may  be, 
neither  that  night  nor  throughout 
the  following  day  was  he  seen  by 
any  of  his  acquaintances.  On  Friday, 
the  15th,  howeyer,  Mr.  Crawford 
met  him;  and  compassionating  the 
dejected  and  melancholy  air  of  the 
youth,  carried  him  home  with  him 
to  dinner.  While  the  meal  went 
forward,  no  man's  behayiour  could 
be  more  sedate  or  rational  than  that 
of  Stirn;  but  just  after  the  cloth 
had  been  remoykl,  he  broke  out  into 
an  abrupt  tirade  against  Matthews, 
speaking  loud,  and  with  a  rapid  ar- 
ticulation, '*Not  only  an  adulterer, 
bat  a  thief!  He  called  mc  a  thief; 
can  I  be  expected  to  bear  that  P" 

So  saying,  he  rose,  and  went  awa^. 
The  same  eyening  Crawford  agam 
met,  or  rather  oyertook  him  going 
down  Cross  Street ;  and  the  expres- 
sion of  his  countenance  was  so  woe- 
worn,  that  the  schoolmaster's  heart 
bled  fi>r  him.  It  appeared  to  him 
that  he  certainly  meditated  self-de- 
struction, which  it  was  said,  indeed, 
that  he  -bad  attempted  unsuccess- 
fblly  about  six  months  previously. 
In  the  hope  of  diverting  him  from 
sDch  a  subject  of  contemplation, 
Crawford  began  to  speak  of  the 
Bible,  in  which  he  once  took  great 
delight,  and  of  the  comforts  which 
arise  from  religion ;  but  other 
thoughts  were  in  Stim's  mind.  The 
point  of  honour  was  that  which  he 
wished  to  settle ;  "  For,"  continued  he^ 
*'  if  we  come  short  of  that,  of  what 
boBcfii  will  religion  be  to  us  ?  Am  I 


not  an  outcast  ?  Who  will  entertain 
an  adulterer  and  a  thief?" 

"No,  no,"  replied  Crawford,  "here 
the  tide  may  have  set  against  you ; 
but  Englana  is  not  the  world.  Why 
not  return  home  to  your  brother? 
you  will  find  shelter,  and  a  new  field 
of  exertion  there." 

'<To  my  brother!"  said  Stirn. 
"  No,  Neither  my  brother  nor  my 
country  can  receive  me  disgraced  aa 
I  am  with  the  imputation  of  crimes 
so  heinous." 

As  he  uttered  these  words  he  burst 
into  tears ;  and  Crawford,  no  longer 
able  to  sustain  the  pressure  of  such  a 
conference,  quitted  him. 

They  had  not  been  long  parted 
ere  a  growing  persuasion  that  Stirn 
meant  to  destroy  himself  induced  this 
man,  whose  feeungs  were  neither  de- 
licate by  nature  nor  much  refined 
through  culture,  to  go  again  in  search 
of  the  youth.  He  found  him  in 
Owen's  Coffee-house,  and  the  con* 
versation  fell  at  once  into  the  former 
channel,  only  the  young  man  ap« 
peared  upon  the  whole  to  be  more 
composed,  though  he  started  from 
time  to  time  as  tne  door  opened,  and 
declared  that  in  every  one  who  en- 
tered he  expected  to  see  Mr.  Mat- 
thews. Thus  they  sat  together  till 
about  ten  at  night,  when  Stirn  rose 
and  avowed  his  determination  of  go- 
ing to  an  ale-house  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, which  Matthews  and  hit 
friends  were  in  the  habit  of  frequent- 
ing. It  was  to  no  purpose  that 
Crawford  urged  him  to  return  to  his 
lodgings  and  eo  to  bed.  The  only 
answer  which  ne  got  was  a  squeeze  of 
the  hand,  so  energetic  that  it  well- 
niffh  brought  the  blood  from  the  tipe 
of  nis  fingers,  after  which  they  quitted 
Owra's  tofi;ether  and  proeeeded  to- 
wards the  house  of  which  Stirn  had 
spoken. 

At  the  door  of  that  house  the 
friends  (for  such  they  had  now  be- 
come) parted,  Crawford  making  the 
best  of^  his  way  to  Hatton  Garden, 
while  Stirn  entered.  He  found  a 
good  many  persons  in  the  coffee- 
room,  and  among  the  rest  Matthews, 
with  two  others,  who  occupied  a 
table  apart.  Towards  it  Stirn  im- 
mediately ailvanced,  and  took  a  seat 
beside  them.  It  is  necessary  to  state 
that,  previously  to  this  meetiug,  Stirn 
had  sent  Matthews  a  challenge  to 
fig^t  a  duel,  whi«h  the  latter  dt- 


344 


The  Pkihiopky  qf  Crimea 


[Febraary, 


cHned,  and  that  the  leftiial  wis 
couched  in  terms  which  were  cer- 
tainly not  calcuUted  to  soothe  the 
ftelinffs  of  the  individual  to  whom  it 
was  aiddressed.  Though  the  others, 
therefore,  might  wonder  at  the  in- 
creased fury  of  Stirn*8  countenance, 
Matthews  himself  expressed  no  sur- 
prise, and  received  with  infinite  com- 
posure both  the  foul  language  and 
the  threateninff  gestures  with  which 
he  was  assailed.  One  of  Matthews' 
companions,  however,  of  the  name 
of  Chapman,  became  so  alarmed  that 
he  called  Stim  aside  and  entreated 
him  to  restrain  himself,  and  not  to 
do  any  thing  of  which  the  conse- 
quences might  be  disajrreeable  either 
to  others  or  to  himself.  Having  said 
this,  he  hastily  withdrew.  ]<orth- 
with  Stim  began  to  walk  ¥rith  a  hur- 
ried step  up  and  down  the  room,  and 
became  so  completely  engrossed  by 
his  own  thoughts  that  he  either  did 
not  observe,  or  entirely  disregarded, 
the  entrance  of  Crawford.  For  again 
had  Uie  dread  of.  some  vague  evil 
overmastered  the  reluctance  of  the 
sdioolmaster  to  witness  any  more 
of  his  late  assistant's  vagaries,  and  he 
now  rejoined  him,  hoping  to  get 
him  away,  since  to  brinff  about  a  re- 
conciliation was  manitestly  impos- 
sible. 

Crawford  had  just  reached  the 
table,  when  Stim  confronted  Mat- 
thews and  said, — 

^  Sir,  vou  have  accused  me  of  theft 
and  adultery.** 

*^  I  have  done  no  such  thin^,"  re- 
plied Matthews.  **  I  merely  said,  and 
say  again,  that  if  my  wife*s  virtue 
had  been  of  the  same  yielding  nature 
as  your  honour,  evil  would  have 
come  of  it.** 

A  sharp  altercation  ensued,  in 
which  the  lie  was  banded  from  side 
to  side;  till  at  last  Matthews  ex- 

"  You  are  a  dirty  fellow ;  you're 
not  fit  to  stand  on  £nglish  ground, 
and  ought  to  be  sent  back  to  your 
own  lousy  country.** 

The  face  of  Stim  grew  pale  as 
ashes.  He  started  off  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room,  and  taking  a  written 
paper  out  of  his  pocket,  held  it  up, 
as  if  to  press  it  on  the  attention  of 
Matthews.  The  latter  not  appearing, 
however,  to  notice  the  proceeding, 
Stim  held  the  paper  in  the  flame  of 
one  o(  the  cand^  tiU  it  was  o^n- 


samed.  He  then  advanced  once 
more  and  sat  down ;  rose*  again,  and 
placed  himself  beside  Crawford, 
shifting  his  position  so  asto  place  an- 
other person  between  Matthews  and 
himself,  and  while  Crawford  pro- 
posed to  drink  his  health,  made,  or 
seemed  to  make,  an  effort  to  restrain 
himself.    But  it  would  not  do. 

'*  You  will  have  it  !**  he  at  length 
said,  speaking  with  clenched  teeth. 
''  You  have  wronged,  insulted,  and 
belied  me,  and  refiued  to  give  me  the 
satisfaction  of  a  gentleman.  I  will 
take  what  I  can  get,  and  here  it  is.** 

So  saying,  he  drew  from  his  bo- 
som a  pair  of  pistols,  which,  as  it 
afterwards  came  out,  he  had  pur- 
chased and  loaded  the  day  after  his 
expulsion  from  Matthews*  house,  and 
stretching  across  the  individual  who 
was  nearest  to  him,  discharged  the 
contents  of  one  into  ^latthewr  breast. 
The  wounded  man  made  a  spring 
firom  his  chair,  and  with  a  single  cry 
dropped  dead.  A  second  report  was 
instantly  heard ;  but  its  results  were 
harmless.  The  hand  which  had 
been  sufiiciently  steady  to  take  the 
life  of  another  wavered  in  its  office 
when  turned  against  Stim*s  own  life, 
for  the  ball  passed  him  by  and 
lodsed  in  the  wall. 

The  unhappy  man  had  risen  as 
soon  as  his  vengeance  was  wreaked ; 
and  now,  having  failed  to  commit 
suicide,  he  made  for  the  door.  But 
he  was  seized,  handed  over  to  the 
watch,  and  locked  up.  His  com- 
mittal took  place  on  the  morrow, 
and  he  forthwith  began  a  course  of 
starvation,  refusing  either  to  eat  or 
to  drink,  and  assigning  as  a  reason 
that  his  life  was  forfeited,  and  that 
it  was  better  to  die  thus  than  to  in- 
cur the  disgrace  of  a  public  execu- 
tion. To  this  determination  he  ad- 
hered for  a  full  week,  notwithstand- 
ing the  earnest  exhortations  of  the 
orainary  to  the  contrary,  aad  beoune, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  feeble  and 
emaciated,  though  his  resolute  spirit 
never  forsook  him. 

^^  I  know  what.  I  have  done,**  he 
used  to  say,  ^'  and  would  do  it  over 
sffain.  The  only  thing  I  regret  is, 
that  my  own  life  did  not  go  at  the 
same  time  with  his.'* 

However,  for  reasons  which  no- 
body at  the  time  understood,  he 
changed,  at  the  end  of  a  week,  his 
system,  and  eat  and  ^rank  like  other 


1846.] 


with  Illustrations  from  Familiar  History, 


245 


BTMonera,  and  recovered  both  hk 
looks  and  hts  health. 

He  was  not  pnt  upon  his  trial  till 
the  12th  of  September,  and  previous 
to  that  event  every  facility  was 
afforded  to  his  friends  to  visit  him. 
Among  others,  came  his  excellency 
and  his  wife.  The  latter  had  faded 
and  grown  very  thin,  and  exhibited 
in  the  cell  an  excess  of  emotion 
which  well-nigh  overpowered  her. 
Stirn  noticed  this,  and,  with  an  ex- 
pression in  his  eye  of  peculiar  wild- 
ness,  whispered  somethmg  in  her  ear 
which  caused  her  to  start.  She  soon 
recovered  herseli^  however,  and 
looked  him  full  in  the  face  with  an 
eye  that  quailed  not. 

''  On  one  condition,"  she  said,  "  I 
agree/' 

"  I  understand  you,"  was  the  an- 
swer. 

As  the  lady  and  gentleman  retired, 
the  latter  was  heard  to  ask  the 
former  what  it  was  that  Stirn  had  said 
to  her ;  but  she  answered  evasively, 
and  to  this  hour  there  is  a  mystery 
about  the  communication  which  we 
cannot  pretend  to  explain. 

At  length  the  trial  drew  on,  and 
Stirn,  in  spite  of  the  urgent  entrea- 
ties of  his  friends,  refused  to  plead 
insanity.  That  it  could  terminate 
only  in  one  way  is  manifest.  Stirn 
was  found  guilty  of  the  murder  of 
Matthews,  and  condemned  to  be 
hanged.  He  was  not  quite  so  com- 
posed during  the  proceedings  as 
might  have  been  expected.  He  more 
than  once  reeled,  and  would  have 
fainted  had  he  not  been  presented 
with  a  chair ;  and  after  sentence  was 
passed,  he  petitioned  the  court  that 
he  mi^ht  be  drawn  to  the  place  of 
execution  in  a  coach  with  a  cler^- 
man  beside  him,  but  the  petition 
was  denied.  He  then  bowed,  and 
was  led  away  towards  the  condemned 
ceU. 

In  passing  through  the  press-yard, 
a  countryman  of  his  own  accosted 
him,  and  stated  that  he  was  a  minis- 
ter of  religion.  Stirn  appeared  to 
know  the  man^  though  it  was  after- 
wards remarked  that  till  that  day  he 
had  never  been  visited  by  him,  and 
the  stranger  was  in  consequence  per- 
mitted to  accompany  him  to  his  cell. 
They  remained  alone  together  about 
half'^an  hour,  at  the  termination  of 
which  the  German  withdrew;  and 
by  and  by  the  ordinary  called  upon 


him.  He  found  him  sinking  fast. 
Poison,  by  whomsoever  conveyed, 
he  had  manifestly  received  and  taken, 
and  not  all  the  exertions  of  the  medi- 
cal officers  of  the  prison  sufficed  to 
arrest  its  progress.  He  died  that 
night  a  little  before  eleven  o'clock, 
and  escaped,  as  he  triumphantly  ex- 
claimed, in  his  last  agony,  the  dis- 
grace of  a  public  execution. 

Thus  died  by  his  own  hand  a  man 
who  had  undeniably  taken  the  life 
of  a  fellow-creature,  but  whose  moral 
guilt  is  not  for  one  moment  to  be 
compared,  in  point  of  enormity,  with 
that  of  multitudes  who  go  to  their 
graves  having  no  weight  of  blood 
upon  their  consciences.  To  speak 
of  him  as  insane  would  be  to  speak 
absurdly.  He  was  perfectly  sane  at 
every  moment  in  his  career ;  but  he 
had  so  entirely  surrendered  himself 
to  the  dominion  of  his  impulses  that 
they  hurried  him  into  all  manner  of 
outrageous  acts,  and  at  length  placed 
the  brand  of  Cain  upon  his  forehead. 
For  this  he  was  much  to  blame ;  yet 
a  portion  of  the  blame  may  undeni- 
ably be  shared  by  those  who,  not  be* 
ing  ignorant  of  the  peculiarities  of 
his  temperament,  fostered  and  nou- 
rished his  weakness,  (nstead  of  check- 
ups i^  hy  conciliating  his  humours 
when  it  was  their  duty  to  thwart 
them,  and  encouraging  the  growth 
of  tastes  which  tended  to  confirm 
him  in  his  folly.  Poetry,  music,  and 
the  belles  lettres,  are  admirable  in- 
struments wherewith  to  soften  a  dis- 
position naturally  rugged,  and  to  give 
susceptibility  and  refinement  to  a 
mind  that  is  strong.  But  they  ac- 
complish thb  by  weakening,  in  a 
certain  sense,  the  powers  which  they 
refuse,  as  the  act  of  polishing,  while 
it  renders  a  steel  blade  more  tren- 
chant, takes  away  from  its  solidity 
and  diminishes  its  powers  of  resist- 
ance. Had  Francis  David  Stirn  been 
compelled  in  early  youth  to  study 
mathematics  instead  of  devoting 
his  time  to  the  perusal  of  the  poets 
of  Greece  and  Rome  and  of  the 
countries  of  modem  Europe,  and 
had  he,  further,  been  denied  the  sort 
of  musical  training  which  rendered 
him  more  than  an  accomplished  per- 
former without  arriving  at  the  emi- 
nence of  a  composer,  we  venture  to 
assert  that  the  morbid  sensibility 
which  proved  his  ruin  would  have 
hardened  into  the  right  feeling  which 


346 


Th€  PoiitioH  of  Miniiiers. 


[Febraary, 


best  befits  a  gentlemuk  fbr  the  pur- 
posee  of  life,  and  enables  him  to  work 
good  in  his  generation.  But  the 
whole  bent  of  his  culture—moral, 
intellectual,  and  even  physical — was 
faulty;  and  the  consequences  were 
such  as  the  records  of  ]N  ewgate  have 
preserved. 

It  is  evident  that,  in  the  case  now 
under  consideration,  the  judgments 
of  the  jurist  and  of  the  moralist  stand 
a  good  deal  apart.  The  jurist  affirms 
that  the  individual,  having  been  con- 
victed of  the  most  heinous  offence 
upon  the  statute-book,  deserved  to 
die ;  the  moralist,  admitting  the 
truth  both  of  the  premises  and  of 
the  conclusion,  endeavours,  never- 
theless, to  throw  a  sort  of  shield 
before  the  victim  of  the  law,  by  con- 
tending that  a  court  of  conscience 
would  deal  with  him  more  leniently 
than  with  numbers  who  escape  from 
the  hands  of  justice  scot  free.  Per- 
haps the  moralist  may  be  right. 
Nevertheless,  this  much  seems  to  be 
certain,  that  of  all  the  sources  of 
misery,  and  it  may  be  of  crime,  by 
which  men  and  women  are  sur- 
rounded, there  is  none  more  fruitful 
than  that  over-weening  regard  to 
Number  One,  which  leads  its  victim 
always  to  consider  how  words  spoken 
or  deeds  done  may  affect  himself,  to 


the  entire  overi%ht  both  of  the  feel- 
ings and  the  just  daimB  of  others. 
Unthinking  persons  disnify  a  temper 
of  this  kind  with  afi  manner  of 
sounding  epithets.  They  describe  it 
as  that  of  a  man  of  acute  honour,  of 
great  spirit,  of  generous  notions,  of 
an  excessive  sensibility ;  whereas,  in 
point  of  fact,  it  is  selfishness,  and 
nothing  more,  —  the  meanest  and 
most  despicable  of  all  dispositions. 
Kor  does  it  greatly  matter  into  what 
particular  Ime  of  absurdity  it  may 
run.  The  foolish  youth  who,  in 
order  to  keep  up  what  he  calls  ap* 
pearances,  lives  at  a  rate  which  his 
pecuniary  circumstances  do  not  war- 
rant, mav  thank  Heaven  for  the 
chance  which  has  thrown  his  vanity 
into  one  chamber,  out  of  the  many 
wherein  vanity  presides,  rather  than 
into  another.  Ilad  his  sensitiveness 
on  the  head  of  appearances  happened 
to  take  the  turn — ^not  unfrequently 
its  accompaniment,  by  the  by  — 
which  that  of  Francis  David  Btim 
took,  instead  of  being  a  spendthrift, 
he  mi^ht  have  become  a  murderer ; 
in  which  case,  duns  would  have 
chansed  places  with  peace-ofiicers, 
and  Newgate  received  him  in  the  end, 
instead  of  the  Marshalsea  or  the 
Queen's  Bench. 


THE  POSITION  or  MINISTERS. 


We  are  not  going  to  be  moved  either 
by  the  queen's  speech  or  by  the  ex- 
traordinary discussions  that  ensued 
upon  its  delivery,  in  both  houses  of 
parliament,  from  the  determination  at 
which  we  last  month  arrived.  Of 
the  ministerial  project  for  regene- 
rating our  commercial  system  we  as 
yet  know  nothing.  Hints  broad,  if 
they  be  not  very  clear,  may  have  been 
dropped  in  various  quarters —and  gos- 
sip is  busy  enougn,  Heaven  knows, 
elsewhere  than  amid  the  precincts  of 
the  court.  But  whether  it  be  through 
some  defect  in  our  understanding,  or 
that  matters  really  are  as  dark  as  to 
us  they  appear  to  be,  we  confess,  that 
neither  in  Sir  Robert  Peel's  explana- 
tion, nor  in  the  not  less  ominous 
avowal  of  the  Duke  of  Wellin^n, 
can  we  discover  any  just  reason  either 
to  approve  or  condemn  a  line  of 
policy  of  which  w^  are  unable  to 


follow  the  direction  cleariy.  Under 
these  circumstances  we  hea  to  reserve 
to  ourselves  the  right  of  choosing  our 
side  in  the  battle,  if  a  battle  there  is 
to  be,  after  the  grounds  of  strife  shall 
have  been  made  manifest  to  us.  And 
seeing  that  this  cannot  appear  before 
the  article  which  we  now  write  shall 
have  passed  through  the  printer's 
hands,  and  taken  its  place  in  the 
standard  literature  of  the  age,  our 
readers,  be  their  prepossessions  either 
for  or  against  the  policy  of  Peel, 
must  have  patience  with  a  delay  on 
our  parts,  which  is  unavoidable. 
We  do  not  choose  to  follow  the  ex- 
ample of  orators  who  flatter  or  con- 
demn the  minister  unheard,  according 
to  the  dictates  of  their  own  preju- 
dices. Sir  Robert  Peel  may  be  all 
that  the  more  impetuous  of  the  ad- 
vocates of  agricultural  protection  call 
him ;  and  snould  it  appear  that  he 


iwa,] 


Tke  Pni^M  o/Mmkien. 


U1 


deservet  the  (q^^bri«m  wliidi  ikuy 
help  upon  him,  then  onr  Mwgnine 
friends  may  de|)end  npon  it  thai  we 
thall  not  be  behind  the  moat  forwud 
of  them  all  in  holding  him  up  to  the 
exeeration  of  his  own  timet,  and  the 
contempt  of  that  posterity  towhieh 
he  is  somewhat  too  fond  of  appeal- 
ing. But  we  must  have  sure  proof 
of  the  offence  before  we  sanction  the 
pnni^ment ;  for,  as  our  old  acquaint- 
ance Tallejrrand  used  to  say,  **It 
would  be  ¥rone  than  a  crime*— it 
would  be  a  blunder,**  to  cover  wi^ 
premature  reproaches  a  statesman 
whose  position  and  talents  equidly 
entitle  him  to  a  fair  hearing,  and 
who,  as  he  has  done  his  eountij  good 
service  in  times  gone  by,  may,  after 
all,  be  meditating  nothing  more  than 
the  best  means  of  doing  good  service 
to  her  again.  We  repeat,  then,  that 
fbr  the  present  we  must  pernst  in 
standing  upon  our  neutrality;  and 
we  fmher  declare  beforehand,  that, 
whatever  part  we  maj  hereafter  take 
in  the  miserable  strife  which  seems 
to  hang  over  us,  shall  be  the  result 
of  a  consideration  as  impartial  and 
deliberate  as  we  may  be  able  to  give 
to  the  great  questions  which  shall  be 
brought  forward  for  discusrion. 

MeanwhOe,  it  is  impossible  to  con- 
template the  seneral  state  of  public 
feeling,  and  fiie  chaos  into  which, 
not  so  much  parties  as  society  seems 
to  be  resolving  itself,  without  the 
deepest  anxiety  and  alarm.  We  are 
advancing,  or  we  appear  to  be,  to 
that  war  of  opinions  and  of  classes 
which  has  preceded,  and  that  not  at 
a  remote  interval,  the  down&ll  of  all 
the  great  empires  of  the  world.  Re- 
ligion is  forgotten  amid  the  bitter- 
ness of  sectarian  animosity,  and  po- 
litics have  merged  in  the  strife  of 
interests — ^the  interests  of  order  as 
opposed  by  disorder,  and  of  man  as 
opposed  to  man.  Look,  in  regard  to 
the  former  of  these  heads,  at  Scot- 
land, with  which  we  begin,  because  it 
is  the  least  populous,  and  used  to  be 
the  most  quiet  portion  of  the  empire. 
It  is  torn  by  disputes  which  the 
individuals  en^ged  in  profess  to 
treat  as  religious  differences,  but 
which,  in  point  of  fact,  are  begun, 
continued,  and  ended,  in  considera- 
^ons  wholly  secular.  What  is  all 
the  stir  between  the  Establishment 
and  the  Free  Kirk  about,  except  to 

detennise  wi^  whom  «hfril  be  left 


the  ri^t  of  dispamshig  the  Cararch't 
loanres  and  fishes?  DoaotDr.Chab»i 
ers  and  Dr.  Macfarlan  sifpi  the  same 
eonfieasion  of  ihith,  recognise  the  same 
ibrm  of  church  government,  dimense 
the  saeramenta  oler  the  same  Asaioo, 
preach  the  same  doctrinca,  eondnct 
the  public  warship  of  God  according 
to  the  aame  rule  ?    What,  then,  u 
the  true  ground  of  their  differences  P 
This,  ana  nothing  moie — that  the 
one  seeks  to  introduce  an  abaolutely 
donoeratic  spirit  into  that  portion  of 
the  Kirk*8  laws  which  takes  care  of 
the  presentation   to  benefices,  jet 
keeps  a  sharp  e3re  towards  the  pnvi- 
hgea  of  her  ministers,  by  making  the 
preibytery  and  not  the  crown  the 
ultimate  referee  and  patron;  while 
the  other,  conceding  a  veto  to  the 
people  on  certain  terms,  seeks   to 
avoid  perpetual  strife,  and  therefore 
assures  to  patrons  the  legitimate  ex* 
erase  of  their  rights,  and  acknow- 
ledges in  the  covrts  of  law  the  only 
tribunals  which  shall  be  eompetent 
to  decide  wherein  such  rights  consist 
Yet  they,  and  the  silly  people  who 
adhere  to  them,  imagine  that  they 
are  at  strife  about  some  vital  doc- 
trine of  Christianity,  and  hate  one 
another  with  the  rancour  which  is 
invariably  called  into  active  exist- 
ence by  disputes  about  questions  of 
reli^on.    Of  irelaad,  on  this  same 
subject  of  religion,  we  need  not  speidr. 
£very  healing  measure  which  erery 
successive  government  has  enacted, 
seems  but  to  have  embittered  Uie 
feud  between  Protestant  and  Papist. 
Listen  to  Mr.  Gregg,  and  you  will 
be  taught  by  the  least  inflamniaU^ 
of  his  speedies  that,  m  striving  to 
conciliate  the  Roinaiiists,  you  have 
to  the  same  extent  exasperated  th«r 
rivals.    And  if  Mr.  GrSgg  be  warn 
on  one  side,  and  cairy  ue  aealon% 
both  Churchmen  andP^nesbyteriana, 
along  with  him,  surely  we  may  re- 
gard Dr.  M^Hale  as  his  antipodes, 
swayinff  as  he  does,  through  a  nar- 
row-mmded  priesthood,  the  millions 
whom  this  same  priesthood  do  their 
best  to  keep  in  ignorance  and  in  po- 
verty.   And  as  to  England,  was  ner 
population  ever  so  divided  among 
themselves,  net  merely  in  the  array 
of  Dissent  against  Church  prindples, 
but  in  the  strife  of  parties  withiii 
the  Church  itself,  leading  as  it  hoe 
donCf  and  is  still  leading,  to  the 
daUy  apoitaay  both  efniwleif  «# 


348 


The  Poiidon  of  Minitters. 


[February^ 


of  people  P  Moreover,  the  ad* 
jQfltment  of  sach  questions  as  have 
arisen  within  the  hosom  of  the 
Church  is  no  longer  left  to  author* 
itv,  or  even  to  argument,  among 
Churchmen.  Congregations  make  up 
their  minds  beforelumd,  that  they 
will  tolerate  this  practice  and  not  en- 
dure that  in  the  celehration  of  Di- 
vine worship,  and  constitute  them- 
selves judges  of  the  soundness  of  the 
very  doctrines  which  the  individual 
appointed  to  instruct  them  may  teach ; 
while  bishops  are  obeyed  or  dis- 
obeyed, exactly  as  their  recommend- 
ations happen  to  fall  in  with  the  hu- 
mours or  those  to  whom  they  are 
addressed.  And,  finally,  the  daily 
newspapers  do  their  best  to  encou- 
rage this  spirit  in  the  nation,  by  en- 
couraging every  clown  to  sit  in 
judgment  on  his  church  and  its  pas- 
tor, themselves  delivering  ex  cathedra 
sentence  of  condemnation  or  approval 
on  men  and  things,  with  which,  as  it 
appears  to  us,  th^  have  no  business 
whatever  to  interfere. 

All  this  is  very  bad.  It  indicates 
a  state  of  mind  which  is  directly  op- 
posed to  the  fakh  which  these  reli- 
gionists profess  to  honour.  For 
Christianitv  is  a  religion  of  order, 
not  of  conimsion,  and  roremost  among 
the  tempers  recommended  and  ap- 

£  roved  by  its  Divine  head  are  single- 
eartedness  and  the  charity  which 
thinketh  no  evil  and  is  kind.    Yet 
disputes  which  turn  upon  abstract 
opinion,  or,  at  the  worst,  do  not 
interfere   with  considerations  more 
urgent  than  the  forms,  or  the  man- 
ner,   or  the    garb    in  which    men 
prefer  offering  their  worship  in  pub- 
lic to  the  Supreme  Being,  might  be 
listened  to  with  comparative  indiffer- 
ence,   provided   they   stood   alone. 
But  they  do  not  stwd  alone ;  they 
are  intimately  connected  with  mat- 
ters more  tangible  by  far ;  they  con- 
sUtnte  but  one  symptom  out  of  the 
many  characteristic  of  a  disease  which 
is  overspreiding  the  whole  body  po- 
litic.    All  love  of  order,  all  reve- 
rence for  law,  all  belief  that  the  well- 
being  of  the  state  depends  upon  the 
'i^ood  understanding  that  shall  pre- 
il  among   the  several   classes  of 
ch  society  is  composed,  appear  to 
\eparting  from  amon^  us.     In 
nd  the  Bepeal  mania,  though 
icstionably  on  the  decline,  has 
I  ranker  behind  to  the  full  as 


viralent  as  iiaM  Taught  to  know 
their  own  strength,  the  Tnasseft  un- 
dervalue the  iitrength  of  the  govern- 
ment, and  by  the  outrages  which 
they  perpetrate,  or  sanction,  or  de- 
fend, are  preparing  the  way  for  such 
a  catastrophe  as  we  dare  not  stop  to 
contemplate.  And  wherein  is  the 
condition  of  England  and  Scotland 
the  better?  Life  mav  as  vet  be 
more  secure  in  Lancashire  than  in 
Tipperary,  and  the  sanctity  of  an 
oath,  particularly  in  a  court  of  jus- 
tice, be  held  in  more  esteem ;  but  of 
agitation  we  have  to  the  fbU  as  much 
as  our  neighbours,  and  we  are  by  no 
means  sure  that  its  purpose  is  not 
more  hurtful  here  than  it  is,  or  ever 
oould  be  rendered,  on  the  other  side 
of  St.  6eorge*8  Channel.  In  Irelaiid 
there  is  a  sort  of  opinion  cherished 
that  the  leaders  of  mobs,  and  the 
speakers  in  Conciliation  Hall,  have 
some  public  sood  to  achieve.  They 
profess  to  seek  the  regeneration  of  a 
great  nation.  They  talk  about  a 
parliament  on  College  Green,  and 
tell  their  dupes  that  it  will  be  the 
source  to  them  and  to  the  whole 
country  of  blessing  innumerable. 
Moreover,  they  invite  all  orders  of 
the  coramunitv  to  seek  the  same  end. 
The  book  of  Kepeal  membership  lies 
as  open  to  a  manufacturer  as  to  a 
landed  proprietor,  to  a  peer  as  to  a 
peasant,  to  a  Churchman  as  to  a  Dis- 
senter, to  a  Protestant  rector  as  to  a 
Popish  priest.  The  gr^t  Agitator 
himself  promises,  as  the  issue  of  his 
endeavours,  peace  and  unanimity  to 
the  land  which  gave  him  birth.  Is 
this  Uie  case  in  England  and  Scot- 
land ?  By  no  means.  Here  the  war 
of  classes  is  begun,  and,  let  it  termi- 
nate for  the  present  as  it  may,  must 
lead  to  a  second  war  of  opinion. 
And  a  war  of  opinion,  or  of  principle 
— call  it  which  you  will— leads,  as 
all  experience  shews,  to  revolution. 
Let  us  explain  ourselves. 

We  do  not  charge  the  authors  of 
the  lieform-act  with  seekins  the 
end  which  is  now  palpably  Before 
them,  any  more  than  we  accuse  the 
greedy  buyers  up  of  rotten  boroughs 
of  having  purposelv  provoked  the 
storm  beneath  which  they  fell ;  but 
no  man  in  his  senses  can  doubt  that 
the  strife  which  the  manufacturer  for 
the  last  ten  years  has  been  waginsr 
against  the  proprietor  of  the  sou 
is  the  legitimate  issue  of  that  ar« 


1846.] 


The  Parition  of  MinUien. 


249 


nngement  of  tbe  firAnchise  which, 
to  a  gpreat  extent,  revolutionised 
all  the  influences  in  this  conntiy. 
K  there  were  any  politician  in 
the  empire  so  infatuated  as  not  to 
foresee  that  the  middle  classes,  hav- 
ing achieved  the  power,  would  wield 
it  for  their  own  purposes,  sooner  or 
later,  we,  at  least,  never  happened 
to  encounter  him.  Put  the  truth 
for  them,  many  might  and  did,  while 
others  affected  to  see  in  it  just  cause 
of  rejoicing ;  for  these  made  boast  of 
the  good  sense  which  they  assumed 
to  be  spread  lareely  through  the  na- 
tion, tnough  the  conduct  of  the 
masses  gave  but  small  assurance  all 
the  while  that  any  portion  of  it  had 
fallen  to  their  snare.  We  well  re- 
member, for  example,  when  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  s  windows  were 
broken,  and  Bristol  pillaged,  and 
Nottingham  Castle  committed  to  the 
fltunes,  that  the  cry  was  still  ^^  The  good 
sense  of  the  nation  will  bring  every 
thing  round ;  all  things  will  yet  find 
their  just  level."  But,  when  closely 
pressed,  did  such  men  as  Lord  John 
Kussell  or  Mr.  Macaulay  venture 
even  then  to  deny  that,  so  soon  as  the 
royal  assent  should  be  given  to  the 
great  measure,  the  fate  of  £ngland*s 
"  proud  aristocracy  "  would  be  sealed  ? 
We  believe  that  Sir  Kobert  Peel 
never  has  made  any  secret  that  such 
was  his  opinion  also.  We  know  that 
the  same  view  of  the  subject  has  been 
taken,  (md  is  still  held,  by  statesmen 
as  able,  if  not  as  persuasive,  as  he ; 
and  that  the  great  aim  of  all  their 
exertions,  suhsequently  to  the  con- 
summation of  1832,  was  to  let 
down  the  constitution  with  as 
easy  a  process  as  possible  to  the 
level  wherein  it  was  to  them  ap- 
parent that  it  must  hereafter  rest. 
Aecordingly,  there  was  no  eagerness 
among  the  leaders  of  the  Conserva- 
tives for  power,  but  the  reverse. 
Many  a  go<xl  opportunity  of  thrust- 
ing their  rivals  out  of  Downing 
Street  they  permitted  to  pass  unim- 
proved, and  many  a  blessing  they 
received  in  consequence  from  the 
Toadvs  and  Tapers  who  frequented 
the  Carlton  CIud,  and  charged  wiser 
men  than  themselves  with  lack  of 
courage  and  we  know  not  all  what 
besides.  But  while  they  steadily  re- 
fused to  force  themselves  into  office. 
Sir  Robert  Peel  and  his  party  acted 
«is  n  constant  drag  upon  ttie  diariot- 


wheels  of  the   movement.     Their 
motto  was,  "Ix^t  us  have  no  more 
changes.    You  gave  us  the  Reform* 
bill  as  a  final  measure,  and  a  final 
measure  we  are  determined  that  it 
shall  be.**    And  no  more  changes  dkl 
they  sanction,  save  only  in  regard  to 
institutions  which  appeared  to  them 
to  be  much  less  intimately  connected 
with  their  o^vn  interests  as  an  aristo- 
cracy than  the  present  state  of  affairs 
proves  them  to  have  been.    Now  let 
us  not  be  misunderstood.    The  in- 
sertion of  the  tenant-at-will  clause 
into  the  original  act  was  accomplished 
with  the  entire  concurrence  of  the 
whole  party.     It  seemed  to  afford 
them  some  counterpoise  against  the 
ten-pounders;    it  bid  fair  to   give 
them  the  counties,   however  weak 
they  might  be  in  the  borouffhs.   But 
did  any  of  the  followers  of  Sir  Ro- 
bert Peel  in  1833  and  1834  look  the 
length    of    their    noses    farther  f 
Surely  not;   otherwise  they  would 
have  resisted  to  the  death  such  a 
measure  as  the  New  Poor-law  bill, 
which  has  completely  alienated  the 
labouring  classes  from  the   classes 
above  them,  converting  into  bitter 
enemies  the  men  who  used  to  be  the 
humble  but  devoted  friends  of  the 
aristocracy.     Surely  not;  otherwise 
they  never  would  have  consented  to 
the  suppression  of  ten  bishopricks  in 
Ireland,  thus  weakening  the  influence 
of  Protestantism  in  the  very  portion 
of  the  empire  where  it  stood  most  in 
need  of  support,  and  encouraging 
further  attacks  upon  the  churcn  m 
which  they  profesFed  to  be  the  cham- 
pions.   These  things,  however,  they 
gave  up,  because  their  leader  told 
them  that  it  was  wise  to  do  so.   They 
flung  from  them  the  aflections  of  the 
poor  by  invadins  their  vested  rights, 
and  alarmed  and  offended  the  clergy 
by  the  indifference  with  which  they 
looked  on  while  O'Connell  and  his 
adherents,    the    Popish    hierarchy, 
achieved  so  signal  a  triumph  over  the 
Irish  branch  of  the  united  church. 
But  no  sooner  was  a  proposal  made 
to  extend  the  franchise,  or  interfere 
with  the  game-laws,  or  reverse  the 
financial  system  of  the  empire,  or 
promote  an   increased   freeaom   of 
trade,  than  to  a  man  they  denounced 
it.     Moreover,  to  do  tnem  justice^ 
they  were  marvellously  tender  both 
of  the  property  and  the  privileges  of 
tbe  Chijirch  iu  England.    They  an;- 


350 


The  PosUion  of  MinUters. 


[Februaryi 


eepted  a  Titlie  Commutation-bill»  it 
IB  true ;  but  they  said,  and  perhajM 
believed — aome  of  them — that  it 
would  be  as  advantageous  to  the 
clergy  as  to  the  country-gentlemen. 
But  they  would  not  hear  of  Lord 
Melbourne's  plan  of  national  educa- 
tion. And  as  to  Church  lieform,  the 
term  was  never  used,  except  vaguely 
by  the  WhigSi  and  then  it  was  hooted 
down  as  sjmonymous  with  confisca- 
tion. Thus  in  every  question  which 
appeared  to  threaten  their  own  in- 
fluence, or  their  rentals,  or  the  ar- 
rangements, fiscal  or  otherwise,  which 
were  connected  with  their  personal 
influence,  the  Conservative  opposition 
worked  wonders.  Their  broad  prin- 
ciple, in  which  their  chief  seemed  to 
go  wiUi  them  cordially,  was  resist- 
ance to  change,  and  thev  had  strength 
enough  to  retard  the  headlong  pro- 
gress of  a  government  which  was 
without  power  to  stop  of  its  own 
aoeord,  and,  for  obvious  reasons,  did 
not  desire  that  its  adherents  should 
beUeve  that  it  contemplated  stopping 
any  where. 

In  183fi,  the  party  which  had 
won  its  new  name  so  gallantlv  in 
opposition,  came,  as  we  all  recollect, 
somewhat  prematurely  into  power. 
What  was  the  first  act  of  its  chief? 
A  manifesto  against  the  established 
eonstitution  of  the  Church,  and  the 
rapointaient  of  a  commission  under 
tne  crown  to  devise  changes  in  it! 
The  representatives  of  the  narty  in 
both  houses  of  parliament  tnrew  up 
their  cape.  It  was  a  bold  measure, 
but  the  state  of  the  times  reouired  it ; 
and  as  not  a  iSuthing  was  taken  from 
the  Church,  however  widely  diverted 
some  portions  of  Church  propertv 
might  be  from  the  uses  to  which 
the  testators  had  assip^ed  them,  no- 
body could  deny  that  it  was  a  strictly 
Qcmservative  measure.  Accordingly, 
Uie  Commission  sat ;  extinguished 
eanonries ;  remodelled  sees ;  reduced 
bishops  from  the  disnity  of  land- 
owners to  the  respectable  position  of 
state  pensioners;  applied  tithes  and 
lands,  bequeathed  by  good  men  in 
Dnrhiam  for  the  spiritual  benefit  of 
Dorhamites,  to  the  relief  of  the 
spiritual  necessities  of  the  dwellers  in 
(^imwall  uid  Sussex;  and  boldly 
iraDsferred  a  prelate  from  Bangor  to 
Vpon,  with  all  hb  Welch  revenues 
I  his  hand.  What  was  the  aristo- 
•aey  about  then?    Did  they  not  see 


that  their  own  rights  and  privikgea 
were  weakened  by  such  a  blow  struck 
at  the  rights  and  privile^  of  the 
Church  ?  Not  a  whit.  They  were 
consenting  and  approving  parties  to  a 
measure  which  we  considered  at  the 
time,  and  still  hold  to  have  been  the 
first  step  on  that  ladder  of  descent,  to 
the  very  base  of  which,  as  they  them- 
selves now  afiirm,  their  champion  is 
going  to  lead  them. 

Sir  Bobert  Peers  tenure  of  offiee 
was,  in  1835,  very  brief.  He  went 
out  upon  a  foolish  question  concern- 
ing the  appropriation  to  secular  pur- 
poses of  Church  property  in  Ireland, 
on  which  he  might  have  borne  a 
defeat  in  the  Commons  with  perfect 
equanimity,  knowing  that  the  Lords 
were  not  only  willing  but  esfer  to 
retrieve  it.  Jaut  to  have  acted  thus 
would  have  been  to  test  too  severely 
the  reasonableness  of  the  opinion  at 
which  he  had  arrived  in  1832.  He 
believed,  or  suspected,  or  acted  as  if 
he  did  so,  that  the  power  of  the 
Lords  in  the  balance  of  the  constitu- 
tion was  abrogated.  He,  therefore, 
not  only  declared  in  his  place  that  no 
minister  could  constitutionally  retain 
office  in  the  face  of  an  adverse  ma- 
jority in  the  Commons,  but  in  all  his 
appeals  to  his  supporters  told  them 
that  they  must  thenceforth  fight  the 
battle  of  the  constitution  in  tne  Re- 
gistration Courts.  They  did  fight 
the  battle  there,  and  won  it.  Once 
more  returned  to  their  proper  places, 
the  Conservative  Opposition  again 
put  a  stopper  upon  every  movement 
which  seemed  to  threaten  established 
institutions  with  damage.  The  Whigs 
tried  to  curry  the  appropriation 
clause,  but  failed.  They  endea- 
voured to  remodel  the  constituencies 
in  the  Irish  boroughs,  and  were  de- 
feated. Their  scholastic  device, 
brought  forwturd  again,  was  again 
crushed  by  the  influence  of  the 
Church  and  the  party.  They  nib- 
bled at  some  alteration  or  re-adjust- 
ment of  the  financial  system,  but 
were  forced  to  take  refuge  in  the 
clumsy  and  inefiectual  device  of  add- 
ing so  much  per  cent  to  the  assessed 
taxes.  But  why  pursue  this  subject 
further  ?  The  influence  of  the  Op- 
position to  check  and  restrain,  and 
the  pertinacity  with  which  they  with- 
stood change  of  every  kind,  is  still 
fresh  in  the  reeoUeetion  of  the  young- 
est f  and,  floaUy,  vhes,  amid  dfUmt 


1846.] 


The  Position  of  Ministerg. 


§5i 


and  dssBsUm  in  the  East,  and  the  ap- 
prehension of  vm  nearer  home,  the 
Corn-laws  were  threatened,  flesh  and 
blood  coi^d  stand  it  no  longer. 

In  1842,  the  Conservative  Oppo- 
sition became  once  more  the  govern- 
ment party,  being  strong  in  the  entire 
possession  of  the  House  of  Lords, 
stronff  in  the  Commons  as  numbering 
a  majority  of  100  there,  and  stronger 
still  in  the   unbounded   confidence 
winch  seemed  every  where  to  be  re- 
posed in  the  si^city  and  firmness  of 
the  premier.    Has  he,  by  any  act  of 
his,   forfeited   this   opinion?      We 
think  not.    True,  his  measures  have 
all  carried  us  step  by  step  away  from 
the  old  Conservative  standard.    We 
have  an  education  scheme  meted  out 
to  the  people  of  England  on  the  exact 
model  of  that  which  they  would  not 
accept  from  Lord  Melbourne.    We 
have  Romanism  placed  in  Ireland  in 
a  position  to  which  no  other  minister 
than  Sir  Robert  Peel  could  have  ad- 
vanced it.    We  have  had  an  income- 
tax,  a  new  tarifi\  and  various  other 
arrangements  besides,  which  the  party 
now  declare  that  the^  did  not  sanc- 
tion except  with  undisguised  reluc- 
tance, and  which,  on  the  score  of 
consistency,  it  was  not  an  easy  matter 
to  dei'end.    But  what  of  all  that? 
Rents  have  not  fidlen ;  the  price  of 
wheat  is  as  high  as  any  body  wishes 
to  see  it ;  no  farms  have  p[one  out  of 
cultivation ;  trade  is  brisk,  manufkc- 
tures  and  commerce  are  flourishing ; 
employment  is  so  abundant,  and  so 
well  remunerated,  that  recruits  for 
the  army  are  difficult  to  be  got.    Sir 
Robert  Peel  may,  therefore,  have 
betrayed  his  party — if  a  leader  can  be 
said  to  betray  those  without  whose 
co-operation  ne  can  accomplish  no- 
thing; but  the  damage  done  to  the 
country  remains  yet  to  be  shewn. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that,  as  far 
as  regards  her  finances,  England  was 
never  in  a   more  flourishing  con- 
dition than  now.    It  is  equally  cer- 
tain that  peace  has  been  preserved 
in  Europe,  and  prolonged  in  Ame- 
rica, in  the  face  of  numerous  and 
formidable  obstacles,  which  former 
governments  had  raised  up.    And 
we  have  neither  seen  nor  heard  any 
thing,  on  'Change,  in  the  City,  or 
any  where  else,  which  would  lead  us 
to  believe  that,  as  a  minister,  the 
ffreat  body  of  the  people  of  England 
hare  lost  flitir  e<MDfide&ce  in  Sir 


Robert  Peel.  What,  then,  is  his 
position  and  that  of  Uie  country  at 
this  moment?  and  whence  does  it 
come  to  pass  that — with  much  to 
startle,  much  to  alarm,  in  his  speech 
of  the  22d  of  January— we  are  yet 
reluctant  to  join  in  the  outcry  which 
has  been  eot  up  against  him,  and  re- 
fuse to  stir  from  the  ground  which, 
for  three  years  back,  we  have  oc- 
cupied, till  we  know  better,  than  at 
this  moment  we  profess  to  do,  whi- 
ther it  is  his  purpose  to  guide  us? 
We  will  endeavour  to  answer  this 
question,  which  is  a  very  grave  one ; 
and  then,  for  the  present,  leave  the 
subject  where  we  found  it,  that  is, 
in  abeyance. 

If  it  be  Sir  Robert  Peel's  intention 
to  render  England  as  cheap  a  country 
to  live  in  as  France  or  Saxony,  for 
instance,  and  if  he  {\irther  manage  to 
bring  this  matter  about  without  forc- 
ing the  representatives  of  ancient 
families  to  sell  their  estates,  and 
causing  labourers  to  eat  rye  bread 
and  sour  crout,  we  shall  be  extremely 
sorry  to  ofler  to  his  project  the  slight- 
est resistance.  To  us,  indeed,  the 
union  of  comfort  and  very  low  prices 
is  a  somewhat  novel  idea,  because 
we  are  old  enough  to  remember  the 
late  war ;  and  the  heavy  taxation  and 
high  prices  produced  oy  it  are  asso- 
ciated in  our  minds  with  a  season 
of  unexampled  general  prosperity* 
Doubtless  taxation  was  heavy,  and 
the  national  debt  swelled  from  year 
to  year, — thanks,  in  a  great  degree, 
to  the  improvidence  witn  which  fo- 
reigners were  bribed  to  fight  their 
own  battles,  and  to  lose  them.  But 
every  where,  in  all  our  towns  and 
villages,  there  was  contentment, 
plenty  of  work,  good  wages,  an 
ardent  loyalty  to  the  crown  and  the 
altar,  and,  except  with  the  class  of 
annuitants — neither  then  nor  now 
considerable — abundance  of  the  ne- 
cessaries of  life.  In  like  manner,  our 
reminiscences  of  peace  and  low  prices 
recall  times  of  trouble,  and  anxiety, 
and  much  suffering.  Still  the  idea, 
which  is  novel  to  us,  may  be  a  good 
one,  nevertheless ;  and  if  some  new 
method  of  demonstrating  its  sound- 
ness be  discovered,  we  shall  bid  God 
speed  to  its  developement,  by  whom- 
soever the  task  of  working  it  out  may 
be  undertaken. 

Bat  we  must  protest  affainst  ar- 
rangements which,  under  m  plea  of 


252 


The  Position  of  Ministers. 


[Feb.  1846. 


opening  new  markets  for  our  manu- 
fiictures  abroad,  sball  lay  the  axe  to 
the  root  of  the  social  arrangements 
which  are  connected  with  our  holiest 
affections  at  home.  We  will  never 
consent  to  the  eradication  of  the 
aristocratic  principle  from  the  Eng- 
lish constitution,  nor  sanction  any 
measures  which  appear  to  have  a 
tendency  in  that  direction.  Where- 
fore, if  Sir  Bobert  PeeVs  plan  do 
not  include  a  just  and  ample  com- 
pensation for  the  immediate  losses 
which  a  total  repeal  of  the  Corn- 
kwi  must  necessarily  inflict,  at  the 
outset,  upon  the  landed  proprietors 
of  England,  we  shall  resist  it,  and 
denounce  it  to  the  utmost  extent  of 
our  power,  because  we  can  regard  it 
only  as  the  first  decisive  step  towards 
the  depths  of  democracy,  whither  we 
shall  not  willingly  be  carried.  In 
like  manner,  we  must  object  to 
any  settlement  of  the  corn  or  any 
otner  law,  which  shall  take  away  a 
portion,  be  it  ever  so  small,  from 
the  already  inadequate  incomes  of 
the  clergy.  The  Tithe -commuta- 
tion act,  to  which,  be  it  remem- 
bered, the  clergy  were  not  con- 
senting, and  in  the  concoction  of 
which  the^  were  never  consulted,  not 
only  deprived  the  tithe-owners  of  a 
property  improvable  and  improving 
mm  year  to  year,  but  fixed  the 
amount  of  money  -  payment  which 
each  impropriator  was  to  receive  ac- 
cording to  the  average  price  of  wheat 
in  the  market.  Now  it  is  manifest, 
that  if  the  price  of  wheat  be  lowered 
to  the  extent  which  the  Leaguers 
anticipate,  no  conceivable  reduction 
in  the  costs  of  the  necessaries  of  life 
will  compensate  the  clergy  for  the  loss 
which  they  must  thereby  sustain. 
Accordingly,  unless  Sir  Robert  Peel's 
device  imply,  that  the  clergy  shall 
by  some  means  or  other  be  protected 
against  this  wrong,  it  will  outrage 
the  first  principle  of  justice,  and  be 
by  us,  and  by  all  who  value  justice 
between  man  and  man,  resisted.  In 
a  word^  we  are  willing  to  accept 
cheap  living  provided  we  can  get  it, 
apart  from  bad  living  and  mean  liv- 
iim^  and  the  conseq^uent  overthrow 
01  the  established  institutions  and 
the  habits  pf  sQcial  life,  which  dis- 


tinguish this  country  ftom  all  others 
in  the  world.  But  we  will  never  be 
parties  to  arrangements  which  shall 
threaten  to  turn  our  landed  pronrie- 
tors  out  of  doors,  and  to  make  beg- 
gars both  of  the  clergy  and  the 
tenant-farmers  even  of  the  present 
generation. 

The  queen's  speech  is  an  able  do- 
cument. Somewhat  oracular  it  may 
be  in  many  of  its  clauses,  and  in  none 
more  so  than  in  that  to  which  the 
attention  of  the  whole  community 
is  at  this  moment  drawn.  We  so 
with  it  cordially  in  all  that  it  teUs 
regarding  peace  or  war,  and  the  ne- 
cessity of  being  prepared  for  either. 
We  are  glad,  likewise,  to  find  that 
the  S3r8tem  of  open  outrage  that  has 
prevailed  of  late  in  Ireland  is  to  be 
put  down.  But  the  clause  which  re- 
fers to  a  further  relaxation  of  the 
laws  that  regulate  commerce  and 
give  protection  to  British  industry, 
we  do  not  pretend  to  understand; 
no,  not  after  reading  the  speecb  of 
the  minister  who  concocted  it,  and 
the  answers  more  or  less  sharp  which 
were  provoked  by  it.  Betore  we 
come  again  into  the  presence  of  our 
readers,  both  they  and  we  will  know 
better  what  all  parties  be  about. 
And  they  may  rely  upon  it  that  we 
shall  take  our  places  where  truth, 
and  honour,  and  good  policy,  seem 
to  dictate;  for  it  is  by  the  truth 
and  honesty  of  his  purposes  that  the 
policy  of  a  minister,  not  less  than 
the  cnaracter  of  a  private  person,  is 
to  be  tried. 

Since  the  preceding  went  to  press, 
Sir  Bobert  reel  has  made  his  pro- 
mised announcement.  It  is  obvious 
that  we  have  neither  space  nor  time 
to  give  to  so  grave  a  matter  the 
notice  which  it  deserves;  and  we 
shall,  therefore,  decline  entering  at 
all  into  the  many  questions  which 
are  stirred  by  it.  But  this  much  of 
credit  we  i^l  give  to  the  minister's 
speech,  that  it  is  the  boldest  that 
was  ever  uttered  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  What  we  ourselves  think 
of  it,  and  of  its  probable  effects  on 
the  well-being  of  the  country,  we 
must  state  when  a  more  convenient 
opportunity  shall  offer. 


I^oodon  :«Printe<l  by  George  Barclayi  Cvstlt  Stiwti  LeicctUr  S^uan. 


FRASER^S    MAGAZINE 


FOB 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 


No.  CXCV. 


MARCH,  1846.         Vol.  XXXIII. 


Mil.  mbwman;  his  theories  and  ciiauacter. 


Upoh  a  certain  day  in  the  year  of 
which  we  have  so  recently  taken 
leave,  known  in  the  almanacks  as 
the  year  of  grace  184*5,  a  gentleman 
was  travelling  to  Oxford  by  the  Great 
Western.  He  occupied  a  seat  in  one 
of  those  carriages  which,  by  their 
peculiar  division  into  compartments, 
two  four-in-side  post  coaches, — sepa- 
rated by  a  window  and  door, — im- 
mediately suggest  to  an  academic 
observer  the  appropriate  designation 
of  a  "  Double-First"  He  had  not 
glided  many  miles  along  that  agree- 
able thoroughfare  to  the  west  of  Eng- 
land, before  a  casual  remark  from  a 
stranger,  who  had  the  advantage  of 
being  placed  opposite  to  him,  intro- 
duced a  dialogue  upon  the  current 
topics  of  the  hour.  There  is  no  spot 
in  which  "  news,  the  manna  of  a  day," 
descends  in  so  refreshing  a  shower, 
as  over  these  iron  ways.  Even 
raillery  itself  may  be  endured  by 
rail.  Under  such  cuxnijnstances,  how- 
ever, conversation  exercises  a  very 
summary  jurisdiction ;  the  claims  of 
public  candidates  are  despatched  with 
all  the  speed  of  emulation;  and 
Bright  and  Bolingbroke  are  treated 
with  equal  freedom.  The  dialogue 
on  this  memorable  day,  which  we 
are  thus  committing  to  history,  pos- 
sessed something  of  the  same  auto- 
cratical character.  By  a  natural 
transition  from  the  Pope  to  Dr.  Pusey, 
the  name  of  Mr.  Newman  came  up, 
— ^his  opinions,  his  talents,  his  ho- 
nesty.   '*  For  my  part,"  said  the  tra- 

VOL.  XXXni.  NO.  CXCV. 


veller,  kindling  with  his  subject,  and 
looking  his  vU-h-rns  full  in  the  face, 
"  I  have  always  believed  LIr.  New- 
man to  be  a  Jesuit  in  disguise." 
What  answer  the  vis'^-vis  may  have 
returned  to  this  startling  declaration, 
— whether,  arguing  from  what  had 
been,  he  might  have  admitted  that 
snch  things  may  be  again,— or  whe- 
ther he  would  have  sunk  into  the 
comer,  overpowered  by  horror  and 
heresy, — ^^'e  shall  never  have  the 
happy  privilege  of  knowing,  or  of 
inmrming  our  readers;  for,  at  the 
same  instant,  a  face  which  concen- 
trated the  chapel  and  monastery  at 
Littlemore  into  the  opposite  glass, 
was  slowly  and  solemnly  projected 
through  the  open  winaow  of  the 
**  double,"  and  a  particularly  soft  and 
distinct  voice  uttered  these  thrilling 
accents :  "  I  would  have  you,  sir, 
to  be  cautious  what  you  are  saying, 
for  there  is  somebody  in  this  carriage 
whom  you  may  not  like  to  hear 
you."  The  sound  ceased,  and  the 
apparition  vanished,  leaving  the  in- 
habitants of  the  other  double  in  a 
shudder  of  amazement  and  awe,  which 
might  have  been  felt  by  that  Homeric 
gentleman,  whose  curtains  were  so 
fiercely  drawn  at  night,  a  great  many 
hundred  years  ago.  But  our  pen  is 
unequal  to  the  effort  of  painting 
the  scene. 

Such  is  the  true  story  of  a 
journey  to  Oxford,  the  accuracy  of 
which  we  have  the  strongest  reason 
to  be  sure  of,  and  which  far  sur* 

8 


254 


Mr,  Newman ;  his  Theories  and  Character,        [March, 


passes  ia  interest  Pope's  narrative  of 
a  visit  to  the  same  university  in  the 
company  of  Lintot.  The  only  simi* 
lar  occurrence,  we  remember,  that 
can  by  any  possibility  be  related  in 
the- same  parwaph,  is  one  recorded 
by  Byron,  and  referring  to  his  own 
appearance  in  type  with  Mr.  Rogers, 
when  Larry  and  Jacky  solicited  the 
public  suffrages  together.  A  gentle- 
man in  the  Brighton  coach,  having 
been  engaged  in  the  perusal  of  the 
book,  laid  it  down,  when  it  was  taken 
up  by  a  fellow-passenger,  who  in- 
quired the  name  of  the  author. 
"  There  are  two,"  was  the  mysterious 
reply.  ^'  Ay,  ay,  a  joint  concern,  I 
suppose,  mmmut  like  Sternhold  and 
Hopkins."  The  possessor  of  the  vol- 
ume was  a  friena  of  the  poets. 

The  scene  in  the  Double-First  re- 
turned vividly  to  our  memory,  when 
the  recent  publication  of  Mr.  Newman 
announced  his  descent  into  Popery. 
Could  it  be  possible  ?  Was  he  a  Je- 
suit after  all?  Had  he  remained  in 
the  fortress  long  enough  to  under- 
mine the  ramparts,  and  poison  the 
water-springs  ?  Had  he  concUiated 
the  garrison,  only  to  betray  it  ?  Had 
he  now  gone  over  to  the  enemy,  with 
all  the  ^vantages  of  a  comrade  and 
all  the  malice  of  a  deserter  ?  Had 
he  made  himself  so  familiar  with  the 
battlements  of  our  church,  only  to 
lead  the  stormins  party  of  her  as- 
sailants ?  While  tnese  questions  kept 
thronsing  to  our  lips,  the  observa- 
tion of  a  contemporaiy  came  under 
our  eyes.  He  concludes  some  gene- 
ral remarks  on  the  degrees  of  trust 
to  be  reposed  in  the  author  himself 
*'by  alluding  to  one  strange,  inex- 
plicable, moral  phenomenon,  which 
to  Englishmen  at  least  must  wear 
an  appearance  so  unsatisfactory,  as 
to  supersede  much  further  examina- 
tion. The  present  volume  is  a  very 
elaborate^  studied  work,  full  of  re- 
search, bearing  proofii  of  long  pre- 
paration ;  the  result  of  matured 
thought ;  the  conclusions  of  a  course 
of  reasoning  which  can  now  be  traced 
back  in  Mi.  Newman's  writings  to 
several  years  since,  during  which,  we 
now  know  from  authority,  he  has 
been  meditating^  his  recent  step.^  It 
J  not  the  questioning^ — ^the  anxious, 
averin^  questioning  of  an  unde- 
led  mind;  but  the  formal  proof 
a  long- weighed  conclusion.  And 
ling  all  this  time  where  has  Mr. 


Newman  been?  In  what  name,  and  in 
what  authority,  has  he  been  teaching 
the  children  of  the  English  church, 
if  not  by  his  voice  in  tne  pulpit,  at 
least  by  private  communication,  and 
by  his  previously  published  works  ? 
His  sermons  have  been  read  as  those 
of  a  minister  of  the  Church,  even 
those  which  contained  the  germs  of 
the  poison  which  he  is  now  openly 
administering  to  the  Church.  His 
reasonings  have  been  listened  to, 
have  been  permitted  to  find  access  to 
minds,  from  which  they  would  have 
been  anxiously  excluded  under  the 
present  title." 

These  comments,  be  it  remem- 
bered, come  from  no  semi-Dissenter, 
with  whom  St  Paul*s  and  the 
Weigh  House  are  equally  sacred, 
and  Finney  and  Barrow  co-efficient 
authorities.  On  the  contrary,  they 
are  the  sentiments  of  one  of  the  re- 
presentatives of  that  large  bodv  in 
the  Church  of  England,  who  think 
that  her  orders  are  apostolical,  and 
that  her  Halls  and  Beveridges  knew 
something  of  the  Fathers ;  who,  with 
Hooker,  can  revere  her  majestic 
polity ;  and  with  Horsley,  refase  to 
be  scared  by  the  bugbear  of  purga- 
tory ;  who,  with  the  greatest  men  of 
the  brightest  times,  believe  nothinff 
to  be  holy  which  is  not  honest ;  and 
scorn  to  acknowledge  any  devo- 
tion to  be  profitable  or  sincere  which 
grows  only  in  the  dark,  and  is  fed 
only  by  deception.  Mx,  Newman 
would  nave  us  to  believe  that  his 
conversion  rushed  upon  him  with  an 
irresistible  impetus,  while  he  was 
descending  these  inclined  planes  of 
developement  But  no,  we  are  wrong. 
It  was  not  until  type  had  imparted 
to  his  arguments  tliat  clear  symmetry, 
by  whicn  they  are  recommended  to 
the  general  raider,  that  the  blaze  of 
conviction  burst  fiill  upon  his  eyes. 
Not  by  his  own,  but  his  printer's 
proofs,  was  the  change  to  be  effected. 
««  When  he  had  got  some  way  in  the 
printing,  he  recognised  in  himself  a 
conviction  of  the  truth  of  the  con- 
clusion, to  which  the  discussion  leads, 
so  clear  as  to  supersede  further  deli- 
beration." Can  this  statement  be 
received  for  a  moment?  Is  it  cre- 
dible? Is  it  possible?  Every  un- 
derstanding is  undoubtedly  open  to 
new  accessions  of  light ;  and  one  eye 
perceives  somede&cts  in  abook,  that 
another  18  unooQsciotts  of.  Moata^ne 


1846.] 


Mr,  Newman ;  his  Theories  and  Character, 


255 


was  aoeustomed  to  say  that  he  read  in 
LiTy  what  another  could  not,  and  that 
Plutarch  read  there  what  he  did  not. 
In  like  manner,  Bolingbroke  confessed 
of  himself,  that  he  had  read  at  fifty 
what  he  never  could  find  in  the  same 
book  at  twenty-five.  This  we  can 
easily  comprehend ;  for  not  only  does 
the  intellectual  eye-sight  reflect  its 
own  colours  upon  the  object,  but  its 
vigour  and  penetration  vary  with 
conditions  of  the  moral  health.  But 
Mr.  Newman  comes  within  neither 
exemption.  K  the  theonr  of  deve- 
lopement  made  him  a  Komanist,  it 
would  have  made  him  one  in  its 
working.*  No ;  the  solution  of  the 
mystenr  is  to  be  souffht  and  found 
in  the  book  itself.  Tne  author  has 
furnished  the  key  to  the  problem. 
At  the  end  of  the  introduction  the 
inquirer  will  find  this  sentence,  '*  It 
would  be  the  work  of  a  life  to  apply 
the  theory  of  developements  so  care- 
fully to  the  writings  of  the  fathers 
and  the  history  of  controversies  and 
councils,  as  thereby  to  vindicate  the 
reasonableness  of  every  decree  of 
Bome ;  much  less  can  such  an  un- 
dertaking be  imagined  by  one  who 

IH  THS   MIPDLB   OF  HIS   BATS  IS  BB- 
GINNINO  UVE  AOAnr." 

We  entreat  our  readers  to  mark  these 
words.  Where  do  they  occur  ?  Not 
in  the  preface,  not  in  the  postscript, 
not  even  at  the  close  of  the  volume, 
where  the  faint  ray  of  Boman  Catho- 
lic sunrise  may  be  supposed  to  have 
broken  upon  the  pU^,  then  as- 
eending,  after  so  wearisome  a  jour- 
ney, into  the  sweet  garden  and  para- 
disiacal atmosphere  of  indulgences 
and  image-worship.  In  none  of  those 
positions  will  this  declaration  be  dis- 
covered. It  stands  in  the  beginning 
of  the  Essay,  and  that  essay,  which 
the  writer  commenced  and  finished 
according  to  his  own  assurance,  while 
belonging  to  the  Church  of  England. 
There  can  be  no  mistake  here ;  the 
meaning  of  the  passage  is  distinct 
and  positive.  To  become  a  Romanist 


is  literally  to  begin  life  again;  to 
begin  it  with  a  desecrated  Baptism, 
and  an  inheritance  of  imposture. 
What  shall  we  say,  then,  to  Mr. 
Newman's  assertion,  that  ^'his  first 
act  on  his  own  conversion  was  to  offer 
his  Work  for  revision  to  the  proper 
authorities;  but  the  ofier  was  de- 
clined, on  the  ground  that  it  was 
written,  and  psray  printed,  before 
he  was  a  Catholic,  and  that  it  would 
come  before  the  reader  in  a  more 
persuasive  form,  if  he  read  it  as  the 
author  wrote  it  ?"  We  repeat,— what 
shall  we  say  ?  What  can  we  say,  but 
that  the  author  has  been  committing 
a  fraud  upon  his  reader^  and  per- 
haps upon  himself?  When  he  wrote 
the  first  page  of  this  essav  on  deve- 
lopement,  he  was  as  mucn  an  alien 
from  the  English  communion  as  he 
is  at  the  present  moment.  He  held, 
indeed,  nothing  of  hers,  except  her 
Fellowship.  He  may  not  have  been 
a  Bomanist,  but  only  a  sceptic. 
**  Possibly,"  writes  Bishop  Taylor  in 
his  inscription  of  the  Great  Exemplar 
to  Hatton,  **  two  or  three  weak  or 
interested,  fantastic  and  easy  un- 
derstandings, pass  from  church  to 
church  upon  grounds  as  weak  as 
those  fbr  whiim  formerly  they  did 
dissent ;  and  the  same  arguments  are 
good,  or  bad,  as  exterior  accidents, 
or  interior  appetites,  shall  deter- 
mine." In  attributing  this  fantastic 
temperamdnt  to  Mr.  Newman,  we 
are  not  unsupported  by  the  highest 
authority  in  tnat  splendid  city  which 
he  has  so  long  troubled  and  mfected. 
Bishop  Wilberforce  was  not  afraid 
to  denounce  him,  even  in  the  cathe- 
dral of  Christ  Church,  as  having 
been  bome  upon  the  winss  of  an 
unbounded  scepticism  into  the  bosom 
of  an  unfathomable  superstition.  Mr. 
Newman  does  not  hesitate  to  confess, 
that  between  Popery  and  infidelity 
is  the  only  choice ;  drawn  gradually 
to  the  grassy  marsin  of  the  precipice, 
he  may  have  feft  the  impulse,  so 
common  to  those  who  gasse  down 


*  "  If,  then,  I  am  asked,  What  I  believe  to  be  the  principal  evil  of  the  aystem 
inculcated  by  Mr.  Newman  and  his  friends  1  My  answer  must  he,— disregard  of  truth, 
and  the  disregard  more  dangerous,  because  it  certainly  appears  to  originate  in 
their  having  in  the  first  instance  confused  their  own  notions  of  truth  and  falsehood, 
both  as  to  their  nature  and  their  importance.*'— See  the  Rer.  J,  C.  Crosthwaite's 
very  ingenious  papers  on  Modem  Hagiology,  recently  collected  in  two  small  volumes, 
and  well  worthy  of  a  perusal,  for  their  argument,  their  directness,  and  plain  speaking ; 
not  to  mention  an  irony  which  sometiaies  proves  highly  effective,  though  occasionally, 
perhaps,  earrisd  a  little  too  far« 


ise 


Mr.  Newman;  his  Theories  and  Chdract^t,         [March , 


into  an  abyss,  to  plunge  into  it; 
but,  scared  back  again  by  the  ap- 
palling darkness  beneath,  he  caugnt 
at  Romanism.  Will  it  hold  him? 
We  doubt  it.  For  what  Ilomanism 
is  it,  which  this  unhappy  x^rson  has 
grasped  in  his  plunge,  and  now  seeks 
to  recommend  openly  to  the  hopeful 
youth  of  England  ?  Is  it  that  Ro- 
manism which  strikes  out  its  roots 
into  the  early  seed-land  of  Christen- 
dom ;  and  whose  boughs  have  truly 
sheltered  some  of  the  noblest  spirits 
who  fought,  or  perished,  for  patriot- 
ism or  virtue  ?  Is  it  the  system  of 
faith  that  sweetened  the  temper  of 
Fisher,  or  endears  to  the  affection 
of  all  time  the  beautiful  piety  of 
More?  which  Avoke  the  eloquence 
of  Rossuet,  and  wasted  the  bloom 
from  the  cheek  of  Pascal?  It  is 
none  of  these.  It  is  German  infi- 
delity communicated  in  the  music 
and  perfume  of  St.  Peter's;— it  is 
Strauss  in  the  garment  and  rope  of 
the  Franciscan.  It  is  a  system  which 
offers  no  insurmountable  difficulty 
to  the  producer,  because,  in  the  words 
of  Horsley,  it  is  a  system  of  his  own 
making. 

These  complaints  are  uttered  in  no 
bitterness  of  controversy.    We  write 
them  with  sorrow  and  pain,  though 
the  vehemence  of  Pascal  might  well 
be  pardoned,  when  Escobar  is  alive 
agam.    We  know  how  admirably  it 
has  been  said  by  Donne,  that  when 
God  gave  a  flaming  sword  to  cherubims 
in  Paradise,  they  guarded  the  place, 
but  the  sword  killed  none,  wounded 
none ;  and  that,  in  like  manner,  God 
gives  to  his  servants  zeal  to  ^ard 
their  station  and  integrity  of  religion, 
but  not  to  wound  or  deface'any  man. 
"May  we  never  forget  the  aileffo^ 
and  its  lesson !    Let  every  available 
apology  be  tendered  for  one,  who 
manifests  so  little  disposition  to  apo- 
logise for  himself.    No  eye  becomes 
dim  or  confused  at  once.    It  is  the 
result  of  continued  derangement  of 
the  constitution.    So  may  Mr.  New- 
man have  weakened  the  intellectual 
^yesi^ht,  not  only  by  the  disordered 
mctions  of  the  moral  frame,  but  by 
'otracted  labours  in  the  dark  mines 
id  heavy  air  of  papal  theology, 
ay,  we  will  even  give  him  the  ad- 
mtage   of  Johnson's   remark   on 
^urnet,  and  think  that  he  has  not 
^Id  falsehoods  with  intention ;  but 
that  prejudice,    or   scepticism,  de- 


terred him  from  recognising  the  tmth 
when  he  saw  it.  That  he  will  adhere 
to  his  theory  for  a  season,  now  that 
he  has  launched  it,  is  naturally  to  be 
expected.  The  French  essayist  had 
looked  into  the  heart,  when  he  said, 
*^  TatUe  opinion  est  assez  forte  pour 
sefaire  Spouser  auprix  de  la  vie. 

It  was  one  of  tne  many  forcible 
sayings  of  Atterbury  to  his    most 
celebrated  friend,  that  he  hated  to 
see  a  book  gravely  written,  and  in 
all  the  forms  of  argumentation,  that 
proves  nothing  and  says  nothing, — 
the  only  object  of  which  is  to  occa- 
sion a  general  distrust  of  our  own 
faculties,  to  unsettle  our  conclusions 
and  bewilder  our  vision,  until  the 
reader  is  driven  to  doubt  whether 
it  be  possible,  in  any  case,  to  dis- 
tinguisn  truth  from  falsehood,  the 
good  from    the  evil,  the  beautiful 
from  the  coarse;  whether,  in  fact, 
the  Lutheran  be  more  a  Christian 
than  the  Arian,  Caesar  a  braver  sol- 
dier than  Horace,  or  Pope  a  nobler 
poet  than  Pomfret.    Now,  of  Mr. 
Newman's  essay,  in  whatever  degree 
the  other  objections  of  Atterbury  may 
be  able  to  attach  themselves,  it  can- 
not, with  the  slightest  show  of  jus- 
tice, be  affirmed,  that  it  says  nothing. 
Throughout  450  very  closely  printoL 
pages,  the  learning  and  ingenuity  of 
the  writer  are  kept  in  constant  mo- 
tion; and  cloud  after  cloud  of  so- 
phism is  subjected  to  the  embrace  of 
a  genius,  singularly  vigorous,  lively, 
and  productive.    That  the  offspring 
inherit  some  of  the  unsubstantiiu 
elements  of  their  creation,  will  excite 
surprise  in  none  who  reflect  upon 
their  composition. 

And,  perhaps,  of  all  the  subjects 
which  the  author  endeavours  to  de- 
molish, not  one  engages  so  much  of 
his  attention  as  that  religious  desig- 
nation which  is  known  as  Protestant. 
Almost  from  the  very  first  page  of 
the  book,  the  attack  upon  Protestant- 
ism begins.  Whatever  be  historical 
Christianity,  we  are  assured  that  it  is 
not  the  reliffion  of  Protestants.  Again 
(p.  6),  the  Protestant  is  said  to  be  com- 
pelled to  allow,  that  if  such  a  system 
as  he  would  introduce,  "  ever  existed 
in  early  times,  it  has  been  clean  swept 
away  as  if  by  a  deluge,  suddenly,  si- 
lently, and  without  memorial ;  by  a 
delude  coming  in  a  night,  and  utterly 
soakmg,  rotting,  heaving  up,  and 
hurrying  off  erery  yestige  of  wh«t  it 


1846.] 


Mr.  Newman ;  h\$  Theories  and  Character. 


257 


ibnnd  in  the  Church.**  This  is  only 
a  weak  specimen  of  the  hard  things 
which  Protestantism  has  to  submit  to 
in  the  course  of  400  pages.  It  is 
quite  melancholy  to  see  how  naked 
and  defenceless  the  objector  turns  it 
out,  to  brave  the  hail,  and  wind,  and 
snow ;  with  not  a  shed  to  shelter  its 
penury  and  starvation,  amid  all  the 
sumptuous  architecture  of  develope- 
ment.  Now,  we  wish  it  to  be  dis- 
tinctly understood,  that  in  using  the 
word  Protestant,  we  are  not  identify- 
ing ourselves  with  those  well-mean- 
ing, but  not  particularly  well-in- 
formed gentlemen,  who  deliver  his- 
torical mistakes,  with  such  vehement 
seriousness,  to  a  tumult  of  bonnets, 
or  drive  over  the  May  streams  of 
Exeter  Hall,  before  a  nurricane  of 
pocket-handkerchiefs.  We  under- 
stand the  word  in  the  sense  in  which 
Bishop  Taylor  understood  it,  when 
he  amrmed  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, that  "  Catholic  is  her  name,  and 
Protestant  her  surname;**  when,  in 
the  preface  to  his  excellent  devotions 
at  Golden  Grove,  he  said,  "  Let  us 
secure  that  our  young  men  be  good 
Christians,  it  is  easy  to  make  uiem 
good  Protestants.**  In  the  sense  in 
which  the  late  admirable  Mr.  Davi- 
son employed  the  word,  when  re- 
marking of  Taylor,  that  he  had  an 
absolute  and  independent  grasp  **of 
Protestant  principles  *,**  in  the  sense 
in  which  ^Bishop  Hall  accepted  it, 
when  he  summoned  believers  in  ge- 
neral to  have  no  peace  with  Rome; 
in  the  sense  of  our  Articles  and  our 
Liturgy.  Catholic  is  our  name,  and 
Protestant  our  surname ;  we  acknow- 
ledge the  Homilies  and  the  Prayer- 
Book,  not  the  Evangelical  Alliance 
and  Dr.  Leifchild.  And  of  the  faith 
of  this  Catholic  Protestant  Church, 
the  famous  rule  of  Yincentius  fur- 
nishes a  concise  and  a  just  interpre- 
tation,- it  holds  what  has  been  held 
always,  every  where^  and  hy  all.  Mr. 
Newman,  of  course,  attacking  the 
rule,  because  it  confirms  the  English 
Church,  and  overthrows  the  Roman. 
He  accordingly  finds  insurmountable 
difficulties  in  rendering  it  available. 
He  formerly  professed  a  difierent 
opinion.  He  could  once  describe  it 
as  being  not  of  a  mathematical,  or 
demonstrative,  but  of  a  moral  cha- 
racter;  and,  therefore,  requiring 
practical  judgment  and  good  sense 
to  apply  it.    He  was  plain  and  forci- 


ble then,  he  is  mystical  and  weak 
now.  The  rule  of  Vincentius,  like 
ever}'  canon  in  literature,  in  science, 
or  in  art,  demands  judgment  in  its 
employment.  Will  the  most  admir- 
able telescope  act  upon  the  landscape 
or  the  planet,  if  the  proper  elevation 
or  depression  be  not  obtamed  ?  Could 
Herschell  discover  a  star,  if  Hume 
directed  the  glass? 

When  Goldsmith  presumed  on  one 
occasion  to  differ  from  Johnson,  he 
was  interrupted  by  this  vehement 
objurgation,  '^  Nay,  sir,  why  should 
not  you  think  what  every  body  else 
thinks?**  Goldsmith  was  unconsci- 
ously silenced  by  the  rule  of  Vincen- 
tius. Literary  nlstory  swarms  with 
illustrations.  Virgil  has  been  ele- 
vated to  the  throne  of  Latin  poetry 
by  the  acclamation  of  criticism;  yet 
Scaliger  considered  him  inferior  to 
Lucan.  Among  descriptive  poets, 
Thomson  has  been  regarded  as  the 
most  attractive,  vet  he  only  excited 
the  scorn  of  Walpole.  Lycidas  is 
the  delight  of  every  poetical  heart ; 
vet  Johnson  thought  death  in  a  sur- 
feit of  bad  taste — a  reasonable  retri- 
bution for  a  repeated  perusal .  What 
then?  Is  not  the  JSneid,  after  all, 
the  most  precioiis  of  Latin  poems  ? 
and  are  not  the  Seasons  delightful 
transcripts  of  nature?  and  is  not 
Milton*s  Elegy  worthy  to  be  bound 
up  with  Pai^aise  Lost  f  Certainly ; 
each  and  all  deserve  their  fame.  The 
rule  of  Vincentius  binds  them  to- 
gether. Always^  every  where^  and 
hy  all,  their  grace,  and  fancy,  and 
truthfulness,  have  been  acknow- 
ledged ;  and  the  corrupt  taste  of  Sca- 
liger, the  contempt  of  Walpole,  and 
the  prejudices  of  Johnson,  no  more 
weaken  the  universal  and  potential 
reputation  of  the  authors,  than  the 
election  of  a  member  of  parliament 
is  affected,  by  the  indignant  opposi- 
tion of  those  voters  who  expected  to 
be  bribed  ;  or  the  sermon  of  the 
preacher  is  shorn  of  its  eloquence 
by  the  disapproval  of  the  beadle, 
who  receivea  notice  in  the  morning 
to  relinquish  his  hat. 

Now,  in  despite  of  all  the  vehe- 
ment arguments,  with  which  the  Ro- 
man besiegers  seek  to  beat  down  this 
admirable  breast- work  of  Catholic- 
Protestantism,  we  entertain  no  doubt 
whateyer  of  its  capacity  of  resist- 
ance and  permanence.  Of  those  great 
central  doctrines  which  our  Church 


258 


Mr.  Newman ;  his  Theories  and  Character,        [March, 


holds  and  teaches,  we  afiinn,  without 
hesitation,  that  they  have  been  held 
always,  every  where,  and  by  all. 
Bemembering  Mr.  Newman*8  own 
caution,  that  this  rule  is  not  demon- 
strative or  mathematical,  but  moral, 
and  therefore  requiring  discrimina- 
tion and  good  sense  in  its  application, 
we  trace  up  to  immediate  contact 
with  the  Apostles  and  earliest  mis- 
sionaries of  the  Faith,  our  orders  of 
ministers,  our  discipline  and  unity, 
our  form  of  worship,  our  doctrines 
and  creeds.  We  prove  that  the  Eng- 
lish, like  the  primitive,  is  a  Trini- 
tarian Church .  The  corrupted  Nature 
of  man,  the  new  life  of  Re^neration, 
its  communication  in  Baptism,  sacra- 
mental Grace,  justification  by  Faith, 
the  omnipotence  of  the  Gross,  thesanc- 
tification  by  the ,  Spirit  \ — these  are 
central  doctrines,  and  orbs  of  glory 
diffusing  light  and  warmth  over  the 
entire  system  of  the  Gospel,  which 
our  Church  teaches;  and  not  only 
teaches,  but  follows  back  through 
the  fathers  of  the  first  and  se- 
cond centuries,  and  asserts  to  have 
had  from  the  be^ning  an  universal 
admission ;  to  nave  been  received 
always^  every  where,  and  by  all.  And 
we  consider  the  rule  of  Vincentius, 
thus  applied,  to  be  no  more  mutilated 
bv  heresy  here,  or  scepticism  there, 
than  we  admit  the  genius  of  Virgil 
to  be  humbled  by  the  preference  of 
Scaliger,  or  the  music  of  Milton  to 
be  jarred  out  of  tune  by  the  growl 
of  Johnson. 

But  it  does  not  answer  the  Bo- 
manisin{r  mission  of  Mr.    Newman 
to  admit  the  completeness  of  Re- 
velation.   "  As  to  Christianity,  con- 
sidering the  unsystematic  character 
of  its  mspired  documents,  and  the 
all  but  silence  of  contemporary  his- 
tory, if  we  attempt  to  determme  its 
one  original  profession,  undertaking, 
or  announcement,  we  shall  be  re- 
duced to  those  eclectic  and  arbitrary 
decisions  which  have  in  all  ages  been 
so  common."*    Gibbon  seems  to  be 
a  favourite  with  this  writer ;  and  if  we 
Z%htly  remember,  he  calls  him  our 
Vy  Church  historian;  but  really 
%  sneer  at  the  Gospel  is  almost  too 
In.   The  philosopher  of  Lausanne 
lid  have  shaped  it  into  a  more 
monious    sentence    of  mystery, 
tourse  it  will   startle  ordinary 


Christians,  to  be  told  that  the 
one  original  profession,  undertak- 
ing, or  announcement  of  their  holy 
Faith,  cannot  be  ascertained  from 
any  direct  or  internal  testimony. 
The  Bible  is  to  be  a  blank,  until  it 
has  been  illuminated  into  a  missal ; 
the  form  of  godliness  is  a  mutilation 
and  a  wreck,  until  it  has  been  mould- 
ed into  symmetry  b^  the  artistical 
handicraft  of  Councils  ;  the  Cross 
and  Expiation,  the  Resurrection  uid 
Beatification,  the  Life  of  Probation, 
and  the  Season  of  Judnnent; — ^no- 
thinff  is  clear;  eveiy  Uiing  is  con- 
fused. Religion  is  lifeless,  the  Gos- 
pel is  a  chaos ;  and  our  single  method 
of  interpreting  the  Epistle  of  St. 
Peter  is  by  tne  paraphrase  of  his 
Successor;  and  the  Vatican  contains 
the  only  serviceable  key  to  ihe 
cypher  of  St.  John. 

But  if  that  numerous  class  who, 
unfavoured  by  the  visions  of  Mr. 
Newman,  are  called  by  him  ^^  ordi- 
nary Christians,**  continue  to  inquire 
how  it  is  that  inspired  documents, 
such  as  the  Holy  Scriptures,  do  not 
at  once  determine  a  doctrine  without 
further  trouble,  their  scruples  are 
thus  removed : — 

"  They  were  intended  to  create  an ' 
idea,  and  that  idea  is  not  in  the  sacred 
text,  hot  in  the  mind  of  the  reader ,  and 
the  (Question  is,  whether  that  idea  is  com- 
municated to  him,  in  its  completeness 
and  minute  accuracv,  on  its  first  appre- 
hension, or  expands  in  his  heart  and 
intellect,  and  comes  to  perfection  in  the 
course  of  time.  Nor  could  it  be  main- 
tained, without  extravagance,  that  the 
letter  of  the  New  Testament,  or  of  any 
assignable  number  of  books,  comprises 
a  delineation  of  all  possible  forms  which 
a  difine  message  will  assume  when  sub- 
mitted to  a  muratude  of  minds/* 

Now  we  say  nothing  here  of  the 
frame  of  thought  that  could  venture 
to  classify  Christianity  among  the 
fine  arts,  and  try  its  Author  by  the 
rules  of  criticism.  The  impiety  is 
not  ours,  we  have  only  to  expose  its 
fraud.  Of  the  cradual  growth  and 
expansion  of  religious  tniths  on  a 
mind  disposed  by  God*s  grace  to 
receive,  and  by  God's  blessing  to 
mature  them,  no  person  will  presume 
to  express  a  doubt.  Nay,  rather 
every  tongue  will  join  in  proclaiming 


*  Essay  on  Developement,  p.  66, 


18460 


Mr,  Newman  ;  hU  ThiorUi  and  Character. 


259 


the  joyful  reality.  In  hours  of  lone- 
lineflB  and  Buroring,  in  vigils  of 
sickness  or  sorrow,  in  the  desolation 
of  distant  lands  and  amid  the  aban- 
donment or  ruin  of  whatever  is  dear 
and  precious  to  the  heart—- oh !  then 
it  is  that  the  promises  of  the  Grospel, 
and  the  consolations  of  Faith,  and 
the  hopes  of  Apostles,  return  upon 
the  heart  with  light,  and  bloom^  and 
f  rasrancy,  and  strength,  of  which  it 
had  hitherto  been  unconscious. 
Every  declaration  of  a  Prophet,  every 
recollection  of  an  Evangelist,  every 
song;  of  a  Psalmist,  seems  to  expand 
and  brighten  into  new  revelations  of 
loveliness,  of  joyfiilness,  and  of  ^- 
titude.  Before  the  earnest,  lingermg, 
believing  eye  of  the  lowly  and  sincere 
disciple,  every  jewel  in  the  breast- 
plate of  Rignteousness  appears  to 
give  an  answer  in  hues  of  lustre, 
beauty,  and  fulness,  never  revealed 
before. 

If  you  call  these  clearer  views  of 
truth  by  the  name  of  devehpemenU, 
we  shall  not  litigate  the  question. 

Again,  the  whde  Providential  inter- 
course of  the  Divine  Founder  with  his 
church  has  partaken  of  a  progressive 
character,  and  has  been  so  regarded 
by  the  greatest  theoloo^ns  of  ancient 
and  modem  times.  But  not  to  go 
beyond  our  own  vineyard,  we  find 
one  of  its  skilfulest  dressers  speaking 
of  the  Hebrew  people  as  receiving 
the  teaching  of  hol^  truth  in  single 
rays;  and  companng  the  spirit  of 
manifestation  that  was  given  to  them 
to  the  germ  of  a  vine  or  the  bud  of 
a  rose ;  '*  plain  indices  and  significa- 
tions of  life,  and  principles  of  juice 
and  sweetness,  but  yet  scarce  out  of 
the  doors  of  their  causes."  *  In  the 
infancy  of  sacred  knowledge  they 
received  only  slight  rudiments  of 
spiritual  instruction,  and  were  put 
inta  the  catechinn  of  religion. 

But  as  years  after  years  rolled  on, 
and  the  Divine  Presence  made  that 
Hebrew  people  a  lighted  temple  in 
the  darkness  of  the  world,  and  from 
the  lips  of  prophets  and  men  of 
spiritual  might,  His  Oracles  and 
Messages  were  sent  forth  into  the 
shadows  and  twilight,  we  cannot  but 
perceive  the  future,  not  less  than  the 
present^  to  have  been  the  object  of 
His  legislation.  Those  truths,  it  has 
been  well    said,    which    they  pro- 


claimed, presented  a  front  '^not 
merely  to  the  lies  of  their  own  day, 
but  of  every  later  age  as  well."  The 
Bible  was  not  to  pass  through  con- 
tinual revisions,  and  keep  for  ever 
reappearing  with  emendations  and  a 
new  title-page.  It  was  printed  for 
ever  in  those  types  which  the  Author 
had  chosen ;  and  it  was  endowed  with 
the  capacity  of  adapting  its  lessons 
to  every  variation  of  temperament, 
of  intellect,  and  of  climate.  Simple 
with  the  simple,  it  was,  nevertheless, 
to  be  mighty  with  the  powerful; 
stooping  to  the  humblest,  and  tower- 
ing above  the  proudest ;  fbll  of  meek- 
ness and  forbearance  in  the  cottasee 
of  the  poor,  and  by  the  pillow  of  tne 
penitent ;  but  where  the  strong  man 
of  sin  keeps  his  goods,  desoendmg  to 
the  pillage,  the  strongest  of  the 
strong ;  and,  as  it  has  ever  been,  so 
will  It  always  be.  We  have  entire 
confidence  tnat  Truth  wiU  remain, 
in  the  language  of  Bacon,  '*  a  hill 
not  to  be  commanded;"  and  that 
those  Scriptures,  which  are  Scrip- 
tures of  very  truth,  shall  shew 
themselves  a  niU  which  shall  never 
be  commanded,  but  rather  itself  com- 
manding all  other  heights  and  emi- 
nences of  tiie  spiritual  and  intellectual 
world;  and  tne  thought  of  Bacon 
had  been  taken  up  or  reborn  by  one 
who  lived  among  the  noblest  of 
English  heroes  in  all  the  chivalrous 
wanare  and  exploits  ofgcnius.  He, 
too,  looked  upon  the  iSble  as  con- 
taining passages  which,  almost  desti- 
tute of  immediate  application  to  a 
present,  might  be  intended,  by  a  Pro- 
vidential foresight,  to  expand  into 
wisdom  and  admonition  for  a  future, 
age.  We  allude  to  that  great  vir- 
tuoso, as  Evelyn  called  him,  Robert 
Boyle.  However  deep  science  may 
dig  her  mines  into  the  mysteries  of 
the  universe,  and  bring  up  the  wis- 
dom of  her  subterranean  discoveries ; 
however  she  may  educate  the  ele- 
ments into  submission  to  her  service, 
and  wrest  from  them  secrets  service- 
able to  man;  however  literature  may 
grow  in  stature  and  ri^n  in  capacity ; 
or  however  widely  avilisation  may 
enlarge  the  desires,  or  increase  the 
luxunes,  or  refine  the  taste,  of  the 
human  fsunily,  we  believe  that  the 
developing  process  of  Revelation 
will  keep  pace  with  them  all ;  grow- 


•  See  Bishop  Taylori.  Of  iht  Spirit  of  Graee\  Part  IT. 


260 


Mr.  Newman ;  his  Theories  and  Character.        [March, 


inj^  with  their  growth,  strengthening 
with  their  strength,  stature  in  the 
infancy  and  vigour,  and  not  old  in 
the  decrepitude  and  death  of  Time. 
Yes,  however  unpleasing  such  doc- 
trine may  be  to  the  young  and  in- 
trepid followers  of  Mr.  I^ewman, 
either  halting  at  Romanism,  or  pre- 
cipitated, hj  so  many  daring  plunges, 
into  infidelity : — 

"  Purpurei  cristis  juirenes,  auroque 


.♦» 


corusci ; 

we  cannot  cease  to  utter  the  same 
declaration,  and  to  affirm  that,  as  at 
the  beginning,  so  at  the  end,  the 
Gospel  will  continue  to  be  in  ad- 
vance of  the  age ;  a  science  always 
being  learned  and  never  acquired; 
perpetually  opening  new  wonders, 
which  also  unfold  mto  other  mani- 
festations. But  it  is  a  peculiarity  of 
all  these,  that  they  send  back  the 
beholder  to  the  elements;  always 
ffoing  forward,  he  is  always  going 
backward ;  and,  therefore,  wc  think 
the  preacher  did  well  in  asserting, 
that 

"  There  is  a  sense  in  wliich  there  u 
no  getting  bejrond  the  alphabet  of  Christ* 
ianitv  ;  that  alphabet  will  iilways  be  be- 
yond ua  ;  any  one  of  its  letters  being,  as 
a  mighty  hieroglyphic,  which  the  prayer, 
ful  atuuent  may  partiaUy  decypher,  but 
the  more  accomplished  scholar  never 
thoroughly  expound.  ♦  »  •  'j'he 
heights  and  depths  of  Cliristian  doctrine 
are  but  the  first  elements  expanded  :  the 
simple  truths  are  the  germs  of  the  mys- 
terious  ;  and  it  is  the  little  cloud  which 
at  length  spreads,  like  that  seen  by  the 
Prophet's  servant,  into  an  impenetrable 
vast,  though  only  that  it  may  refresh  and 
fertilise  the  earth."* 

Nor  will  the  following  remarks 
upon  this  most  interesting  subject 
be  read  without  gratification  and 
improvement;  they  occur  in  the 
recent  very  eloquent  Ilulsean  Lec- 
tures of  Mr.  Trench : — 

"  Now,  doubtless,  there  is  a  true  idea 
of  Scriptural  developements,  which  has 
always  been  recogniaed,  to  which  the 
great  fathers  of  the  Church  have  set 
their  sea],  and  it  is  this,  that  the  Church, 
informed  and  quickened  by  the  Spirit  of 
God,  more  and  more  discovers  what  in 
Holy  Scripture  is  given  her ;  but  it  is  not 
tbiB,  that  she  unfolds  by  an  independent 


power  any  thing  further  tliewfrom.     Sb« 
Has  always  possessed  what  afae  now  pos- 
sesses  of  doctrine  and  truth,  only  not 
always  with    the    same   distinctness  of 
consciousness.    She   has  not  added  to 
her  wealth,  but  she  has  become  more  and 
more  aware  of  that  wealth  ;  her  dowry 
bai  remained  always  the  same,  but  that 
dowry  was  so  rich  and  so  rare,  that  only 
little  by  little  she  has  counted  over  and 
taken  inventory  and  stock  of  her  jewels. 
She^  has  consolidated  her  doctrine,  com- 
pelled thereto  by  the  provocation  of  ene- 
mies, or  induced  to  it  by  the  growing 
sense  of  her  own  needs.     She  has  brought 
together  utterances  in  Holy  Writ,  and 
those  which   apart  were   comparatively 
barren,  when  thus  married,  when  each 
had  thus  found  its  complement  in  the 
other,  have  been  fruitful  to  her.    Those 
which  apart  meant  little  to  her,  have  been 
seen  to  m«an  much  when  thus  brought 
together  and  read  each  by  the  light  of  the 
other;  and  in  these  senses  she  has  en. 
larged  her  dominion,  while  her  dominion 
has  become  larger  to  her.     ♦      •       • 

'*  We  do  nut  object  to,  rather  we  fuUy 
acknowledge,  the  theory  of  the  develope- 
ment  of  religious  Truth  so  stated.  We 
no  more  object  than  we  do  to  a  Miceue 
Creed  following  up  and  enlarging  an 
Apostolic,  which  rather  we  gladly  and 
thankfully  receive  as  a  rich  addition  to 
our  heritage.  But  that  Ntcene  Creed,  in 
the  same  manner,  contains  no  new  truths 
which  the  Church  has  added  to  her  stock 
sioce  the  earlier  was  composed,  though 
it  may  be  some  which  she  has  brought 
out  with  more  distinctness  to  herself  and 
to  her  children,  as  it  contains  broader 
and  more  accurately  guarded  statements 
of  the  old.  But  the  essential  in  this  pro- 
gress of  truth  is,  that  the  latter  is  always 
as  truly  found  in  Scripture  as  the  earlier, 
— not  as  easy  to  discover,  but,  when 
discovered,  as  much  carrying  with  it  its 
own  evidence ;  and  then,  not  in  some 
obscure  hint  and  germ,  putting  one  in 
mind  of  an  inverted  pyramid,  so  small 
the  foundation,  so  vast  and  overshadow* 
ing  the  superstructure."  t 

Such  a  theory  of  devclopement  aJl 
men  must  acknowledge.  What,  in 
truth,  is  the  fruit  of  learned  investi- 
gation and  hallowed  meditation  dur- 
ing a  period  of  1500  years— the  gold 
of  the  fathers,  the  costly  wisdom  of 
English  eloquence  in  the  sixteenth 
and  seventeenth  centuries,  the  saga- 
cious scrutiny  of  criticism,  ancient 
and  modern — what  is  it  all,  but  the 
exposition  of  Scripture  truth  ?    Thus 


Mr.  Melviil,  Sermant  on  the  Leu  Prominent  Faett  of  Scripture, 
■^ch's  Hulsean  Lectures,  p.  97.    1846*    Parker. 


1846.] 


Mr,  Newman ;  his  Theories  and  Character. 


261 


Pearson's  illastration  of  the  Creed 
and  Paley*s  history  of  St.  Paul  are 
both  developements,  and  they  are  so 
because  they  bring  prominently  out 
into  the  ^aze  of  men  facts  and  doc- 
trines which  really  do  exist,  and  re- 
quire only  combination  and  induction 
to  give  them  irresistible  force  and 
impression.  It  is  quite  different  with 
the  pretended  developements  of 
Popery.  When  these  are  not  cor- 
ruptions, they  are  certainly  inven- 
tions ;  when  they  are  not  distortions 
of  the  tree,  they  are  grafts  into  it. 
The  worship  of  the  Virgin  Mary  is 
not  only  unsanctioned  by  every 
passage  of  the  New  Testament,  but 
the  impious  probability  of  such  an 
event  seems  never  to  have  presented 
itself  to  the  minds  of  the  Evangelists. 
It  was,  however,  very  important  to 
discover  some  scriptural  countenance 
for  the  key-stone  of  the  Bomish 
superstition.  Accordingly,  Mr.  New- 
man assumed  the  ciil^  to  be  a  true 
developement  of  an  incident  at  the 
marriage  at  Cana.  In  his  latest  work 
he  takes  this  for  granted;  his  in- 
genious proof  of  it  had  been  pre- 
viously given  in  the  sermons  on  sub- 
jects of  the  day,  in  which  the  mem- 
bers of  a  Protestant  university  were 
taught,  by  a  clergyman  of  a  Pro- 
testont  Church,  to  perceive  ^^  the  pre' 
tent  influence  and  power  of  the  mother 
of  Crod*'  But  hear  the  interpreta- 
tion. "  Observe,  He  said  to  His 
mother,  ^What  have  I  to  do  with 
thee?  Mine  hour  is  not  come.* 
Perhaps  this  implies,  that  wheti  His 
hour  was  come,  then  He  would  have 
to  do  with  her  again  as  before ;  and 
such  really  seems  to  be  the  meaning 
of  the  passage.**  And  such  daring 
travestie  of  the  inspired  narrative 
was  suffered  to  pass  vdthout  rebuke 
in  the  home  of  sound  learning  and 
religious  education,  where  Hammond 
memtated  and  Usher  preached ! 

But  Mr.  Newman  shall  state,  in 
his  own  words,  the  nature  of  this 
developing  theory,  which  is  to  ac- 
complish what  erudition  and  elo- 
quence have  hitherto  failed  in  per- 
forming, and  shew  that  Bomanism  is 
in  harmony  with  Bevelation.  His 
essay  is  directed,  as  we  are  told,  to- 
wards the  solution — 

"  Of  the  difficulty  which  lies  in  the 
way  of  using  the  testimony  of  our  most 
natural  informant  concerning  the  doctrine 
and  worship  of  Christiamty ;  vis.^  the 


history  of  1800  years.  The  view  on 
which  it  is  written  haa  at  all  times,  per- 
haps, been  implicitly  adopted  by  theo- 
logians, and,  I  believe,  has  been  recently 
illustrated  by  several  distinguished 
writers  of  the  Continent,  such  as  De 
Maistre  and  Miibler;  viz.,  that  the  in- 
crease and  expansion  of  the  Christian 
Creed  Ritual,  and  the  Tariations  that 
have  attended  the  process  in  the  case  of 
individual  writers  and  churches,  are  the 
necessary  attendants  on  any  philosophy 
or  polity  which  takes  poaaeasion  of  the 
intellect  and  heart,  and  has  had  any  wide 
or  extended  dominion ;  that,  from  the 
nature  of  the  human  mind,  time  is  neces- 
sary for  the  full  comprehension  and  per- 
fection of  great  ideas ;  and  that  the  high- 
est and  most  wonderful  truths,  though 
communicated  to  the  world  once  for  all 
by  inspired  teachers,  would  not  be  com. 
prehended  all  at  once  by  the  recipients, 
but,  as  received  and  transmitted  by  minds 
not  inspired  and  through  media  which 
were  human,  have  required  only  the  longer 
time  and  deeper  thought  for  their  lull 
elucidaliou.  This  may  be  called  the 
Theory  of  Deoflopementt," — P.  27. 

Now  in  this  exjiosition  of  a  theory 
there  is  little,  at  the  first  glance,  to 
censure  in  the  general  spirit  and  ten- 
dcncv,  or,  more  pro^rly  speaking, 
in  the  abstract  signification  of  it. 
The  assertion  that  the  constitution  of 
the  mind  demands  periods  of  time 
for  the  full  comprehension  and  per- 
fection of  great  ideas,  is  so  obviously 
in  accordance  with  all  ex^rience, 
that,  instead  of  a  novelty,  it  is  onl^  a 
truism.  The  history  of  Genius  is  a 
commentary  on  the  maxim.  Onr 
eyes  travel  back  to  the  rising  of  the 
star  bv  the  luminous  path  it  has 
kindled  during  its  journey  into  our 
horizon.  We  are  sometimes  tempted 
to  estimate  the  influence  of  Shak- 
speare  among  his  contemporaries  by 
toe  splendour  which  his  poetry  sheets 
upon  ourselves.  But  it  should  be 
remembered,  that  this  clear  and  bril- 
liant atmosphere  of  opinion,  in  which 
we  now  contemplate  his  beauty,  has 
been  produced  by  the  gradual  in- 
fluence of  his  own  vital  energy  and 
heat,  transfused  by  slow  d^rees  and 
effluxes  of  radiance  into  the  cold  and 
colourless  mists  by  which  his  genius 
was  for  a  long  time  enveloped.  The 
same  remark  would  be  true  of  Mil- 
ton. It  was  only  after  many  pauses, 
with  long  intervals  of  gloom,  that 
the  darkness  finally  rolled  away  from 
his  Garden,  and  the  bloom  of  his 
Paradise  was  felt  upon  the  breese. 


202 


Mr,  Niwman;  hi$  Thionei  and  Character.        [March, 


Reynolds,  by  continaed  meditation 
absorlnng  into  his  own  perception 
the  divine  giaoes  of  Baffiwlle,  is 
a  corresponding  example  in  art. 
With  reference,  therefore,  to  the  in- 
tellectual application  of  the  theory, 
we  do  not  complain  of  its  author; 
but  when  we  find  it  employed  upon 
Religion,  when  we  are  assured  that 
every  peculiarity  of  Romanism  so 
far  from  being  an  accretion,  a  dis- 
tortion,  or  even  a  supplement,  is  only 
a  developement,  we  are  entitled  to 
ask  for  some  certain  means  of  dis- 
tinguishing such  a  transformation 
when  we  see  it.  And  Mr.  Newman 
has  provided  tests  for  that  purpose, 
of  which  we  will  specify  one  or  two 
of  the  most  important.  The  first  is 
supplied  by  the  analogy  of  physical 
growth,  it  being  necessary  that  the 
developed  form  would  correspond  in 
parts  and  proportions  to  the  rudi- 
menUd — the  adult  to  the  infant. 
The  win^  of  the  bird  becomes 
stronger,  but  it  never  changes  into  a 
fin ;  unity  of  type  is,  therefore,  the 
most  ^obvious  characteristic  of  a 
faithful  developement."  But  the 
author  had  no  sooner  made  this  ad- 
mission, than  he  perceived  its  fatal 
consequences  to  his  own  argument, 
and  immediately  prepared  to  ward 
them  off.  A  developement  may  ad- 
mit of  variation.  '^  The  fledged  bird 
differs  from  its  rudimental  form  in 
the  egg;  the  butterfly  is  the  de- 
velopement, but  not,  in  any  sense, 
the  image  of  the  grub."  This  ex- 
pedient of  variation  is  worked  with 
rare  subtletv  and  talent,  but  the 
gidf  cannot  be  crossed  upon  it.  The 
torrent  will  soon  bear  away  the 
bridge.  Ingenuity  may  build  it  up 
again,  with  new  artifices  of  support ; 
but  it  cannot  stand ;  and  if  Roman- 
ism has  no  other  means  of  keeping 
up  a  direct  intercourse  with  the 
primitive  ages  of  faith,  she  must  be 
contented  to  put  out  to  sea  aniin,  and 
endeavour  to  reach  the  narbour 
throuffh  all  the  perils  and  difficulties 
"^traaition  and  infallibilitv. 
3ut  we  are  informed  tnat  a  true 
lent  may  be  described  as 
srvative  of  the  course  of  the 
mt  that  preceded  it, "  which 
relopement,  and  something 
!•-— an  addition  which  illus- 
|flnd  not  obscures,  corrobo- 
not  corrects,  the  body  of 
I  from  which  it  proeeeds.** 


And  this  of  Romani/nn  I  And  men, 
"ordinary  Christians,*'  and  in  the 
possession  only  of  those  ordinary 
gifts  of  understanding  known  aa 
common  sense,  are  to  receive  the  in- 
vocation of  saints  as  the  conservative 
developement  of  the  doctrine  of  Me- 
diation, purgatory  of  Bftptism,  and 
celibacy  of  the  Sacraments.  They 
have  no  choice.  '^  You  must  accept 
the  whole  or  reject  the  whole;  re- 
duction does  but  enfeeble,  and  am- 
putation mutilate."    (F.  155.) 

Let  us  for  a  moment  make  a  fa- 
miliar application  of  one  of  these 
tests,  and  see  how  a  developement 
may  be  conservative  of  the  thmg  de- 
veloped. It  ma^  be  truly  said  that 
the  rich  light  oi  an  autumnal  even- 
ing, filling  tiie  woods  with  many- 
coloured  snadows,  is  a  diffusion  of 
the  ray  that  gilded  the  boughs  in  the 
morning;  and  the  tree,  with  its 
gnarled  trunk,  and  massy  umbrage, 
and  &r-spreading  gloom,  is  the  na- 
tural growth  ana  expansion  of  the 
sapling  that  a  century  before  cast  a 
reflection  of  a  spanks  width  over  the 
warm  grass,  as  it  swayed  to  and  fro 
in  the  breeze  of  summer;  and  the 
river,  flowing  in  a  broad  surface 
of  crystal  to  the  distant  sea,  is  truly 
the  confluence  of  many  streams  all 
kindred  of  the  same  lone  spring  far 
up  in  the  green  retirements  of  pas- 
toral hills ;  and  the  autumnal  twilight 
of  evening,  the  glimmering  branches 
of  the  tree,  and  the  majestic  tide  of 
the  river,  arc  so  man  v  enlargements 
of  original  types,  each  conservative 
of  the  nature  of  its  or^^al,  only 
imparting  to  it  a  wider  dmusion  and 
an  enhul^  energy,  and  therefore 
coming  under  the  definition  of  De- 
velopement. But  take  the  contrary 
view,  and  suppose  the  purple  flush, 
that  called  up  the  lark  to  matins,  to 
disappear  in  storm  and  rain;  the 
tree  to  be  interlaced,  encumbered, 
and  choked  by  parasitical  plants,  and 
moulderin|^  into  decay  by  the  cor- 
rosion of  insects;  and  the  river  to 
be  not  GoXy  discoloured  by  the  soil 
through  which  it  has  flowed,  but  ren- 
dered impure  by  artificial  springs, 
designedly  set  running  into  its  cur- 
rent. Is  not  the  character  of  each 
altogether  altered  ?  The  peculiarity 
of  a  developement  is  gone,  and  that 
of  a  corruption  appears  in  its  place. 
The  beautiful  light  is  not  recog- 
nised in  the  vapour  and  tempest,  nor 


1846.] 


Mr.  Newman ;  his  Theoriei  and  Character* 


263 


the  tree  in  its  distortion  and  rotten- 
ness, nor  the  moantain-spring  in  the 
discoloured  and  infected  river. 

And  if  our  test  be  applied  to  the 
faith  which  Romanism  produces  as 
that  which  was  once  delivered  to  the 
saints,  we  think  that  it  will  be  found 
not  less  demonstrative.  For,  once 
more  taking  up  those  examples  which 
we  have  submitted  to  its  agency,  let 
the  ray  of  sunrise  behind  the  hills 
represent  the  early  gleam  of  the 
spiritiud  Day-Spring,  slowly  ascend- 
ing over  the  dark  mountains ;  and 
let  the  mellower  and  fuller  light  of 
Evangelic  and  Apostolic  message  and 
commentary  be  tne  illumination  that 
filled  the  dark  recesses  of  Paganism 
with  beauty ;  and  let  the  tree,  spread- 
ing into  verdant  amplitude,  indicate 
that  growth  of  Gospel-doctrine  which 
was  to  cover  the  human  race  vrith 
the  shadow  of  its  boughs ;  and  let 
the  river  become  the  emblem  of  that 
sacramental  stream  of  Grace  on 
which  the  Holy  Spirit  moves,  quick- 
ening and  sanctifymg  the  waters  for 
the  restoration  and  cure  of  wounded 
souls.  Under  each  of  these  aspects 
we  recognise  the  lineaments  oi  the 
primitive  type ;  each  is  conservative 
of  its  original.  The  scattered  beams 
have  converged  into  orbs  and  melted 
into  atmosphere ;  the  seed  is  lost  in 
the  tree,  that  yet  retains  all  the 
properties  of  vigour,  and  fniitful- 
ness,  and  beauty,  which  that  germ 
of  vegetation  at  first  communicated ; 
and  the  river  is  equally  clear^  only 
with  a  fuller  current  and  a  deeper 
channel. 

But  esunine  the  same  objects  in 
the  interpretation  of  Romanism, 
prove  them  by  the  same  test,  mea- 
sure them  by  the  same  standard,  re- 
solve them  into  the  same  elements. 
What  is  the  result?  You  perceive 
the  Day-Spring,  indeed,  but  the 
spiritual  is  contrasted  with  the  arti- 
ficial liffht ;  you  have  the  sim  vrith 
the  fartning  candle  flaring  up  at  it ; 
vou  have  the  tree  of  sacred  truth, 
but  trained  into  distortion,  choked 
and  decaying,  flaunting  with  stream- 
ers, and  offering  in  its  leaves  no 
blessed  healing  for  the  nations ;  you 
have  the  stream  of  sacramental 
grace,  but  no  longer  preserving  the 
purity  of  its  source,  no  longer  the 
"  river  of  water  of  life,  clear  as 
crystal,  proceeding  out  of  the  throne 
of  God.*    Mr.  Newman's  own  defi- 


nition (p.  63)  ifl  completely  AilfiUed ; 
and  if  ^'  the  corruption  oi  an  idea  is 
that  state  of  a  developement  which 
undoes  its  previous  advances,"  then 
is  Romanism,  in  all  its  intricate  mul- 
tiplicity of  ritual  and  doctrines,  only 
one  vast  corruption  of  the  perfect 
and  luminous  idea  of  Christianity. 
Nor  should  we  lose  any  advantage 
by  aoceptii^  the  more  amplified  de- 
finition which  the  writer  furnishes  a 
little  further  on,  and  admitting  that 
*'  every  developement  is  to  be  consi- 
dered a  corruption,  which  obieures  or 
prefttdiceg  its  essential  idea,  or  which 
dUturbs  the  lawi  of  developement 
which  constitute  its  oiganisation,  or 
which  reveries  Us  course  ofdeeelope^ 
tneni,^* 

It  is  needless  to  specify  anymore  of 
Mr.  Newman*s  tests.  And  is  it  by 
these,  or  such  as  these,  that  the 
purity  of  Romish  gold  and  Romish 
jewels  is  to  be  ascertained  and  esta- 
blished ?  If  it  be,  is  there  any  well- 
informed  and  honest  member  of  that 
Communion  who  will  abide  by  the 
result  ?  If  supplications  to  the  Vir- 
gin as  a  mediator,  almost  as  a  deity, 
do  not  prejudice  the  essential  idea  of 
Uie  one  Intercessor,  and  disturb  the 
whole  or^nisation  of  Christianity — 
if  the  behef  in  the  atoning  influence 
of  penance  do  not  altogetner  reverse 
the  course  of  developement  in  the 
universal  Satisfaction  of  the  Cross — 
if  the  setting  a  premium  upon  sin  in 
the  dispensation  of  indulgences  and 
the  sale  of  absolution,  be  not,  in  the 
strictest  sense  of  the  word,  an  undoing 
of  the  previous  advances  of  that  idea 
of  Christianity  which  confronts  every 
crime  with  tiSe  stem  eye  of  a  judg- 
ment to  come — ^If  each  and  all  of 
these  instances  be  not  a  prejudice,  a 
reversing,  and  an  undoing  of  the 
original  truth,  then,  indeed,  has  the 
ho^  sun  of  Scripture  risen  and 
shone  in  vain ;  then  in  vain  has  the 
eyesight  been  healed  by  spiritual 
ointment.  The  whole  landscape  of 
divine  history  swims  and  wavers; 
the  nerve  of  vision  is  diseased ;  and, 
instead  of  accurately  distinguishing 
objects,  we  are  only  able,  by  looking 
up,  to  see  men,  as  trees,  walking. 

But  there  is  another  argument 
which  it  is  now  the  practice  to  urge 
upon  tlie  ear  with  every  artifice  of 
vehemence  and  persuasion,  and  that 
is,  the  unity  and  narmony  of  Popery. 
We  might  appeal  to  every  visitor  of 


264 


Mr.  Newman ;  his  Theories  and  Character.        [March, 


1 


foreign  climes  to  state  the  effect  of 
this  unit^  and  harmony  upon  his 
own  feelmgs.  AVben  tnat  accom- 
plished person,  whose  epitaph,  in 
iiichmond  Church,  records  nim  to 
have  heen  the  chosen  friend  of  one  of 
our  dearest  poets,  was  at  length 
enabled  to  make  his  long-desired 
journey  to  France,  his  road  led  him 
to  Amiens.  It  was  a  lovely  summer 
morning  when  he  rose  to  survey  the 
magnificent  cathedral  of  that  city. 
But  what  a  scene  met  his  eye  I  He 
found,  as  he  said,  a  thousand  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  devotion  going  for- 
ward at  the  same  time  at  different 
altars  and  in  different  chapels,  little 
hells  of  various  tones  perpetually 
tinkling, — in  short,  he  declared  that 
the  Boulevards  subsequently  put  him 
very  much  in  mind  of  it,  and  that 
the  exterior  of  French  life  was  the 
aptest  emblem  of  their  religious  in- 
teriors. Both  were  alike  picturesque, 
changeable,  showy,  and  superficial. 
And  this  beholder  was  no  common 
idler — ^ignorant  or  irreligious ;  but  a 
Christian  and  a  gentleman,  a  clergy- 
man and  a  scholar.  Who  has  not 
felt  the  same  sensations  ?  Who  has 
not  sighed  over  the  developements  of 
Christianity  ? 

These  difficulties  have  not  affected 
the  expounder  of  this  new  theory, 
and  no  passages  of  his  book  are  more 
instinct  with  life,  or  more  glowins 
with  eloquence,  than  those  in  which 
he  weaves  all  the  hypothetical  beau- 
ties of  Romanism  into  one  crowning 
panegyric.  The  following  is  a  happy 
example :  — 

*'  If  tbere  be  a  form  of  Cbrislianity 
now  in  the  world  which  is  accused  of 
gross  superstition r  of  borrowing  its  rites 
and  customs  from  the  heathen,  and  of 
ascribing  to  forms  and  ceremonies  an 
occult  virtue, — a  religion  which  is  con- 
sidered to  burden  and  enslave  the  mind 
by  its  requisitions,  to  address  itself  to 
the  weak-minded  and  ignorant,  to  be 
supported  by  sophistry  and  imposture, 
and  to  contradict  reason  and  exalt  mere 
irrational  faith,— a  relipon  which  im- 
presses on  the  serious  mind  very  distress- 
ing yiews  of  the  guilt  and  consequences 
of  sin,  sets  upon  the  minute  acta  of  the 
day  one  by  one  their  definite  value  for 
praise  or  blame,  and  thus  casts  a  grave 
shadow  over  the  foture,-i.a  religion  which 
holds  up  to  admiration  the  surrender  of 


wealth,  and  disables  serious  persona  from 
enjoying  it  if  they  would ,...a  religion,  the 
doctrines  of  which,  be  they  good  or  bad, 
are  to  the  generality  of  men  unknown ; 
which  is  considered  to  bear  on  its  very 
surface  signs  of  fully  and  falsehood  so 
distinct,  that  a  glance  suffices  to  judge  of 
it,  and  careful  examination  is  prepos- 
terous ;  which  is  felt  to  be  so  simply  bad 
that  it  may  be  calumniated  at  hazard  and 
at  pleasure,  it  being  nothing  but  ab- 
surdity to  stand  upon  the  accurate  dis- 
tribution of  its  guilt  among  its  particular 
acts,  or  painfully  to  determine  how  far 
this  or  that  story  is  literally  true,  what 
must  be  allowed  in  candour,  or  what  is 
improbable,  or  what  cuts  two  ways,  or 
what  is  not  proved,  or  what  may  be 
plausibly  defended, — a  religion  such  that 
men  look  at  a  convert  to  it,  with  a  feeling 
which  no  other  sect  raises,  except  Ju- 
daism, Socialism,  or  Mormoniam ;  with 
curiosity,  fear,  suspicion,  disgust,  as  the 
case  may  be  ;  as  if  aoraetfaing  strange  had 
befallen  him ;  as  if  he  bad  had  an  ini- 
tiation into  a  dreadful  mystery,  and  had 
come  into  communion  with  dreadful  in- 
fluences \  as  if  he  were  now  one  of  a 
confederacy  which  claimed  him,  absorbed 
him,  stripped  him  of  his  personality,  re- 
duced him  to  a  mere  instrument  or  organ 
of  the  whole, — a  religion  which  men 
hate,  as  proselytising,  anti-social,  revo- 
lutionary ;  as  dividing  families,  sepa* 
rating  chief  friends,  corrupting  the 
maxims  of  government,  making  n  mock 
at  law,  dissolving  the  empire,  the  enemy 
of  human  nature,  and  a  *  conspirator 
against  its  rites  and  privileges,' —  a  reli- 
gion which  they  consider  the  cham- 
pion and  instrument  of  darkness,  and 
a  pollution  calling  down  upon  the 
land  the  anger  of  Heaven, — a  religion 
which  they  associate  with  intrigue 
and  conspiracy,  which  they  speak  about 
in  whispers,  which  they  detect  by  an- 
tioipation  in  whatever  goes  wrong,  and 
to  which  they  impute  whatever  is  unac- 
countable,—  a  religion,  the  very  name 
of  which  they  cast  out  as  evil,  and  use 
simply  as  a  bad  epithet,  and  which,  from 
the  impulse  of  self-preservation,  they 
would  persecute  if  they  could  ;  if  there 
be  such  a  religion  now  in  the  world,  it 
is  not  unlike  Christianity  as  that  same 
world  viewed  it,  when  first  it  came  forth 
from  its  Divine  Author."* 

We  shall  not  analyse  the  veracity  of 
these  statements,  but  rather  give  our 
own  delineation  of  that  system  which 
they  profess  to  recommend.  Did  wc 
say  our  own  ?  Nay,  rather,  the  de- 
lineation of  history  itself,  drawn  in 


Essay  ou  Developement,  p.  243, 


1846.] 


Mr.  Newman ;  his  Theories  and  Character. 


265 


its  bold  and  vivid  outline  and  atti- 
tude, and  bright  with  its  lasting 
colours.  Look,  then,  we  ask  our 
readers,  upon  this  picture,  as  well  as 
on  that;  hang  them  together,  as  two 
vast  antitheses  upon  canvass. 

If  there  be  a  religion  which  has 
almost  elevated  a  creature  to  the 
throne  of  the  Creator,  and  withdrawn 
the  Cross  of  the  Redeemer  behind 
the  picture  of  Mary ;  if  it  violate  the 
injunction  of  St.  Paul,  to  "  do  all 
in  the  name  of  the  Lord  Jesus,  giving 
thanks  to  God  and  the  Father  by 
Him,"  by  substituting  for  the  name 
of  Jesus  the  name  of  his  mother ;  if 
it  mutilate  the  ^ndeur  of  the  In- 
tercessor, by  the  mvocation  of  saints ; 
if  it  blaspheme  the  Divine  Presence, 
bv  affirming  that  He  contracts  his 
glory  to  dwell  in  the  Elements ;  if  it 
cherish  idolatry  by  image-worship, 
and  desecrate  the  Lord  of  Heaven 
by  a  familiarity  so  dreadful,  that, 
more  than  a  century  since,  a  scoffer 
beheld  a  representation  of  Him  over 
the  altar  of  a  chapel,  in  a  full- 
bottomed  wig,  well  powdered;  if  it 
replace  the  Atonement  by  penance, 
and  repentance  bjr  Purgatory;  if  it 
make  the  word  of  God  to  be  of  none 
effect  by  tradition,  and  expound,  not 
the  gloss  by  the  Gospel,  but  the 
Gospel  hj  the  gloss ;  if  it  proclaim 
the  mfallibilitvof  a  ruler,  and  bracket 
the  councU-chamber  of  Trent  with 
the  upper  room  of  the  Apostles ;  if  it 
uphold  the  sanctity  of  relics  and  the 
fitness  of  falsehood;  if  it  encourage 
persecution,  and  preach  with  the 
fagot ;  if  it  has  been  ever  animated 
by  an  imperial  heart,  and  looked  upon 
conversion  and  conquest  as  conver- 
tible terms ;  if  it  has  stooped  only  to 
rise,  and  worn  the  horse-hair  only 
to  make  sure  of  the  purple ;  if  it  has 
cast  over  all  this  variety  of  super- 
stition and  error,  the  splendour  of 
enthusiasm  and  the  allurements  of 
poetry ;  if  it  has  combined  the  noblest 
achievements  with  the  basest  designs ; 
if  it  has  helped  to  decorate  and  to 
defile  the  world,  to  illuminate  and  to 
darken  it ;  if  it  created  a  Bonner  and 
a  Fenelon ;  if  it  has  fostered  Raffaelle, 
and  imprisoned  Galileo ;  if  it  erected 
St.  Peter's,  and  invented  the  Inquisi- 
tion ;  if  it  elicited  all  the  wonders  of 
genius  to  emblazon  its  home,  and 


paid  for  them  by  the  traffic  in  In- 
dulgences ;  if  it  kept  the  torch  of 
Virgil  burning  in  the  night  of  civili- 
sation, and  closes  the  Bible  to  the 
eyes  of  the  weary ;  if  it  exhibits  the 
martyr  who  perished  in  triumph,  and 
the  iM&ndit  wno  purchases  absolution 
with  his  plunder ;  if  there  has  ever 
been,  if  there  be  at  this  time,  such  a 
religion  as  this,  —  magnificent  and 
sordid,  true  and  false,  divine  and 
human,  —  it  is  not  very  unlike  what 
Romanism  may  be  proved  to  have 
been,  as  it  rose  from  beneath  the 
plastic  hands  of  its  successive  de- 
velopers, and  as  it  has  been,  and 
contmues  to  be  now,  in  every  sta^ 
of  its  disastrous,  its  splendid,  and  its 
tremendous  career. 

We  said  of  Mr.  Xewman  that  in 
his  plunge  into  infidelity,  he  caught 
at  Romanism.  Since  that  page  was 
written,  we  find  that  our  apprehen- 
sion is  shared  by  others, — with  this 
difference,  that  our  remark  upon  the 
leader  is  expanded  to  embrace  his 
party : — 

"  If  tliey  stay  long  enough  to  take  in 
a  fresh  supply  of  moTing  power,  it  is 
quite  as  muco  as  their  frieods  in  the 
eternal  city  should  venture  to  reckon  on. 
Their  pilgrimage  seems  destined  to  the 
fate  that  Milton  tells  of:  — 

'  St.  Peter  at  heaven's  wicket  seems 
To  wait  them  with  bis  keys ;     .    .     . 

When,lo! 

A  violent  cross  wind  from  either  coast 
Blows  them  transverse  a  thousand  league 

away 
Into  the  devious  air  !'"* 

It  is  quite  clear  that  no  system  of 
belief,  however  elastic,  can  contain 
the  rapidly  enlarging  proportions  of 
Mr.  ISTewman's  speculation.  One 
more  spring,  such  as  he  has  just 
made,  and  flie  Roman  Catholic  Di- 
rectory will  not  hold  him.  He  must 
have  a  red  book  to  himself.  He  can- 
not be  supposed  to  be  blind  to  the 
imminence  of  his  peril.  He  is  travel- 
ling to  Germany  oy  way  of  Italy,  and 
enjoying  the  picturesque  before  he 
settles  down  in  the  commonplace. 
He  may  take  Berlin  after  Rome; 
and,  perhaps,  as  Voltaire  proffered 
his  services  to  interpret  Pascal,  so 


Modem  Hagiology,  vol,  i.  ch.  xiii. 


266 


Mr,  Newman  ;  his  Theories  and  Character,        [March, 


in  like  manner,  some  aspiring  Nc- 
ologian  may  be  destined  to  find  his 
translator  in  the  priest  of  Littlemore. 
For  the  present,  he  distinguishes 
developement  from  Rationalism : — 

"  To  developo  is  to  receire  condasions 
from  repealed  truth,  to  ratioDalise  is  to 
receive  nothing  but  conclusions  from 
received  truths  ;  to  develope  is  positive, 
to  rationalise  is  negative ;  the  essence 
of  developement  is  to  extend  belief,  of 
rationalism  to  contract  it."* 

If  this  parallel,  or  contrast,  be  not 
particularly  lucid,  we  must  patiently 
await  its  commentary.  At  ail  events, 
the  Neologians  have  no  cause  to 
despair;  nay,  scepticism  is  looking 
up.  The  infiders  commodity  rises 
in  the  market.  Three  hundred 
years,  and  the  labours  of  modem 
writers  hare  done  much  for  its 
cause.  For  this  we  have  a  com- 
petent witness.  "  Infidelity  itself," 
writes  Mr.  Newman  (p.  28),  "is 
in  a  different,  I  am  obliged  to 
say,  in  a  more  hopeful  position,  as 
re^rds  Christianity."  Such  a  result 
might  reasonably  haye  been  expected 
from  recent  efforts;  and  we  cannot 
doubt  that  the  new  theory  of  com- 
posing lives  of  saints,  after  the  man- 
ner of  Butler  or  Scarron,  and  giving 
us  Hudibras  in  a  martyrolo^,  must 
have  proved   highly  effective.      A 

treat  step  has  also  l>een  taken  in  the 
iscovery  (p.  73),  that  men  may  pass 
from  infidelity  to  Home,  andTfrom 
Borne  to  infidelity,  "  from  a  convic- 
tion in  both  courses,  that  there  is  no 
tangible  intellectual  poeiti(m  between 
the  two."  Moreover,  illustrious  ex- 
amples are  not  wanting  to  keep 
chancers  in  countenance ;  they  only 
require  developing.  "  St.  Augustine 
was  nine  years  a  Manichee ;  St.  Basil 
for  a  time  was  in  admiration  of  the 
Semi-arians;  St.  Sulpicius  gave  a 
momentary  countenance  to  the  Pe- 
lagians ;  St.  Paula  listened,  and  Ma- 
laria assented,  to  the  Origenists." 
(P.  245.) 

If,  therefore,  this  ingenious  author 
should  at  a  future  time  perceive  his 
Bomanism  developing  into  Neology, 
he  will  only  have  to  treat  his  pre- 
sent essay,  as  he  has  handled  his  for- 
mer lectures  on  the  superstition 
which  he  now  professes;  reverting 


with  momentary  self-reproach  to  his 
association  with  Dr.  Wiseman  and 
his  reverence  for  Trent,  and  heaving 
a  deeper  sigh  for  his  earlier  abode 
among  the  corruptions  of  Protest- 
antism, its  fellowships,  and  its  friends. 
Do  we  write  these  things  of  a  learned 
and  an  eloquent  man,  without  feel- 
ings of  poignant  regret  and  commi- 
seration? We  do  not.  Such  a  capa- 
city, so  strengthened  by  exercise,  so 
brightened  by  reflection,  so  enriched 
by  labour,  who  might  not  honour ; 
and  for  its  enchantment  and  its  ob- 
scuration, who  can  refuse  to  mourn  ? 
If  his  mind  be  viewed  only  on  that 
side  which  intellect  illuminates,  it 
will  be  found  to  be  full  of  beauty 
and  light.  His  sermons  contain 
thouQ:hts  that  Hooker  might  have 
brooaed  over,  and  images  Uiat  Au- 

Sistine  himself  might  have  loved, 
e  touches  the  most  familiar  object 
with  a  pencil,  that  gives  life  as  well 
as  colour.  If  he  animates  new  ideas, 
he  adorns  old.  How  happy  is  the 
comparison  of  baptism  to  the  ^*  effect 
of  the  sun*s  light  m  place  of  twilight, 
removing  the  sameness  or  the  dul- 
ness  of  the  landscape,  and  bringing 
it  out  into  all  sorts  of  hues,  pleasant 
or  unpleasant,  according  as  we  profit 
by  it  or  not."t  And  who  will  not 
lament  that  the  writer  of  these  admi- 
rable remarks  upon  the  value  and 
use  of  excited  feelings  in  religion, 
did  not  ponder  over  them  with  his 
own  eyes,  and  endeavour  to  practise 
the  lesson  which  he  taught  ? — 


"  When  sinners  are  fint  led  to  think 
serioosly,  strong  feelings  usually  precede 
or  attend  their  reflections  about  them- 
selves. The  view  of  their  manifold  sins, 
their  guilt,  &c.  breaking  upon  them, 
strikes,  astonishes,  agitates  tliem.  Here, 
then,  let  them  know  the  intention  of  all 
this  excitement  of  mind  in  the  order  of 
Divine  Providence.  It  is  not  religion 
itself,  though  it  is  accidentally  connected 
with  it,  and  may  be  made  the  means  of 
leading  them  into  a  sound,  religious 
course  of  life ;  it  is  generally  designed 
to  be  a  set-off  a^^st  the  distastefulness 
and  pain  of  doing  their  duty.  Learn, 
therefore,  to  obey  promptly  these  strong 
feelings,  and  as  it  were,  the  graceful  be- 
ginnings of  obedience — ^graceful  and  be- 
coming  in  children— but  in  grown,  spirit- 
ual men  ludicrous  and  unseemly,  as  tli« 


Essay  on  Deyelopement,  p.  83. 


t  Sermons,  vol.  vi.  p.  77^. 


1846.] 


Mr.  Netoman ;  his  Theories  and  Character. 


Wt 


fiports  of  bojfhood  woold  be  in  adrioced 
years.  Hasten  to  use  tbem  while  they 
hist  (for  soou  will  they  die  away),  and 
you  may  have  made  an  effectual  com- 
mencement in  reformation.  Many  and 
grievous  are  the  mistakes  of  men  upon 
this  head.  Some  look  upon  the  turbid 
zealj  and  fervent  devotion  which  attend 
their  repentance,  not  as,  in  fact,  the  cor- 
rupt offspring  of  their  previously  corrupt 
state  of  mind,  and  partly  a  providential 
provision,  only  temporary  to  encourage 
them  to  set  about  their  amendment,  but 
as  the  substance  and  real  excellence  of 
religion.  They  think  to  be  thus  agitated 
is  to  be  religious  ;  they  indulge  them- 
selves in  the  luxury  of  these  warm  feel- 
ings as  long  as  they  last;  and  when 
they  begin  in  nature  to  subside,  they  re- 
sort to  the  more  powerful  stimulants  of 
new  doctrine  and  strange  teachers,  while 
no  advance  has  been  made  in  practical 
religion.  Others,  again,  on  their  awak- 
ening, despise  plain  obedience  as  a  mere 
unenlightened  morality,  and  think  that 
they  are  called  to  some  high  and  siogalar 
office  in  the  Church  of  Christ.  These 
miildke  their  duty,  as  those  already  de- 
scribed neglect  it ;  they  do  not  waste 
their  time  in  mere  good  thoughts  and 
good  words  as  others,  but  they  are  im- 
petuously led  on  to  wrong  acts;  and 
that  from  tl}e  influence  of  those  same 
strong  emotions,  which  tbe^  hare  not 
learned  to  use  aright,  or  to  direct  to  their 
proper  end.  Now,  the  error  of  both 
these  classes  of  persons  is  the  error  of 
the  restored  demoniac  (Luke,  viii.  38), 
who  '  besought  Jesus'  in  vain  that  he 
might '  continue  with  him.'  They  desire 
to  keep  themselves  in  Christ's  immediate 
presence,  instead  of  '  returning  to  their 
own  home'  (as  he  would  ha^e  them) ;  i.e. 
the  common  duties  of  life.  They  must 
learn  to  live  by  faith,  which  Is  a  calm, 
deliberate,  rational  principle,  full  of 
peace  and  comfort,  and  which  sees  him, 
and  rejoices  in  him,  though  sent  awav 
from  his  presence  to  labour  in  the  world. 
Let  them  return  to  their  old  occupations 
and  pursuits ;  they  did  them  all  before, 
when  they  lived  to  the  world ;  let  them  do 
them  well  now,  and  Hto  to  God.  Let 
tbem  do  their  duties,  little  as  well  as 
great,  heartily  for  Christ's  sake  ;  go 
among  their  friends;  shew  them  what 
God  has  done  for  them ;  be  an  example 
to  them,  and  teach  them." 

Our  readers  will  not  have  for- 
gotten a  former  expression  of  hope 
on  our  part  that  the  Tractarian 
movement,  having  in  its  earlier  stages 
promoted  the  cmtivation  of  eoclesi- 


aatical  learning,  and  oontribnted  to 
raise  the  standard  of  church  princi- 
ples,  might  subside  into  dignified 
tranquillity.  We  trust  ^at  the  agi- 
tation of  Dr.  Pnsey  will  not  interfere 
with  that  most  desirable  consumma- 
tion. Yet  his  proceedings  may  well 
excite  alarm  in  the  minds  of  reflect- 
ing men.  An  enemy  might  suggest 
that,  having  provided  for  the  reli- 
ffious  improvement  of  his  readers 
by  the  adaptation  of  Avrillon,  he 
was  about  to  furnish  them  with  an 
enchiridion  of  Christian  morals  in  a 
similar  abridflement  of  Macchiavelli. 
He  has  already  spoken  of  his  friend, 
as  only  gone  to  labour  in  another 
part  of  the  vineyard.  This  is  signi- 
ficant. Does  Dr.  Pusey  remain  be- 
hind to  get  bis  portion  of  the  ground 
into  better  cultivation,  to  complete  a 
line  from  Christ  Church  to  Oscot, 
and  then  to  follow  leisurely  widi  the 
li^eage-train  ?  It  does  not  fall 
within  our  present  design  to  dwell 
upon  his  theology.  It  may  be  true, 
or  it  may  be  false ;  we  only  assert 
that  it  is  not  the  theology  of  the 
Church  of  England.  It  insults  her 
Articles,  it  contradicts  her  Liturgy,  it 
violates  her  authority,  it  tampers 
with  Scripture.  Are  these  things  to 
be  suffer^  ?  are  they  to  go  on  P  are 
they  to  develope  P  If  so,  kt  us  know 
it  and  be  prepared.  Already  Mr. 
Newman  hmts  at  the  lawfiilness  of 
persecution.  Such  hints  are  certain 
to  possess  the  characteristic  of  a  true 
developement,  and  be  conservative 
of  the  ori^nal  idea.  Men  who  utter 
such  sentmients  have  the  Inquisition 
in  their  eye.  Already  the  most  in- 
fluential journal  in  Europe  has  called 
public  attention  to  this  startling  re- 
velation.* They,  who  smile  at  a 
confessional-box  in  the  Oxford  ca- 
thedral, should  think  for  a  moment 
of  the  terrible  apparatus  it  would 
bring  with  it.  Such  keys,  as  Dr. 
Pusey  talked  of,  are  turned  with  a 
muscular  wrench.  They  open  and 
shut  Purgatory  as  well  as  Paradise, 
and  rule  the  familiar,  not  less  than 
the  family. 

If  men  will  sleep  let  them  sleep  in 
the  day,  not  when  the  shadows  of 
declining  truth  begin  to  lengthen, 
and  the  night  of  superstition  lowers 
over  the  land.    We  call  upon  those 


*  See  an  article  on  the  persecution  of  the  Polish  nuns  in  the  Tiiiwi  for  Thursday, 
Pebmary  6. 


268 


Mr.  Newman ;  his  Theories  and  Character.         [Marcky 


to  whom  the  discipline  of  our  uni- 
versities is  intrusted,  to  warn  their 
flocks  of  the  dancers  that  surround 
them.  We  say  their  flocks,  because 
it  is  in  that  relation  that  every  tutor 
in  holy  orders  is  bound  to  regard  his 
pupils.  They  have  not  discharged 
their  duty  when  they  have  lectured 
on  Aristotle.  We  call  upon  them  to 
point  out  the  misery  of  even  the 
slightest  deviation  from  sincerity  and 
plain  dealing.  We  demand  of  them, 
m  the  name  of  the  fathers  and  mo- 
thers whose  children  they  hold  as 
sacred  deposits,  to  repudiate  the  fear- 
ful heresy  that,  in  certain  cases^  a  He 
is  the  nearest  approach  to  truth.* 
Let  the  Jesuitical  and  non-natural 
sense  of  signing  the  Articles  be  desig- 
nated by  its  proper  name;  let  the 
inexperienced  and  venturous  foot- 
step be  deterred  from  attempting  to 
glide  over  the  frozen  stream  upon 
the  smooth  polish  of  a  sophism  by 
the  warning  **  Dangerous  !"  written 
in  the  larg^  letters  of  experience. 

Lastly,  we  call  also  upon  the 
young  men  themselves — those  to 
whom  the  poison  is  administered  with 
the  most  engaging  seduction— to 
take  heed  unto  their  ways.  Circe 
has  other  transformations  than  those 
of  the  companions  of  Ulysses.  Esteem 
for  briffht  talents,  wide  attainments, 
or  unblemished  sanctity,  must  not 
be  suffered  to  conciliate  favour  for 
the  theories  or  the  doctrines  which 
they  are  employed  to  recommend. 


No  piety  can  extenuate,  however  ge- 
nius may  embellish,  a  fraud.  Al- 
ready the  voice  of  earnest  admoni- 
tion has  been  raised  in  that  cathedral, 
where  most  especially  it  ought  to  be 
heard. 

"  I  am  sure/'  are  the  worda  of  Bishop 
Wilberforce, "  that  a  more  deadly  blovr 
could  not  be  ioflicted  on  our  Cburcli 
thau  that  the  people,  of  wbose  cbaracter, 
thank  God,  sterling  honesty  is  the  dia- 
tinctiye  feature,  should  hare  reason  to 
suspect  that  their  clergy  believed  one 
thing  while  they  taught  another."! 

Every  bond  of  union  with  such  a 
party  ouffht  to  be  resolutely  and 
immediately  broken  asunder,  fiiend- 
ship,  habit,  kindness,  personal  ad- 
vantages, what  are  these  to  an  uncor- 
rupted  heart  and  a  conscience  void  of 
ofience  ?  Under  cover  of  our  own 
betrayers,  Bome  advances.  Not  a 
moment  oueht  to  be  lost.  Let  the 
separation  from  the  Jesuitism  of 
Pusey  and  the  developement  of  New- 
man, be  instant  and  complete.  Se- 
vere crises  demand  decided  measures. 

If  private  sympathies  still  weigh 
down  and  detain  the  struggling  dis- 
ciple,— ^if  the  anchor,  encumbened  by 
drifting  weeds,  will  not  rise  to  the 
hand, — ^then  one  course  only  remains, 
and  that  is  to  cut  the  cables  and  pre- 
pare for  action  at  the  signal,  whidi 
ought  now  to  be  making  from  every 
hign  place  of  education  throughout 
the  kmgdom, — "  Enemy  at  Sea.** 


*  llie  words  of  Mr.  Newman. 

t  A  charge  deHrered  to  the  candidates  for  ordination,  Dec.  21, 1645. 


1846*] 


Le  Jeu  de  NocL 


269 


LE   JEU    OE    NOEL. 


FROM  THE  NOTES  OF  AN  OLD  TBAVELLER. 


Mt  first  trip  to  Paris  was  made  in— 
I  have  forgotten  the  year,  but  it  was 
one  in  the  reign  of  Catalan],  who 
swayed  so  long  and  well  the  sceptre 
of  tne  stage,  it  was  the  second  season 
of  her  glory  and  the  first  night  of 
"  La  Tcntation  de  Saint  Antoine ;" 
and  I  made  my  way  through  a  crowd 
whose  pressure  is  still  in  my  recol- 
lection to  the  oyerthrongea  pit  of 
the  Italian  Opera.  There  was  no 
other  spot  in  that  vast  and  splendid 
edifice  where  even  standing  room 
might  be  found ;  for  I  had  come  late, 
and  the  house  had  been  filling  for 
the  last  three  hours.  There  I  stood, 
surrounded  by  half  Paris,  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  at  least  120°  Fahr.,  with 
scarcely  room  to  breathe,  and  sun^ 
dry  English  suspicions  crossing  my 
mind  at  times  touching  the  safety  of 
my  pockets  and  their  contents ;  but 
all  tne  crosses  and  trials  of  the  hour 
were  lost  and  forgotten  as  the  cur- 
tain rose  in  the  rich  music  and  gor- 
f>ou8  scenery  of  that  queen  of  operas, 
ow  presenting  the  arid  expansion 
of  an  Egyptian  desert, — its  sands,  its 
ruins,  and  its  p3rramids,  clothed  with 
the  burning  glory  of  a  southern  sun- 
set; and  then  the  luxuriant  garden 
of  an  Oriental  palace,  rich  in  foun- 
tains and  in  flowers,  at  one  moment 
shewing  in  the  depth  of  their  regal 
darkness  the  court  and  councils  of  the 
for-ever-fallen ;  and  the  next,  with 
harmonies  not  all  unworthy  of  their 
harps,  displaying  the  an^el  choirs 
that  walk  on  rosy  heights  beside  the 
fount  of  day ;  and  then  the  dweller 
of  the  trackless  sands  himself,  the 
deeply  tried  and  the  strong  of  pur- 
pose, what  shapes  of  beauty,  and  what 
lorms  of  fear  rose  around  his  world- 
forgotten  solitude,  and  what  voices 
filled  the  waste,  till,  above  all,  like 
a  crowning  glory,  swept  the  still 
unrivalled  tones  of  Catalani,  sing- 
ing the  final  triumph  of  faith  and 
virtue. 

"  C'est  magnifique,  monsieur!"  said 
an  elderly,  but  very  intelligent-look- 
ing Frenchman  at  my  side,  as  the 
last  burst  of  enthusiastic  applause 
gradually  died  away.    The  speaker 

VOL.  XXXin.  NO.  czcv. 


was  a  person  who,  by  his  dress  and 
appearance,  should  have  been  a  fre- 
quenter of  the  front  boxes;  but  a 
crowded  theatre  levels  all  distinctions 
for  the  time  in  France ;  and  he  had 
given  an  example  of  his  country's 
hospitality  by  exerting  himself  to 
make  room  for  me.  In  the  course  of 
the  evening's  performance  we  had 
interchanged  remarks  and  snuff- 
boxes ;  and  at  this  stage  of  the  pro- 
ceedings our  acquaintance  had  ad- 
vanced quite  as  far  as  that  of  two 
English  families  on  the  return  of  the 
second  visit. 

"  It  is  indeed  magnificent,"  said  I, 
in  answer  to  his  &st  observation, 
which  was  made  with  all  the  power 
and  spirit  of  his  theatre-loving  peo- 
ple. "  Are  all  your  Parisian  operas 
so  splendid  P" 

"  Ah,  not  all,"  said  my  new  friend, 
with  a  look  far  exceeding  in  its  gratifi- 
cation that  with  which  me  first  waiter 
at  Mivart's  contemplates  a  golden 
douceur^  [and,  readers ;  I  have  seen  no 
deeper  delight ;]  but  he  added,  with 
patriot  pride  or  vanity,  '*  Monsieur 
knoMTS  we  have  always  the  best 
things  in  Paris.'*  I,  oi  course,  as- 
sental,  and  he  went  on  in  a  graver 
tone. 

*'  What  a  sombre  thing  it  is,  after 
all  the  late  brilliancy,  to  see  the  cur- 
tain fall  I  It  is  strange,  monsieur,  but 
I  never  witness  that  circumstance 
without  recurring  to  a  singular  story 
well  known  in  my  youth,  and  to 
which  I  was  actually  an  eye-witness 
some  years  before  the  revolution." 
This  preface  roused  my  curiosity,  for 
the  love  of  strange  stories  haa  fol- 
lowed me  from  diildhood,  and,  as 
might  be  expected,  I  was  earnest  in 
requesting  my  new  friend  for  the  tale. 
"  The  house  is  emptying  slowly," 
said  he,  *^  and  as  we  wUl  not  get  out 
easily  for  at  least  half  an  hour,  take 
a  seat  beside  me,  for,  thank  our 
stars,  there  are  seats  to  be  had 
now,  and  you  shall  have  it,  such  as 

18. 

Down  I  sat  accordingly,  and  some 
two  or  three  persons  who  had  lin- 
gered like  ourselves  to  avoid  the 

T 


270 


Le  Jeu  de  Noch 


[March, 


general  rash,  came  and  did  likewise, 
and  the  Frenchman  proceeded : — 

**  I  was  just  fifteen,  and  it  was 
Christmas  time  in  the  vear  1787; 
my  friend,  the  young  Alarquis  de 
Marigny,  had  invited  me  to  spend 
some  time  with  him  at  Versailles,  and 
I  was  nothing  loath  to  exchange  the 
discipline  of  the  Jesuit  college  for 
the  court  festivities,  which  were  at 
that  season  peculiarly  attractive. 
Never,  indeed,  had  the  gay  Christmas 
time  been  more  joyously  celebrated 
in  that  courtly  city :  nobles  poured 
from  the  provinces,  and  strangers 
from  the  frontier.  Balls,  theatres, 
and  concerts,  of  the  most  brilliant 
description,  succeeded  each  other 
more  rapidly  than  I  can  remember ; 
and  all  was  glorious  to  me,  for  it  was 
almost  my  first  taste  of  life;  but 
Christmas-day  at  last  arrived,  and 
its  evening  was  devoted  to  a  magni- 
ficent masquerade,  given  at  the  palace 
on  a  scale  of  extraordinary  liberality ; 
all  comers,  in  fact,  were  welcome, 
and  as  there  was  little  scrutiny  and 
much  disguise,  the  company  were 
extremely  numerous.  lAy  friend  and 
I,  of  course,  were  there ;  but  we  had 
agreed  on  disguising  ourselves  from 
each  other,  in  order  to  test  our  re- 
spective powers  of  recognition.  I 
had  arrived  late  in  the  garb  of  a 
brother  of  St.  Francis,  and  for  some 
time  perambulated  in  vain  the  apart- 
ments of  that  apparently  intermi- 
nable palace ;  but  amongst  all  their 
motley  groups  of  well  and  ill-dis- 
guised figures  I  could  not  discover 
the  marquis. 

**  Hours  had  elapsed,  and  I  had 
grown  weary  in  the  fruitless  search, 
when  in  one  of  the  most  crowded 
saloons,  I  was  suddenly  accosted  by 
a  Benedictine  nun  in  the  usual  mas- 
querade style,  *  Holy  brother,  what 
is  your  opinion  of  these  profane  and 
worldly  amusements  ?* 

"  I  was  about  to  reply,  when  she 
added  in  a  whisper,  *  Turn  to  the 
apartment  called  the  Rose  Cabinet 
on  the  right,  where  you  will  find  the 
Marquis  de  Marigny,  and  tell  him 
that  the  play  in  the  Kue  de  Savonier 
is  about  to  commence.* 

**  Before  I  had  time  to  inquire  the 

"taning  of  her  message,  the  nun  was 

to  my  si^ht  among  the  ever- 

ng  multitude ;  but  I  still  recol- 

at  the  voice,  though  unknown 

had  a  very  unfeminine  sound, 


and  who  that  nan  was  I  have  never 
since  been  able  to  discover.  How- 
ever, I  soon  found  the  Rose  Cabinet, 
a  small  and  beautiful  apartment  of 
Marie  Antoinette's  ownchoosiDg,  and 
so  called  because  its  ceiling  was  or- 
namented with  a  rich  paintm^  of  the 
Eastern  Feast  of  Roses,  whilst  the 
floor  and  walls  represented  in  their 
carpet  and  tapestry  the  riches  of 
summer's  garland  m  every  possible 
variety,  from  the  deep  purple  of  the 
African  to  the  fading  snow  of  the 
funeral  rose. 

^ "  Within  it  I  found  seated  on  a  low 
divan  a  group  who  seemed  to  have 
retired  for  social  conversation;  but 
various  as  their  di^^uises  were,  I 
knew  them  all ;  for  in  the  ease  of  the 
moment  they  had  taken  ofiT  their 
masques.  The  Duke  of  Orleans  was 
there  like  a  kniffht  Templar,  clad  in 
armour;  and  mdame  de  Genlis,  no 
doubt,  with  her  usual  complaisance 
to  his  taste,  habited  as  a  dame  of  the 
twelfth  century;  beside  the  lady 
stood  her  pupil,  the  duke's  eldest 
son,  as  Cupid,  with  wing  and  dart ; 
and  Madame  Elizabeth,  in  the  humi- 
lity of  her  taste,  wore  the  sarb  of 
the  Sisters  of  Charity ;  whilst  a 
Turkish  sultana,  who  still  wore  her 
masque,  sat  conversing  with  an  an- 
cient Roman  citizen,  but  well  I  knew 
that  his  tones  were  those  of  De 
Marigny. 

"  My  friend  was  five  years  older 
than  myself;  but  there  were  few, 
even  at  Versailles,  like  him,  stately, 
and  tall,  and  handsome ;  he  was,  in 
air  and  person,  and  in  mind  brave  as 
a  hero,  and  wise  as  a  philosopher; 
besides,  he  was  a  true  lover  of  liberty 
and  a  believer  in  her  coming,  then 
so  ardently  expected  by  the  best  and 
wisest  of  our  land ;  for  the  age  was 
full  of  promise,  and  De  Marigny 
was  faithful  in  his  generation,  for  he 
would  have  willingly  laid  down  rank, 
and  fortune,  and  nonours,  to  pave  a 
highway  for  her  chariot.  He  had  no 
relations  but  an  old  and  widowed 
aunt,  by  whom  he  had  been  brought 
up;  yet  all  classes  loved  the  mar- 
quis, for  he  was  good,  and  far  above 
tne  silly  prejudices  and  paltry  pride 
which  characterised  too  many  of  our 
old  noblesse.  His  fortune  was  ample, 
and  his  family  might  rank  with  the 
best  in  France ;  but  it  is  gone  from 
among  us  now,  for  the  marquis  was 
the  last,  and  be  n^yer  mwricd,  it  was 


1846.] 


Le  Jeu  de  Koit. 


271 


said,  for  the  sake  of  one  whom  he 
might  not  think  to  wed,  the  Princess 
Matilda  of  England,  whom  he  had 
seen  at  her  father's  conrt  just  before 
she  sailed  to  share  the  crovm  of 
Denmark,  perhaps  not  dreaming  then 
of  the  grave  so  soon  to  close  over 
her  youth,  and  the  blot  that  fell  so 
darkly  on  her  royal  name ;  it  might 
have  been  but  a  whisper  of  the  court 
gossips,  for  the  marquis  never  men- 
tioned it  to  me,  though  I  had  his 
confidence  in  all  other  matters,  and 
we  were  friends  from  childhood,  but 
many  a  true  tale  is  untold. 

*^  I  took  the  opportunity  of  a  pause 
in  their  conversation  to  approach 
De  Marigny,  and  give  him  the  nun's 
message;  he  reco^ised  me  imme- 
diately, and  rose  with  a  most  respect- 
ful adieu  to  the  masqued  sultana, 
and  a  sign  for  me  to  follow  him,  and 
was  turning  to  the  door  when  the 
duke  suddenly  stopped  him  with, 
^Whither  so  fast,  most  noble  Ro- 
man? we  little  imagined  that  the 
descendants  of  .^neas  were  so  far 
subject  to  the  cord  and  cowl  of  St. 
Francis  as  to  leave  even  a  sultana's 
conyerse  at  the  bidding  of  a  monk.* 

"  *  Valiant  Templar,'  said  De 
Marigny,  who  could  be  gaUaut  at 
times,  as  he  was  frank  in  speech, 
'  the  rose  of  royal  grace  and  full 
moon  of  beau^  snould  be  but  ]^rly 
entertained  with  far  more  bnlliant 
company  than  mine;  but,  to  drop 
masquerading,'  he  added,  *as  your 
highness  has  dropped  your  masque, 
my  monastic  friend  and  I  are  going 
to  a  petty  theatre  established  in  the 
Kue  de  Savonier,  which,  if  all  tales 
be  true,  has  mysteries  enough  to  fill 
much  wiser  heads  with  curiosity.' 

**'What  is  remarkable  about  it, 
monsieur?'  said  the  sultana,  in  a 
voice  whose  clear  and  silvery  tones  I 
still  remember,  and  could  even  then 
guess. 

" '  Why,  madame,'  said  the  mar- 
quis, in  the  same  respectful  manner 
with  which  he  always  addressed  that 
masque, '  it  is  a  moveable  concern, 
and  said  to  be  the  property  of  a  tra- 
velling Italian,  or  perhaps  a  char- 
latan who  comes  here  only  once  a- 
year,  and  has  done  so  at  the  Christ- 
mas holydays  ever  since  the  birth  of 
the  Dauphin,  punctually  taking  his 
departure  on  the  Jour  de  I'Ance. 
It  is  added,  that  where  he  spends  the 
intervening  time  remains  unknown, 


but  Christmas  always  finds  him  at 
Versailles  with  his  little  portable 
theatre,  established  in  the  same  spot, 
a  comer  of  the  Rue  de  Savonier ;  he 
is  manager  and  proprietor  himself; 
but  who  his  actors  are  is  yet  a  mys- 
tory,  for  none  are  ever  seen,  nor 
indeed  does  the  stage  present  any 
scenery  whatever;  the  benefit  of  the 
audience,  it  seems,  lies  all  in  hear- 
ing. The  theatre  can  accommodato 
comparatively  few;  yet  I  am  told 
it  is  always  crowded  by  the  lowest  of 
the  people,  who  pour  from  Paris  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  attending  it ;  and 
they  say,'  continued  the  marquis, 
*  that  none  who  ever  witness  will  for- 
get the  performance.' 

"  '  We'll  go,  De  Marigny, —  by 
heavens!  we'll  go.  What  say  you, 
sbtor  of  the  Sun?'  said  the  Duke  of 
Orleans,  addressing  the  sultana,  who 
shook  her  head,  and  for  a  moment 
seemed  to  hesitate ;  then,  rising,  whis- 
pered something  to  the  duke,  which 
of  course  we  could  not  hear,  but  his 
highness's  reply  was  in  a  louder  key. 

^*  ^  Ah,  nothing  easier,  we  go  in  our 
mas(]|ues,  of  course ;  De  Marigny  will 
provide  us  in  hackney-coaches;  won't 
you,  marquis?' 

"  My  fnend  nodded  assent,  though 
I  thought  him,  but  why  I  could  not 
guess,  less  anxious  to  oblige  than 
usual ;  for  De  Marigny  was  fuwayi  a 
willing  assistant  in  every  frolic  ot  his 
friends,  which  we,  of  course,  con- 
sidered the  visit  to  Le  Jeu  de  Noel, 
as  it  was  called.  However,  all  was 
arranged  in  a  few  minutes,  for  even 
the  liudics  seemed  eager  to  go,  and  a 
couple  of  hackney-coaches  beins  pro- 
vided by  De  Marigny,  we  all  slipped 
out  by  a  small  postern  which  opened 
from  the  palace-garden,  and  with 
masks  firmly  fastened,  and  high  glee 
at  the  adventure,  away  we  drove  to 
the  Rue  de  Savonier. 

"  The  street  was  an  obscure  one,  and 
but  dimly  lighted  by  a  single  lamp, 
which  burned  before  its  crucifix,  for 
gas  had  not  yet  enlightened  the  cities 
of  Europe.  The  night  was  keen  with 
intense  trost,  but  bright  with  a  thou- 
sand stars ;  and  we  found  the  neigh, 
bourhood  thronged  with  hundreds, 
though,  as  De  Marigny  observed, 
apparently  belonging  to  what  we  then 
called  the  cnnaille,  hurrying  like  our- 
selves to  that  attractive  theatre.  It 
was  a  portable  wooden  fabric,  like 
those  with  which  itinerant  players 


272 


Le  Jeu  de  NoeL 


[Marcby 


are  accustomed  to  perambulate  the 
provinces,  which,  when  fairly  set  up, 
rorm  pretty  substantial  edifices,  and 
can  be  removed  at  a  quarter  of  an 
hour*s  notice.  We  had  some  diffi- 
culty in  finding  room,  for  the  house 
was  densely  crowded,  but  that  might 
be  accounted  for  hy  the  terms  of 
admission  being  three  sous  for  the 
boxes,  two  for  the  pit,  and  one  for 
the  gallery;  for  the  arrangements 
were  perfect,  though  on  a  small  scale, 
but  it  had  only  one  entrance,  at 
which  stood  the  Italian  himself,  in 
his  double  capacity  of  manager  and 
door-keeper.  He  was  a  small  active- 
looking  man,  dressed  in  an  ultra- 
fashionable  stvle,  with  long  queue 
and  flash  jewellery,  and  a  countenance 
that  would  have  been  strikingly 
handsome  but  for  an  expression  of 
mingled  craft  and  keen  penetration 
which  blended  with  the  never-vary- 
ing smile  of  welcome  bestowed  on  all 
comers. 

"  It  is  strange,"  continued  the  nar- 
rator, "  that  thouffh  many  chequered 
years  have  passed  since  that  period, 
with  all  their  troubled  ana  stir- 
ring scenes,  the  smallest  circum- 
stance connected  with  that  night*s 
adventure,  then  deemed  so  trifling, 
remains  indelibly  written  in  my 
memory;  and  I  still  recollect,  though 
it  mi^ht  have  been  the  work  of  ima- 
gination, the  look  of  malicious  re- 
cognition with  which  he  marshalled 
us  to  the  boxes ;  but  whether  ima- 
ginaiy  or  not,  it  had  a  singular  effect 
on  aU  our  party;  for,  in  spite  of 
their  masques,  I  could  perceive  they 
felt  strangely  disconcerted,  especially 
the  sultana,  and  even  the  duke, — 
though  he  tried  to  assume  his  usual 
careless  air,  and  enjoy  the  general  sur- 
prise which  our  appearance  excited, — 
evidently  wished  nimself  safe  back  in 
the  palace ;  but  the  Italian  closed  with 
the  announcement,  that  the  house 
could  acconunodate  no  more,  and  at 
the  same  time  gave  the  signal  for  the 
plav  to  commence,  by  ringing  a  small 
bell  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

^*  The  dark  curtain  which  hid  the 
staffe  still  remained  unlifled,  and 
in£ed  seemed  fastened  down;  but 
fh>m  behind  it  came  a  rushing  sound 
like  the  march  of  a  moving  city, 
thousands  on  thousands  of  trampling 
feet,  and  wild  shouts,  words  of  fury, 
and  hate,  and  venseance,  sent  up  by 
countless  voices,  tm  they  grew  into 


a  tumult  so  tremendous  that  we 
thought  all  France  might  hear.  Then 
came  the  clash  of  weapons,  the  up- 
roar of  a  conflict,  and  the  thunder  of 
cannon;  but,  above  all,  we  could 
hear  the  cry,  '  Vive  la  Liberte !' — 
I  Down  with  the  Bastille  !*  I  heard 
it,  messieurs,  as  plain  as  I  hear  my 
own  voice  now ;  not  a  feeble  Uieatri-. 
cal  imitation,  but  near  and  strong, 
as  if  conveyed  to  our  ears  in  all  its 
terrible  reality,  the  noise  of  some  old 
embattled  fortress  assailed  by  a  fierce 
and  fearless  multitude.  The  cannon 
ceased  in  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
cheer  after  cheer  made  the  very  walls 
round  us  tremble,  and  we  felt  it  was 
the  joy  of  a  people  in  their  victory ; 
but  amongst  the  thousand  cries,  some 
for  retribution  of  past  wrong,  and 
others  ot  wild  congratulation,  as  if 
to  men  set  free.  We  could  catch  the 
words,  'Here  are  the  bones  from  the 
lower  dungeons !' — *  Death  to  the  tools 
of  tyranny!' — *  Destruction  to  the 
accursed  hold !' —  *  Level  it,  brothers ! 
— ^I^vel  it  to  the  ground!*  There 
was  a  rushing  forth  and  a  sound  of 
combined  labour,  like  what  thou- 
sands of  masons  and  miners  might 
make  if  working  together  with  all 
their  instruments.  We  heard  the  re- 
moval of  heavy  stones,  the  falling 
of  walls,  and  tne  toppling  down  of 
turrets,  and  another  prolonged  and 
piercing  shout  which  said  that  the 
work  was  done,  and  the  Bastille  de- 
molished for  ever.  The  curtain 
moved,  and  quivered  from  top  to  bot- 
tom ;  and  the  Italian,  who  had  nitherto 
stood  in  front,  calmly  surveying  the 
effect  of  his  invisible  play  on  the 
audience,  with  his  wonted  smile  and 
a  profound  bow,  said,  '  Ladies  and 
gentlemen,  this  is  the  first  act.* 

"  There  was  silence  for  some  mi- 
nutes, so  deep  that  we  could  hear  each 
other's  respiration;  for  every  sense 
seemed  merged  into  that  of  the  ear, 
and  never  before  had  I  imagined  the 
perceptive  power  which  dwelt  in 
that  wondrous  organ. 

*'  Again,  there  came  a  sound  of 
hurrying  steps,  like  the  tread  of  com- 
ing tnousands ;  but  now  they  seemed 
pouring  into  some  vast  chamber  or 
nail  of  assembly.  Vfe  could  distin- 
fi;uish  the  various  sounds  produced 
by  the  entrance  of  a  crowd,  the  noise 
of  opening  doors,  the  tramp  of  feet 
on  the  £or,  and  even  the  people 
taking  their  seats,  but  the  dm  ra- 


1846.] 


Le  Jeu  de  No'eL 


273 


pidly  sabsidedf  and  then  we  heard  a 
voice  distinctly  reading  the  order  of 
the  day  whicn  styled  the  assembly 
the  IsTational  Convention.  There  was 
something  of  fearful  interest  in  feel- 
ing, as  we  all  did,  with  the  force  of 
actual  truth,  that  only  that  coarse 
dark  curtain  divided  us  &om  a 
mighty,  though  invisible  assembly, 
whose  every  word  and  movement 
were  so  plainly  heard ;  but  how  com- 
posed or  summoned,  God  knows,  for 
we  could  never  learn.  This  feeling 
rose  to  an  overpowering  degree,  when 
another  voice,  which  I  knew  not 
then,  in  dear  and  very  audible  tones, 
delivered  a  decree  of  the  Convention, 
by  which  all  rank,  names,  and  titles 
of  nobility  and  priesthood,  were  abo- 
lished for  ever  m  France.  Messieurs, 
I  lived,  and  so  did  others  of  our 
company,  to  hear  that  decree,  long 
after  read  under  the  broad  noonday 
sun  in  an  assembly  of  living  men ; 
and  it  was  our  unanimous  belief  that 
both  its  words,  and  the  voice  which 
read  them,  were  the  same ;  but  even 
at  the  moment  the  effect  on  our 
party  was  electric.  De  Marigny 
started  from  his  seat  with  a  gesture 
of  wild  joy,  as  if  all  his  visions  of 
the  victorious  march  of  liberty  had 
been  at  last  realised ;  but  he  was  re- 
called to  himself  by  the  thunder  of 
deafeninj^  acclamation  that  burst  from 
the  invisible  multitude;  and  as  it 
ceased,  the  Italian  who  still  kept  his 
former  place,  with  another  bow  and 
smile,  informed  us  that  thb  was  the 
second  act. 

*'£ven  as  he  spake  there  came  from 
the  shrouded  stage  a  mingled  mur- 
mur of  many  voices,  like  the  sound 
of  some  far-off  tumult  that  swelled 
as  it  came  nearer ;  at  times  it  sunk 
away,  and  then  we  heard  strong  and 
earnest  voices  that  seemed  to  reason 
deeply;  but,  again,  it  grew  into  a 
very  babel  of  confusion.  Some  of  the 
voices  were  familiar  in  their  tones, 
but  others  were  strange,  stranger  far 
were  the  things  they  uttered.  There 
were  words  of  bitter  and  boundless 
scorn  of  all  that  mankind  regarded, 
in  throne,  in  hearth,  and  in  altar, 
of  powers  held  sacred  in  the  re- 
verence of  ages,  and  of  rights  which 
g^ierations  liad  found  and  left  un- 
questioned. And  there  were  brief 
but  half-told  tales  of  the  deep 
strong  hearths  devotion;  and  bursts 
of  unbounded  hope,  whose  promise 


time  could  never  fulfil ;  there  were 
paeans  of  triumph  that  had  in  them 
the  waving  of  all  the  Delphian  lau- 
rels, blenoed  with  sounds  of  frantic 
strife  and  imprecations  of  relentless 
fury ;  and  stul,  through  the  vary- 
ing tumult,  Rowing  more  freouent. 
Through  all  its  changes  there  lell  on 
our  ears  a  dull  heavy  clank,  like 
no  sound  of  earth  that  I  had  ever 
heard,  except  the  descending  axe  of 
the  guillotine. 

*^  By  degrees  the  noise  decreased, 
and  the  sounds  grew  more  definite, 
but  they  were  changed,  and  now 
seemed  to  be  those  of  some  great 
and  important  trial  held  in  a  city*s 
crowded  court,  and  before  a  supreme 
tribunal,  which  that  dingy  curtain 
covered  from  our  view.  At  first  we 
could  catch  but  faint  and  broken 
outlines  of  the  proceedings,  through 
the  noise  of  the  crowd  within  and 
the  wilder  clamour  without,  but 
think  how  felt  that  party  of  mas- 
queraders  from  the  palace  of  Ver- 
sailles to  hear  a  voice  proclaiming, 
'  The  capital  indictment  of  Louis 
Capet,  formerly  called  King  of 
France.'  The  clamour  still  conti- 
nued, and  nothing  reached  us  but  con- 
fused sentences  irom  the  court,  lost 
at  times  amid  the  loud  applause,  or 
no  less  violent  disapproval  of  the  lis- 
tening throng,  but  my  eye  involun- 
tarily turned  on  the  sultana,  who  sat 
bending  forward  as  if  to  catch  the 
tones  of  a  low  and  sad,  but  firm 
voice  that  still  went  on  reading  what 
seemed  a  long  defence ;  it  ceased  at 
last,  and  we  heard  another  say,  '  Let 
the  sentence  be  decided  by  vote.' 

*'  There  was  a  dead  silence,  like  the 
pause  of  a  thoughtful  moment,  fall- 
ing on  a  maddened  multitude ;  but, 
messieurs,  the  horrors  of  that  mo- 
ment I  shall  never  forget,  for,  from 
amidst  that  viewless  court,  clear  and 
audible  came  the  very  voice  of  the 
Duke  of  Orleans,  saying,  *  Citizens, 
I  vote  for  death.*  Instinctively  I  cast 
a  look  on  the  living  man  by  my  side, 
— masque  and  all,  he  seemed  actu- 
ally paralysed.  Then  came  a  sound 
Hke  the  rising  of  a  crowded  house 
and  a  din  of  approving  voices ;  but 
through  it  sounded  a  shriek  so  loud, 
and  long,  and  piercing,  that  it  seemed 
the  very  outbreak  of  pent-up  fear 
and  horror,  and  the  masqued  sul- 
tana dropped  as  if  struck  by  light- 
ning from  her  seat.  Another  instant, 


274 


Le  Jeu  de  Noil, 


[March, 


anl  De  Marigny  and  I  had  borne 
her  to  the  door,  which  the  Italian 
opened  with  the  rapidity  of  thought. 
•  Give  her  air,'  said  he,  and  I  un- 
fastened her  masque ;  the  lady  was 
already  reyiving,  hut  the  broad  light, 
flashing  from  that  open  door,  fell 
full  upon  the  ghastly  and  horror- 
stricken  features,  and  well  I  knew 
them,  for  it  was  the  Queen  Maria 
Antoinette. 

"  The  first  act  of  her  returning 
powers  was  to  take  the  masque  from 
my  hand,  as  she  said,  *  Fasten  it 
again,  monsieur,  and  many  thanks 
for  the  service  you  have  rendered 
me ;  but  call  the  coach  immediately, 
for  I  wish  to  return  to  the  palace.* 
By  this  time  Madame  de  Genlis,  with 
the  duke  and  his  son,  were  beside 
US ;  and  the  people,  who  were  now 
pouring  from  the  theatre,  crowded 
round,  anxious  to  learn  the  explana- 
tion of  so  strange  an  occurrence.  I, 
of  course,  hastened  to  call  our  ve- 
hicles, into  which  the  whole  party 
stepped ;  but  when  about  to  take  my 
place,  I  discovered  that  De  Marigny 
had  left  us,  and  requesting  them  to 
drive  on  without  me,  I  followed  him 
into  the  half-empty  theatre,  for  there 
he  was,  in  earnest  conversation  with 
the  Italian,  who  wore  the  same 
smile,  and  bowed  low  as  my  friend 
said  hastily,  *  Ten  thousana  francs, 
signior,  for  one  peep  behind  that 
curtain  ?' 

"  *  It  is  a  large  price,  monsieur,'  re- 
marked the  imperturbable  manager. 

"  *  It  is,  but  1  will  pay  it,'  said  De 
Marigny ;  *  Signior,  I  am  serious.' 

"  *  1  hope  so,'  said  the  Italian,  ap- 
proaching him  and  speaking  low. 
'  Monsieur,  there  are  few  that  have 
seen  that  sight;  but  I  agree,  for  your 
offer  is  handsome,  though  it  cannot 
he  done  before  this  rabble ;  but,  an 
hour  hence,  the  street  will  be  cleared ; 
come  then,  and  bring  your  friend,  if 
you  please.' 

"  At  this  moment  one  of  the  posti- 
lions arrived  out  of  breath,  to  tell  us 
that  our  company  had  requested  us 
to  come,  and  would  wait  no  longer. 
We  knew  they  could  not  be  detained, 
and  were  evidently  unwilling  to  go 
without  us,  as  I  believe,  from  a  vague 
apprehension  of  danger.  Therefore, 
go  we  must,  and  the  last  words  I 
heard  from  the  Italian  was  a  wam- 
•ng  to  be  punctual.  *With  the  ten 
thousand  francs,'  murmured  De  Ma- 


rigny, as  we  took  our  places  in  the 
coach.  AVe  reached  the  palace  in 
safety  and  unobserved,  for  our  ab* 
sencc  had  not  been  more  than  an 
hour;  but  the  sultana  and  the 
Templar  were  seen  no  more  in  the 
masc^uerade  that  night;  as  for  De 
Mangny  and  me,  we  perambulated 
the  rooms  for  some  time,  and  took  the 
opportunity  of  the  company  going  to 
supper  to  hasten  to  the  house  of 
the  marquis,  where  we  changed  our 
dresses,  and  half  wild  with  curiosity 
and  expectation,  were  once  more  in 
the  Hue  de  Savonier,  provided  with 
*  the  one  thing  neeoful,'  at  least 
fifteen  minutes  before  the  appointed 
time.  It  was  now  a  quarter  to  twelve ; 
the  lamp  was  still  burning  before  the 
crucifix ;  but  there  was  neither  step 
nor  stir  in  the  street,  so  thronged  but 
an  hour  before ;  and  when  we  reached 
the  spot  where  it  had  stood,  there 
was  neither  sign  nor  trace  of  the 
Italian  or  his  theatre.  All  were 
eone,  and  the  solitary  comer  lay 
dark  and  cold  between  the  old  brick 
houses ;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the 
traces  of  many  feet  in  the  thawins 
ground  where  such  numbers  had 
trodden,  we  could  scarcely  have  be- 
lieved that  the  place  was  indeed  the 
same.  Terrible  was  our  disappoint- 
ment ;  but  scarce  had  we  turned  fh>m 
the  spot,  when  a  party  of  gendarmes 
approached  it  and  examined  it  with 
the  greatest  care.  lake  ourselves  they 
were  too  late,  and  for  weeks  and 
months  after  a  secret  and  silent  search 
was  carried  on  through  all  France, 
but  at  length  given  up  as  hopeless, 
for  nothing  ever  transpired  to  throw 
light  on  that  mysterious  transaction. 
But  from  that  period  the  whole  court 
remarked  that  a  growing  enmity  sub- 
sisted between  the  royiu  family  and 
the  Duke  of  Orleans. 

"The  Italian  never  returned  to 
Versailles,  nor  was  he  ever  seen  in 
any  other  city  of  Europe,  at  least  as 
far  as  we  could  learn  ;  and  who  the 
actors  were  in  that  dark  and  fearful 
drama  our  search  could  never  dis- 
cover, for  time,  that  so  terribly  ful- 
filled its  omens,  brought  no  expla- 
nation of  its  mystery. 

"  De  Marigny  never  lost  hopes  of 
finding  the  Italian,  and  sought  him 
over  all  the  continent,  through  the 
storms  and  changes  of  his  afler  years. 
In  the  early  glories  of  the  revolu- 
tion he  took  an  active  part,  for  his 


1846.] 


To  One  who  was  Moved  to  Tears,  Sfc» 


275 


heart  was  true  to  the  world's  old  love 
of  liberty ;  but  when  the  Jacobins 
came  into  power,  and  blood  began 
to  flow,  he  went  down  to  his  family 
chateau  in  Normandy,  with  a  supply 
of  gunpowder,  which  he  caused  to  ha 
{stored  m  the  vaults,  then  paid  off  all 
his  servants,  and  sent  tnem  away 
with  the  exception  of  one  young  page, 
who  would  not  leave  him.  For  many 
an  hour  the  peasantry  saw  the  lights 
flashing  from  window  to  window,  and 
the  figures  of  the  marquis  and  his 
page  passing  from  vault  to  turret- 
chamoCT,  liKe  those  who  sought  for 
hidden  treasure,  or  to  look  their  last 
on  haunts  they  might  see  no  more ; 
but  at  midniffht  Ve  Marigny  and 
the  youth  rode  out  together.  The 
marquis  carried  the  keys  of  his  castle 
in  one  hand,  and  a  flaming  brand  in 
the  other,  and,  saying  that  there 
would  never  again  be  peace  or  jus- 
tice in  France,  he  threw  the  torch 
on  the  ground,  before  his  father's 
gate,  where  his  own  hands  had  laid 
the  train,  and  then  rode  fast  away, 
followed  by  his  faithful  page.  The 
country  round  was  shaken  tmtt  night 
as  if  by  an  earthquake,  for  the  stately 


ch&teau  of  De  Marigny  was  blown 
from  its  foundations,  and  the  morn- 
ing sun  rose  upon  its  shapeless, 
blackened  ruins,  but  neither  De 
Marigny  nor  his  page  were  ever 
seen  on  French  ground  after. 

'^  And  I  have  lived  to  be  a  specta- 
tor, though  not  an  unconcerned  one,  of 
scenes  more  strange  and  terrible  than 
all  the  nameless  voices  of  that  wild 
night  prophesied,  and  to  find  the 
evening  of  my  days  falling  on 
still  ominous  and  troubled  times. 
Years  have  darkened  around,  friends 
have  passed  from  me,  and  the 
haunts  of  youth  lie,  like  far  and 
sunny  isles,  which  my  bark  can  reach 
no  more ;  but  there  is  one  spot  still 
green,  with  its  early  attraction  to  my 
steps,  and  that,**  said  the  worthy 
narrator,  with  a  rather  comic  ex- 
pression ^herin^  over  the  momen- 
tary gravity  of  his  countenance,  "  is 
the  Imx,  pit,  or  gallery — ^for,  observe, 
I  am  not  particular — of  a  Parisian 
theatre ;  but,  believe  me,  messieurs, 
I  never  see  the  curtain  fall,  or  enter 
whQe  it  remains  unlifted,  without 
remembering,  in  all  its  mysterious 
power,  le  Jeu  de  Noel.** 


TO  ONE  WHO  WAS  MOVED  TO  TEARS  AT  SIGHT  OF  IMHOFP  S 

STATUE  OF  HAGAR  AT  ROME. 

I. 

Oa !  turn  not  ande,  nor  that  tear  conceal. 

Should  thy  manhood  blush,  because  thou  canst  feel  f 

Whilst  yet  unconscious  Jerusalem  slept 

*Neath  her  fated  wall, 

Predicting  her  fall, 
The  eyca  of  a  God  — of  a  Saviour  wept. 

n. 

If  e*er  Man's  nature  reveal  the  divine, 
And  something  of  God  in  the  mortsd  shine. 
Not  science,  not  beauty  that  spark  may  disclose ; 

But  the  sigh  that  tells 

That  a  kind  heart  swells,* 
And  the  eye  that  fills  for  another's  woes. 


Naples,  May  30,  1845. 


J.  M.  M. 


276 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.     [March, 


|>R1NCIPAL  CAMPAIGNS  IN  THE  RISE  OF  NAFOLKON. 


No.  HI. 


THB  ITALIAN  CAMPAIGK8. 


Chapter  V. 


Situation  of  the  contending  Parties. — Field-Marthnl  Alvinzy  adrances  to  the  Relief 
of  Mantua.— Combats  of  Citadella  and  Caldiero.-^Battle  of  Arcolo^—Qenenil 
Clerk's  Mission  into  Italy,  and  Attempt  at  Negotiation. 


Akotheb  series  of  victories  had  heen 
gained,  hostile  annies  had  again  been 
dispened ;  bni  the  ^nltj  principles 
on  which  the  victors  had  based  their 
operations  prevented  their  situation 
from  being  improved  by  the  success 
which  they  had  achieved.  Nor  were 
the  advantages  followed  up  in  a  man- 
ner  that  could  atone  for  previous 
error.  Marshal  Wurmser,  instead  of 
being  closely  confined  within  the 
walls  of  Mantua,  and  forced  to  sub* 
sist  on  the  stwes  of  the  fortress, 
which  would  probably  have  obliged 
him  to  surrender  by  the  end  of  Oc- 
tober, was  allowed  to  retain  posses- 
sion of  the  Seraglio,  a  considerable 
district  of  country,  to  extend  his 
foraging  parties  far  and  wide,  even 
beyond  the  Po,  and  to  receive  sup- 
plies from  the  surrounding  country. 
When  we  consider  how  closely  the 
sanguinary  chance-games  of  Arcole 
and  Hivoli  were  afterwards  balanced, 
we  are  brought  to  the  conviction, 
which  every  page  of  Napoleon*8  his- 
tory forces  upon  us,  that  battle  and 
an  appeal  to  the  exertions  of  brave 
soldiers  was  his  only,  as  it  was  his 
constant  resource,  in  all  situations  of 
difficulty.  There  were  many  cir- 
cumstances which  at  this  time  tended 
to  render  the  situation  of  the  French 
army  of  Italy  very  precarious,  not- 
withstanding the  victories  they  had 
gained.  The  republican  government 
mistrusted  the  court  of  Turin ;  they 
could  not  prevail  wpon  the  King  oif 
Sardinia  to  join  them  in  the  war 
against  Austria,  without  relinquish- 
ing a  greater  share  of  the  spoil  than 
they  were  disposed  to  part  with. 
The  mountainous  frontiers  between 
France  and  Piedmont  were  also  in- 
fested at  this  time  by  a  number  of 
"blundering  bands,  composed  of  smug- 
'ers  and  disbanded  soldiers,  and 
>own  by  the^name  of  Barbets,  who 


were  supposed  to  be  encouraged  or 
tolerateo,  at  least,  by  the  Sardinian 
govemment,  whi^  was  also  believed 
to  be  in  dose  and  friendly  oommuni- 
cation  with  the  eourt  of  Vienna. 
The  rdalions  with  Genoa  were  on 
no  better  footing. 

Lombardy  was  still  tranquil ;  but 
though  the  French  were  popular 
with  the  middle  classes,  a  fierce  spirit 
of  hostility  was  entertained  against 
them  by  the  peasantry,  nobility,  and 
clergy — ample  causefor  apprehension 
in  case  of  future  disaster.  The  pro- 
visional govemment  of  Milan  had, 
however,  raised  a  corps  of  3000  men, 
which,  though  not  admitted  into  the 
French  line,  helped  to  render  some 
of  the  detached  corps  of  the  French 
army  disposable. 

Tne  Directory  were  at  this  mo- 
ment keenly  alive  to  the  necessity  of 
condnding  a  peace ;  and  as  they  were 
determined  to  retain  Belgium  and  the 
left  bank  of  the  Rhine,  their  inten- 
tion was  to  restore  Lombardy  to  the 
emperor,  as  an  equivalent ;  they  did 
not,  therefore,  encourage  any  revolu- 
tionary proc^ings  in  Italy.  Bo- 
logna, Ferrara,  and  Bovigo  had,  as 
remted,  placed  themselves  under  pro- 
visional governments ;  and  Napoleon, 
disregarding  the  treaty  he  had  con- 
cluded with  the  Grand  Duke  of  Mo- 
dena,  superseded  the  ducal  regency 
by  a  provisional  govemment  of  his 
own  chooemg,  and  combined  the  four 
provinces  in  a  federal  union,  under  a 
representative  govemment.  This  go- 
vernment also  raised  a  corps  of  2000 
or  3000  men  for  the  service  of  the 
republic. 

The  Directory  disapproved  greatly 
of  these  proceedings;  but  as  every 
thing  appeared  to  have  originated 
^rith  the  States  themselves,  things 
were  allowed  to  remain  as  they  were. 

The  benefits  which  the  French  de- 


1846.] 


The  Italian  Campaigjis. 


277 


rived  from'these  arrangements  were 
counterbalanced  by  the  augmented 
hatred  excited  against  them  in  the 
hearts  of  the  other  party,  and  which 
the  first  turn  of  fortune  would  be 
sure  to  call  into  activity.  The  Pope 
and  the  King  of  Naples  could  turn 
the  scales  against  the  Bepublicans. 
The  Neapolitans  were  still  in  arms, 
and  their  forces  were  assembled  on 
the  frontiers ;  the  Roman  govern- 
ment, more  clear-sighted  than  the 
other  Italian  governments,  had  re- 
sisted all  the  insolent  demands  lately 
made  by  the  French,  and  continued 
its  military  preparations.  It  was 
probable  that  both  powers  would 
declare  themselves ;  and  allowing 
that  they  could  only  bring  30,000 
men  into  the  field,  it  was  evident  that 
such  an  army  striking-in  along  with 
the  next  advance  of  the  Austrians, 
would  liberate  Mantua,  clear  Lorn- 
hardy,  and  replace  things  exactly 
where  they  had  been  at  the  openuig 
of  the  campaign.  The  good  fortune 
of  Napoleon  averted  the  danger. 
The  defeat  of  Wurmscr  and  the 
flight  of  Jourdan,  which  events  hap- 
pened about  the  same  time,  acceler- 
ated the  peace  with  Naples.  The 
news  of  uie  first-mentioned  action 
naturally  reached  Naples  before  the 
other,  and  the  terrified  court  in- 
stantly sent  orders  directing  the 
Neapolitan  minister  at  Paris  to  con- 
clude a  peace  at  all  costs ;  and  as  the 
Directory  had  on  their  part  been 
rendered  very  pliant  by  the  defeats 
sustained  in  Germany,  matters  were 
soon  arranged.  The  treaty  was  signed 
on  the  10th  of  October,  and  the  King 
of  Naples  retired  from  the  scene  at 
the  very  time  when  Fortune  was  in- 
viting him  to  act  a  great  and  bril- 
liant part. 

The  pope,  judging  riehtly  enough 
that  his  fate  was  decided  upon,  as  we 
know  from  Napoleon's  letters  that  it 
was,  continued  his  preparations,  ex- 
pecting, no  doubt;  to  be  assisted  by 
Austna,  as  he  was  evidently  too 
feeble  to  act  an  independent  part. 

It  may  well  be  supposed  that  Na- 
poleon, thus  encompassed  by  foes, 
pressed  hard  for  reinforcements,  and 
we  consequently  find  that  26,000 
men  were  gradually  sent  into  Italy. 
When  they  arrived  is  not  mentioned, 
as  many  were,  no  doubt,  drafts  from 
the  re^unental  depots.  On  this  sub- 
ject his  mendacity  exceeds  its  usual 


extravagance;  and  as  he  addresses 
the  government,  who  could  hardly 
fail  to  know  the  truth,  it  shews,  also, 
with  what  extreme  contempt  he  re- 
garded them.  Writing  on  the  14th 
November,  on  the  eve  of  the  battle 
of  Arcole,  he  says,  "Not  a  day 
passes  without  bringing  5000  men 
to  the  Austrian  army;  and  though 
our  want  of  reinforcements  has  been 
known  for  two  months  and  more,  we 
have  only  received  a  single  battalion 
of  the  40th, — bad  troops,  not  accus- 
tomed to  firp.**  In  his  Memoirs  he 
says,  on  the*  other  hand,  "  The  Di- 
rectory promised  much,  and  per- 
formed little ;  they  sent  twelve  bat- 
talions, however,  which  arrived  at 
Milan  during  the  months  of  Septem- 
ber and  October.'*  That  there  could 
be  no  great  error  in  the  last  state- 
ment is  certain,  for  at  the  end  of 
October  his  army  had  again  42,000 
men  effective  in  the  fiela,  notwith- 
standing the  losses  it  must  have  sus- 
tained during  the  previous  opera- 
tions. The  army  was,  probably,  in 
good  order  at  this  time,  as  all  the 
resources  of  the  country  were  at  the 
disposal  of  the  victor,  who,  it  seems, 
sent  20,000,000  livres  to  Paris  for 
the  use  of  the  government. 

It  was  during  the  period  of  which 
we  arc  speaking  that  Corsica  was  re- 
united to  France.  Some  supplies, 
together  with  a  body  of  Corsican  pa- 
triots, having  been  embarked  at  Leg- 
horn, obtained  for  Napoleon  the  ho- 
nour of  this  conquest  also  :  but  from 
his  letters  to  the  Directory  it  is  evi- 
dent that  he  took  little  interest  in 
the  affairs  of  his  native  island,  and 
made  no  particular  exertion  for  its 
recovery. 

Though  the  letters  written  at  this 
particular  moment  by  order  of  go- 
vernment, bear  testimony  of  far 
greater  honesty  of  purpose  than 
those  of  Napoleon,  the  Directory 
were  determined,  nevertheless,  to 
shew  that  on  some  points  they  could 
descend  to  the  level  of  their  general. 
Marshal  Wurmser  happening  to  be 
a  native  of  one  of  the  lately  con- 
quered provinces  on  the  left  bank  of 
tne  Bhine,  they  passed  a  decree  de- 
claring him  liable  to  be  arraigned  as 
an  emi^nt.  This  act  of  republican 
legislation  was  sent  to  Napoleon,'and 
it  was  intimated  to  him  that  he  mieht 
threaten  the  Austrian  field-marshal 
with  its  execution  if  the  latter  con- 


278 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.     [March, 


tinned  to  delay  tbe  surrender  of 
Mantua.  It  does  not  appear  that 
any  attempt  was  made  to  mtimidate 
a  man  of  honour  by  such  unworthy 
proceedings.  Napolcon^s  project  of 
burning  Trieste,  though  objected  to 
in  the  first  instance,  was  too  conge- 
nial to  the  spirit  which  animated  the 
French  government  of  the  period  to 
be  altogether  lost  upon  them.  After 
Wurmser's  defeat  the  general  is, 
therefore,  desired  to  acquaint  the 
Emperor  of  Austria,  that  such  a 
measure  will  be  immediately^  resorted 
to  unless  an  ambassadov  is  sent  to 
Paris  for  the  purpose  of  concluding 
a  peace.  Napoleon  obeyed,  and  ad- 
dressed a  letter  to  the  emperor,  writ- 
ten in  the  real  carmagnole  style, 
which  so  well  accorded  with  the  Van- 
dal threat  it  contained.  No  answer 
was  ever  sent,  and  it  may  be  a  ques- 
tion whether  it  was  delivered.  Du- 
ring the  interval  of  repose  of  whicli 
we  have  been  speaking,  Napoleon 
resided  principal  Iv  at  Milan  ;  and 
though  ne  was  tne  conqueror  and 
absolute  ruler  of  the  country,  he 
was  more  on  the  level  of  ordinary 
society,  and  more  within  the  reach  of 
observation,  than  at  any  subsequent 
period  of  his  life ;  and  it  is  known  to 
many  who,  like  the  author  of  these 
sketches,  had  afterwards  opportuni- 
ties of  mixing  in  Italian  society,  that 
the  most  intellectual  members  of  that 
society  looked  upon  him  as  a  man  of 
moderate  capacity  and  of  very  limited 
information.  Those  who  thought  so, 
however,  were  silent,  while  syco- 
phants and  panegyrists  were  loud 
enough,  and  with  the  world  at  large 
the  loudest  talkers  generally  carry 
the  day. 

^  Having  seen  how  the  French  were 
situated,  let  us  observe  how  matters 
stood  with  the  Austrians,  when  they 
prepared  for  their  third  invasion  of 
Lombardy.  In  Germany  success  had 
crowned  their  efforts.  Jourdan  had 
been  defeated,  and  Morcau  forced  to 
retire.  The  troops  which  had  guarded 
the  northern  passes  of  the  Tyrol  thus 
became  disposable,  and  were  enabled 
to  join  Davidowitch,  who  had  re- 
formed his  army  in  that  province 
after  the  rout  of  Galliano.  In 
Friuli,  Quasdanowitch,  who  had  been 
separated  from  Wurmser  at  the  bat- 
tle of  Bassano,  had  assembled  the 
remnants  of  his  corps,  behind  the 
^va.    Both  generaU  were  rapidly 


reinforced;  regiments  were  brought 
from  the  interior  of  Austria,  new 
corps  raised,  the  depots  were  emptied, 
and  all  recruits  and  convalescents  fit 
for  service  hurried  on  to  their  re- 
spective battalions,  so  that  by  the 
end  of  October  neai'ly  50,000  men 
were  ready  for  the  field.  Marshal 
Alvinzy  was  placed  in  command  of 
this  hastily  collected  force.  As  the 
principal  divisions  of  the  French 
army  were  stationed  at  Trent,  Bas- 
sano, Verona,  and  Villa  Franca,  the 
Austrians  must  have  known,  inde- 
pendently of  their  frequent  commu- 
nication with  Mantua,  that  the  fort- 
ress was  not  closelpr  blockaded,  and 
in  no  very  immediate  danger;  and 
yet  with  this  knowled^  clearly  be- 
fore them,  they  hurned  this  new 
army  on  to  its  relief,  without  a  single 
fair  ground  on  which  a  prospect  of 
success  could  be  founded. 

The  Austrians  could  bring  about 
40,000  into  action;  but  the  long 
series  of  defeats  had  avowedly  in- 
jured the  morale  of  the  old  troops, 
from  whom  the  new  ones  would  na- 
turally take  their  tone  and  feeling. 
The  French,  leavine  10,000  or  12,000 
men  to  observe  A&ntua,  and  acting 
on  a  theatre  of  war  of  extraordinarv 
strength,  could  take  the  field  with 
about  30,000,  all  tried  soldiers,  em- 
boldened by  victory  and  by  the  con- 
fidence they  placed  in  themselves  and 
their  leaders, — advantages  that  far 
overbalanced  the  numerical  sui)erior- 
ity  of  four  to  three,  which  their  ad- 
versaries possessed.  Nor  was  there 
any  good  reason  for  believing  that 
the  new  commander  would  be  able 
to  atone  for  the  deficiency  of  his 
army.  It  is  evident  that  Alvinzv 
belonged  to  the  same  class  with 
Wurmser  and  Beaulieu:  like  them, 
he  was  a  brave,  able,  and  honourable 
man;  but,  like  them,  be  was  with- 
out the  high  energy  of  character  and 
fiery  genius  which  could  alone  rally 
the  sinking  spirit  of  an  army,  rekin- 
dle the  hopes  and  aspirations  of  the 
brave,  and  carry  the  whole  mass, 
torrent  like,  along  with  him  in  a 
daring  and  gallant  career.  Fortune 
smiled  upon  his  first  efforts,  and 
boldness  might  have  won  her;  but 
it  was  wanting,  and  the  goddess  hav- 
ing shewn  the  leaders  of  mighty 
•  hosts  who  was  the  real  disposer  of 
victory,  returned  to  her  first  favour- 
ite, to  abide  at  his  will  tiU,— 


1846.1 


The  Italian  Campaigns. 


279 


"  By  gaxiog^  on  himself  grown  bliod, 
He  taught  the  rest  to  see.*' 

According  to  the  new  plan  of 
operations  proposed  by  the  Aus- 
trians,  the  main  body  of  their  army, 
consisting  of  about  25,000  men 
under  the  field-marshal  himself,  was 
to  advance  towards  Baasano  and  the 
Brenta,  while  Davidowitch,  with 
14,000  men,  should  attack  Trent, 
force  the  pass  of  Galliano,  and  then 
idd,  as  circumstances  might  best  di- 
rect, the  main  army  in  striking  a  de- 
cisive blow  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Verona.  Marshal  Wurmaer  was  to 
support  the  movement  by  a  general 
saUy  from  Mantua.  The  dimculty 
of  making  separate  corps  act  in  per- 
fect concert  and  fall  on  at  the  proper 
time  and  place  renders  all  such  com- 
plicated operations  extremely  preca- 
rious, however  much  they  may 
heighten  success  and  augment  the 
trophies  of  victory  when  the  day  is 
won.  But  to  win  the  day  must  be 
the  first  object  sought  for ;  and  the 
Austrians  evidently  threw  away 
their  best  chance  of  success  when 
they  neglected  to  combine  their  army 
before  tney  fought  a  general  action. 
Events  had  surely  rendered  it  ap- 
parent that  the  French  army  was 
far  more  active  and  movable  than 
their  own,  and  more  capable  of  exe- 
cuting rapid  manoeuvres.  A  stand- 
up  battle,  fought  in  open  field,  and 
with  all  forces,  was  their  game,  for 
it  would  have  given  them  the  benefit 
of  the  acknowledged  steadiness  of 
their  trooi»,  of  the  tactical  training 
of  the  soldiers,  and  of  their  power  of 
moving  with  accuracy.  In  such  a 
field,  also,  their  numerical  superi- 
ority would  have  told  to  advantage, 
instead  of  being  frittered  away  be- 
tween separate  corps,  whose  partial 
snccess  brought  no  gain  to  the  gene- 
ral cause.  The  Austrians  courted 
defeat  at  the  outset,  and  were  yet 
nearly  proving  successful. 

Na^eon,  apprehensive  that  Da- 
vidowitch mignt  fall  with  superior 
numbers  on  General  Yaubois,  who 
was 'stationed  at  Trent  with  his  di- 
vision, ordered  him  to  drive  in  the 
Austrian  posts  and  alarm  them  for 
their  own  safety.  This  measure,  at 
the  very  moment  when  operations 
were  al>out  to  commence,  naturally 
led  to  the  result  which  it  was  in- 
tended to  avert.    Yaubois  attacked 


the  Austrians  at  St.  Michael  on  the 
2d  November  without  any  decisive 
result ;  the  consequence  was  that  the 
Austrians  concentrated  their  forces 
and  fell  upon  him  on  the  3d  and  again 
on  the  6tn  and  7th,  and  hit  him  so 
severely  that  he  was  driven  from 
Trent,  Galliano,  and  Mori.  Here 
Davidowitch,  astonished  no  doubt  at 
the  giant  strides  he  had  made, 
thou^t  proper  to  halt  and  remain 
inactive  V)r  eight  days,  at  the  very 
time  when  minutes  were  worth  ages. 
The  cause  of  this  incomprehensible 
delay,  which  occasioned  the  failure 
of  the  whole  enterprise,  has  never 
been  explained.  The  Austrians,  who 
have  BO  fairly  and  liberally  furnished 
the  documents  necessary  for  a  right 
understanding  of  these  campaiffns, 
have  lefl  this  difiicult  point  still  in 
the  dark.  On  the  17th  November 
Davidowitch  awakened  from  his 
stupor  and  attacked  the  French  in 
the  position  of  Rivoli ;  the  Repub- 
licans were  again  defeated,  and,  as  it 
would  seem,  with  great  loss;  they 
fell  back  to  Gastello  Nova,  where 
they  were  next  day  followed  by  the 
Austrians,  who  were  thus  close  in 
rear  of  Napoleon*s  left  wing  and 
within  a  single  march  of  Mantua. 
And  where  now,  when  victory  was 
in  sight,  were  the  field-marsnals  ? 
where  was  Alvinzy,  and  where 
Wurmser?  The  answer  is  a  sad 
one ;  but  the  tale,  however  afflicting, 
must  be  told,  and  many  a  tale  of  woe 
must  follow  before  we  see  the  light 
of  hope  and  gladness  break  through 
the  dark  gloom  which  these  reverses 
cast  over  the  political  horizon  of 
Europe. 

On  the  5  th  November  Alvinzy 
reached  the  Brenta,  the  Frencrt 
troops  giving  way  before  him.  Na- 
poleon, though  informed  of  Yaubois* 
ill-success  on  the  3d,  determined 
nevertheless  to  save  the  foe  the 
trouble  of  a  longer  march,  and  to 
advance  himself  to  a  very  dangerous 
distance  indeed  from  his  basis  of  ope- 
ration and  give  them  the  meeting. 
He  attacked  them  at  Gitadella  on 
the  6th,  but  was  forced,  afler  a  se- 
vere struggle,  to  withdraw  from  the 
combat.  He  informs  us,  indeed,  that 
this  was  owing  solely  to  Yaubois* 
second  defeat  and  tne  capture  of 
Mori  by  the  Austrians,  the  news  of 
which  reached  head-quarters  at  two 
o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  7th. 


280 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon,     [March, 


Unfortunately  for  this  statement, 
Mori  is  fifty  miles  from  Bassano,  and 
was  only  taken  on  the  forenoon  of 
that  very  day.  Napoleon  fell  back 
to  Verona,  and  was  slowly  followed 
by  the  Austrians,  who,  on  the  lltfa, 
established  themselves  at  Villa  Nova, 
thus  putting  almost  an  end  to  their 
own  forward  movement.  With  Ve- 
rona and  Legnano,  both  capable  of 
making  some  resistance,  m  their 
front,  with  the  Adige  to  be  forced 
under  the  very  guns  of  so  formid- 
able and  well- prepared  an  enemy  as 
the  one  they  had  to  encounter,  it  is 
really  not  easy  to  sec  what  they 
could  expect  to  achieve;  but  what 
they  could  not  do  for  themselves  the 
enem^  was  nearly  doing  for  them. 

Frmce  Hohenzollern,  who  com- 
manded the  Austrian  advanced 
guard,  informed  Alvinzy  that,  owing 
to  the  success  of  Davido witch,  the 
French  were  in  full  retreat  across 
the  JVlincio  ^  in  consemience  of  which 
he  reconuncndcd  that  Verona  should 
be  instantly  attacked.  The  fiekl- 
marshal  paused  upon  this  project, 
and  as  it  was  strongly  objected  to 
by  the  chief  of  the  staff,  a  reconnais' 
sayice  was  determined  upon.  A  body 
of  about  5000  men  advanced  almost 
close  to  the  walls  of  Verona,  while  an- 
other brigade  took  post  on  the  heights 
of  Caldiero  to  co>  tr  their  retreat  in 
case  of  accidents.  The  precaution 
was  a  salutary  one,  for  Napoleon  no 
sooner  perceived  this  threatened  on- 
set than  he  brought  out  his  divisions 
and  drove  the  Austrians  back  on 
this  support.  The  troops  now  as- 
sembled in  the  strong  position  of 
Caldiero  amounted  to  about  8000 
men^  and  these  also  it  was  resolved 
to  dislodge.  Alvinzy,  however,  de- 
termined to  risk  a  general  action  for 
their  support,  and  when,  on  the 
morning  of  the  12th,  the  French, 
after  failing  to  force  the  position  in 
front,  turned  it  on  both  flanks,  the^ 
found  themselves  assailed  in  their 
turn  by  the  whole  of  the  Austrian 
army;  they  were  forced  to  retire, 
leaving  a  few  guns  and  about  a 
thousand  prisoners  in  the  hands  of 
the  enemy.  This  was  a  victory,  no 
doubt,  but  not  of  a  character  to 
break  either  the  moral  or  the  phy- 
sical force  of  the  French  army,  or 
very  much  to  raise  the  courage  and 
confidence  of  the  victors.  Napoleon 
says  that  a  heavy  shower  of  sleet 


and  rain  induced  him  to  break  ofif 
the  battle.  As  sleet  and  rain  would 
tell  as  much  against  one  party  as 
against  the  other,  it  is  more  likely 
that  the  unlooked-for  appearance  of 
Alvinzy,  who  fell  on  the  flank  of  the 
divisions  which  were  turning  Cal- 
diero, decided  the  measure.  False- 
hood would  seem  to  have  been  so 
congenial  to  this  extraordinary  man, 
that  he  could  hardly  speak  the  truth 
even  when  it  told  to  his  advantage. 
At  this  time  Davidowitch  was,  as  the 
reader  will  recollect,  recovering  from 
the  astonishment  into  which  his  own 
victories  had  thrown  him,  while 
within  the  walls  of  Mantua,  Wurmser 
was  tranquilly  awaiting  the  result  of 
what  others  should  achieve  in  his  fa- 
vour. 

Napoleon*s  position  at  Verona  was 
so  strong  and  central  that  to  have 
awaited  the  attacks  of  the  enemy 
would  probably  have  been  his  best 
policy ;  for,  unless  they  struck  in 
jierfect  concert,  at  exactly  the  same 
time,  they  were  not  likely  to  effect 
much  against  him.  On  the  other 
hand,  any  movement  on  his  part, 
either  to  nis  front  or  left,  was  giving 
one  of  his  adversaries  an  opening. 
If  he  moved  to  the  front  against 
Alvinzy,  he  left  an  opening  for  Da- 
vidowitch ;  if  he  moved  against  the 
latter,  the  former  had  it  inhis  power 
to  pass  the  Adige  unmolested ;  if  he 
moved  away  to  his  right,  he  gave 
both  his  adversaries  an  advantage; 
and  yet  this  was  the  move  he  made, 
and  such  is  war  that  it  proved  suc- 
cessful. A  proof,  we  shall  be  told, 
that  genius  is  superior  to  rules ;  but 
war  has  only  principles  and  no  rules, 
and  a  mere  challenging  of  fortune, 
liowever  successful,  is  no  evidence  of 
genius,  as  this  very  talc  should  prove. 

During  the  nitfht  between  the 
14th  and  15  th  of  November  bridges 
were  thrown  over  the  Adige  at 
Ronco,  about  eight  miles  below  Ve- 
rona, and  a  sumcicnt  force  having 
been  left  to  defend  that  town  against 
an  off-handed  attack,  the  whole 
army  began  their  march  towards  the 
point  of  passage  before  daybreak  on 
the  morning  of  the  15th.  As  the 
troops  proceeded  at  first  by  the 
Mantua  road,  they  could  not,  we  are 
told,  immediately  comprehend  the 
object  of  a  march  whicn  seemed  to 
indicate  a  retrograde  movement,  and 
it  was  only  when  their  conversion  to 


1846.] 


The  Italian  Campaigns. 


281 


the  left  was  effected  that  the  blaze 
of  their  leader's  genius  and  the  sub- 
lime conception  of  which  we  have 
now  to  speak,  flashed  fully  upon 
their  benighted  minds. 

"  Then  it  was/'  says  tbe  imperial  his* 
torian  himself,  "  that  officers  and  sol- 
diers who  had  traversed  these  districts 
when  in  pursuit  of  Wurmser,  began  to 
perceive  the  intentions  of  their  general. 
'  He  intends/  they  said,  '  to  torn  Caldi. 
ero,  which  cannot  be  stormed,  by  a  front 
attack ;  unable  to  contend  in  open  plain 
with  only  13,000  men  against  40,000,  he 
is  transferring  his  battle-field  to  cause- 
ways surrounded  by  vast  marshes,  where 
numbers  will  not  avail,  and  where  every 
thing  will  be  decided  by  tbe  brafery  of 
the  heads  of  columns.'" 

If  the  reader  will  have  the  kind- 
ness to  divest  his  mind  of  the  recol- 
lection, that  the  strategical  monologue 
here  ascribed  by  Napoleon  to  nis 
army  has  been  seriously  repeated, 
not  merely  by  the  crowd  of  ordinary 
writers,  but  by  men  of  high  talents 
and  the  greatest  and  best  deserved 
literary  rame,  then  will  his  own 
smile  furnish  the  only  comment 
which  it  can  require.  Of  some  of 
the  assertions,  however,  we  must  say 
a  word. 

Unless  we  suppose  Napoleon  to 
have  lost  nine  or  ten  thousand  men 
in  the  actions  of  Bassano  and  Cal- 
diero,  which  would  be  out  of  all 
question,  the  divisions  of  Massena, 
Augereau,  Macguire,  Guyeux,  the 
reserve  and  the  cavalry  must  still, 
by  his  own  previous  shewing,  have 
amounted  to  at  least  20,000  men; 
nor  was  it  possible  for  Alvinzy,  from 
the  number  with  which  he  took 
the  field,  to  have  above  2000  or  3000 
more.  But,  leaving  this  exaggera- 
tion of  numbers  entirely  untouched, 
as  the  practice  is  much  too  frequent 
with  all  modem  generals,  it  certainly 
required  the  assurance  of  Napoleon 
Buonaparte  to  assert  in  the  race  of 
the  world,  that  an  advance  upon 
narrow  causeways  afforded  the  assail- 
ants an  advantage  over  the  defenders, 
and  that  to  contract  the  opening  by 
which  an  enemy  was  to  be  struck  at 
was  a  benefit  to  the  attacking  in- 
stead of  the  attacked  party.  The 
head  of  a  column  composed  of 
forty  or  fifly  modern  infantry  sol- 
diers could,  of  course,  effect  abso- 
lutely nothing  against  masses ;  and, 


to  pass  over  altoeether  the  frightful 
enfilading  lines  tnat  causeways  must 
often  present  to  the  fire  of  artillery, 
there  is  not  a  cultivated  marsh  land 
on  the  face  of  the  globe,  from  tiie 
Delta  of  the  Ganges  to  the  fens  of 
Holland  and  Lincolnshire,  in  which 
a  single  causeway  could  be  found 
that  would  not  by  branch  causeways, 
roads,  outlets,  and  adjoining  patches 
of  dry  ffround,  offer  ample  opportu- 
nities toT  the  defenders  to  extend 
their  front  and  fire  in  a  manner  ruin- 
ous to  the  advance  of  any  column, 
however  brave :  as  indeed  Napoleon 
was  about  to  experience.  We  are 
bound  to  add,  however,  even  for  his 
own  credit,  that  the  whole  of  this 
pretended  project  which  he  ascribes 
to  himself  was,  by  his  own  shewing, 
a  mere  after-thought,  resulting  from 
the  events  that  accidentally  took 
place.  His  intention  was  to  turn 
the  position  of  Caldiero  and  to  at- 
tack the  Austrians  in  their  left  flank. 
The  causeways  led  into  the  open  plains 
round  the  position  where  he  intended 
to  fight,  and  therefore  he  followed 
them|;  and  he  tells  us  himself  that  he 
was  greatly  chagrined  when  it  was 
discovered,  from  the  steeple  of  Ronco, 
that  the  Austrians  were  leaving  their 
ground  and  making  a  counter  move- 
ment, so  as  to  present  a  front  instead 
of  a  flank  to  the  advancing  fbe. 

The  French  army  havmg  crossed 
the  Adige  on  the  morning  of  the 
15th,  advanced  in  two  columns  along 
the  two  causeways  leading  in  the  di- 
rection of  Caldiero.  Mas8ena*s  di- 
vision took  the  left  and  followed  the 
causeway  that  opens  into  the  plains 
at  Porcil,  and  ended  their  easy  day*s 
work  by  driving  out  the  few  Aus- 
trian light  troop  that  occupied  the 
village ;  but  at  Arcole  sterner  doings 
were  in  progress. 

The  rieht  column,  with  which 
was  Napoleon  himself,  moved  along 
the  causeway  leading  up  the  right 
bank  of  the  Alpon,  a  small  river 
which  falls  into  tne  Adiee  at  Ronco. 
This  river  is  rarely  for£ible  late  in 
autumn,  but  is  crossed  by  a  bridge 
at  the  village  of  Arcole,  where  tne 
causeway  leading  out  of  the  marshes 
leaves  the  right  bank  and  ascends 
along  the  left.  It  therefore  became 
necessary  to  obtain  the  command  of 
this  bridge  If  the  movement  was  to 
be  proce^ed  with,  and  it  was  for  the 


Principal  Campaignt  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.       [March, 


potisesBioo  of  this  post  thnt  tlie  tlirec 
days'  sanguinary  combat  of  ^colc 
\Ti3  fought. 


Tbe  Austriaiu,  thoiwb  not  aur- 
prited  aa  pretended,  ofKred  at  flnt 
but  sligbt  reaistaoce  to  tlie  adrance 


of  the  columns  tbrougb  tbe  mushes; 
but  there  is  a  causewav  along  the  left 
of  the  Alpon  as  well  aa  upon  the 
right;  ana  for  about  a  mile  below 
jurcole,  thia  left  dyke  runa  close  to 
the  river  and  parallel  to  tbe  one  by 
which  the  French  were  advanciiig. 
It  was  lined  with  infantry;  two  light 
battalions,  with  some  field -pieces, 
defended  the  village ;  and  no  sooner 
did  the  French  attempt  to  cross  the 
bridge  and  force  an  entrance,  than 
so  murderous  a  lire  was  opened  oa 
their  front  and  flank,  that  tliey  were 
instantly  forced  to  give  way.  It  was 
clearly  apparent  to  all  that  nothing 
could  be  effected  except  by  force  or 
sacrifices  and  hy  excess  of  (kring; 
nor  were  gallant  efforts  wantbg. 
Augereau  seized  a  standard  and 
planted  it  with  his  own  hand  upon 
the  bridge,  hut  in  vain;  the  column 
was  broken,  scattered,  and  driven 
back.  Onset  followed  onset  in  san- 
guinary succession ;  General  Lannes, 
Verdier,  Bon,  and  Verne,  were 
wounded  in  fruitless  efforts  to  giun 
the  fatal  pass.  N^apoleun  himsclldis- 
mounted,  rallied  the  troops,  reminded 
them  of  Lodi,  and  seizing  a  standard, 
again  led  them  forward ;  but  to  vun ; 


within  thirtj'  yards  of  tbe  enemy 
the  column  is  again  arrested  by  the 
terrible  fire  of  musketry,  and  the 
Auatrions  rushing  upon  the  foe,  drove 
the  broken  and  confused  mass  in 
beadloDg  rout  into  the  morass, 
whence  i^apoleon  himself  was  only 
extricated  by  the  exertions  of  some 
of  the  grenadiers. 

The  baffled  commander,  convinced 
at  last  that  nothing  was  to  be  effected 
by  these  repeatedand  eanguiaary  front 
attacks,  ordered  Gcn(^  Guyeux 
to  cross  the  Adige  at  the  feny  of 
Albaredo,  and  to  ascend  the  left 
hank  of  the  Alpon  and  dislodge  the 
Austrian  infantry  from  behind  the 
causeway  that  flanked  the  advance 
Bgunst  the  village.  This  movement 
succeeded  completely ;  tbe  Imperial- 
ists no  sooner  saw  tbeu'  position  turned 
than  they  fell  back,  allowing  the 
long-conteated  pasa  to  be  earned  at 
the  first  renewed  onset.  Arcole  was 
now  gained ;  but  it  had  lost  its  value, 
and  WBa  no  longer  the  object  for 
which  so  much  gallant  blood  had 
been  shed  during  the  previous  com- 
bats. AlviuEy  no  sooner  saw  that 
the  French  were  advanciw  in  force 
from  Bonco,  than  be  withdrew  the 


Id460 


The  Italian  Campaigns, 


283 


sreatcr  ''part  of  his  army  behind 
tne  Alpoo,  took  up  a  new  posi- 
tion at  Villa  Nova,  placed  Arcole, 
^vhich  had  been  on  his  left^  imme- 
diately in  his  front,  and  now  stood 
in  battle-line  ready  for  the  fray. 
Napoleon,  however,  shrunk  not  onlv 
from  the  contest,  but  withdrew  al- 
together behind  the  Adige,  forsaking 
his  dearly  purchased  conquest  as 
soon  as  it  was  gained. 

We  should  certainly  praise  this 
proceeding,  if  it  could  be  reconciled 
with  the  battle  of  the  next  day ;  but 
the  two  measures  following  each 
other,  seem  altogether  incomprehen- 
sible. The  stem  combats  which  had 
just  been  fought  for  the  mere  open- 
ing of  a  road,  were  no  very  promising 
preliminaries  to  a  general  action, 
and  Massena*s  division  was  separated 
from  the  main  body  by  a  broad  arm 
of  the  morass,  which,  in  case  of  a 
night  alarm,  it  might  be  dangerous 
to  pass.  All  these  were  good  grounds 
for  a  change  of  position ;  but  not  for 
giving  up  a  blood-stained  battle-field, 
to  be  repurchased  if  possible  by  an 
equal  waste  of  blood  next  morning. 

Before  proceeding,  however,  we 
must  again  ask  where  was  Wurmser, 
and  where  Davidowitch  ?  Napoleon 
was  at  a  distance,  engaged  in  stern 
combats  amid  the  marshes  of  Ronco ; 
General  Kihnain  had  been  called  in 
with  2000  men  of  the  blockading 
corps ;  General  Guyeux  had  brought 
an  equal  number  from  General  Y au- 
bois*  division  to  aid  the  main  army ; 
the  French  had  not  above  14,000 
men  between  the  Adige  and  the 
Mincio;  and  from  the  ramparts  of 
Mantau  and  from  Molare*s  mountain- 
range,  double  that  number  of  Aus- 
trians  are  ready  to  burst  upon  the 
foe ;  their  sabres  gleam,  their  hearts 
are  stout,  but  fatality  has  paralysed 
the  arms  of  the  brave ! 

On  the  morning  of  the  16th  Na- 
poleon again  crossed  the  Adise  and 
moved  on  as  before,  in  two  columns, 
against  Forcil  and  Arcole.  On  the 
causeways  he  encountered  and  thriew 
back  the  Austrian  advanced  guards, 
and  Massena  again  carried  Forcil 
after  a  sharp  encounter  with  Frovera^s 
corps,  and  here  his  second  day*s 
work  ended  even  as  the  first  had 
done ;  but  at  Arcole  every  effort  to 
carry  the  bridge  and  village  by  a 
fh)nt  attack  fuled  exactly  as  tncy 
bad  fiuled  the  day  before.     One 


bloody  and  bootless  effort  followed 
another ;  repulse  succeeded  repulse ; 
an  attempt  to  cross  the  Alpon  by 
the  aid  oi  fascines  met  with  no  better 
success;  and  after  a  day  passed  in 
these  fruitless  and  sanguinary  efforts, 
Napoleon  again  fell  back  benind  the 
Adige,  not  having  obtained  even 
momentary  possession  of  the  Ion- 
contested  village.  On  this  day  no 
flank  movement  was  even  attempted ; 
and  the  conduct  of  the  French, 
coupled  with  their  retreat  of  the 
night  before,  is  incomprehensible  in 
its  way,  as  the  continued  inactivity 
of  Wurmser  and  Davidowitch  are  in 
theirs.  None  of  the  parties  have 
explained  the  motives  of  their  con- 
duct, though  it  would  hardly  have 
been  concealed  had  it  promised  to 
cast  any  very  radiant  lustre  on  the 
fame  of  the  mighty  actors  in  this 
deep  and  deadly  drama. 

Ii  we  can  discover  no  comprehen- 
sible motive  for  Napoleon*s  conduct 
in  resigning  the  advantages  gained  on 
the  evening  of  the  15  th,  to  fight 
for  them  again  on  the  morning  of  the 
16th — for  his  own  statement  will 
not  bear  the  test  of  examination — 
we  can  well  understand  that  cir- 
cumstances might  now  induce  him 
to  continue  his  attacks  upon  Alvinzy. 
His  position,  which  was  difficult  at 
the  best,  had  been  rendered  critical 
by  these  unsuccessful  combats.  He 
had  not,  perhaps,  lost  many  more 
men  than  the  Austrians ;  but  to  re- 
linquish the  contest  would  be  to  con- 
fess himself  vanquished,  to  sacrifice 
a  part  of  that  moral  courage  and 
confidence  from  which  his  army  de- 
rived so  ^eat  a  portion  of  its  strength 
and  efficiency.  « 

He  was,  therefore,  obliged  to  fight ; 
and  it  was  evident  that  these  con- 
tinued blows,  however  unskilfully 
dealt,  would  in  the  end,  if  no  decisive 
result  or  great  disproportion  of  loss 
took  place,  tell  most  in  favour  of  the 
party  which  had  the  largest  fund  of 
confidence  and  stamina  to  draw  upon, 
and  here  the  balance  was  entirely 
on  the  side  of  the  French.  Besides, 
they  were  forced  to  stand  at  bay; 
for  as  long  as  Mantua  held  out,  tne 
fate  of  all  their  previous  conquests 
depended  on  the  result  of  every 
battle  fought  for  its  relief;  if  they 
sustained  a  sinsle  defeat  in  the  field 
and  allowed  Avurmser  to  join  th^ 
Other  Austrian  armies,  nothing  cor 


284 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon,     [March, 


save  them  from  being  driven  back 
behind  the  Apennines,  to  the  very 
point  whence  they  started  at  the 
opening  of  the  campaign. 

All  these  circumstances  led  na- 
turally to  a  renewal  of  the  action  on 
the  17th ;  and  the  altered  dispositions 
shew  at  once  how  anxious  Napoleon 
was  to  extend  his  front  and  not  to 
fi^ht  on  the  causeways  by  mere  heads 
of  columns.  On  this  occasion  Au- 
gereau,  followed  by  the  reserve 
cavalry,  was  to  cross  the  Alpon  on 
bridges  prepared  during  the  night 
near  Ronco;  a  corps  was  to  march 
from  Legnano  to  turn  the  extreme 
left  of  the  Austrians ;  a  single  brigade 
only  of  ^Massena's  division  was  to 
move  on  Porcil,  with  the  rest  the 
general  was  to  attack  Arcole.  An 
accident  had  nearly  frustrated  all 
these  dispositions  at  the  very  mo- 
ment they  were  about  to  be  acted 
upon.  One  of  the  bridges  over  the 
Adige  gave  way  at  the  very  time 
when  the  Austrians,  informed  that 
the  French  were  in  full  retreat,  were 
advancing  to  overthrow  what  they 
thought  .a  mere  rearguard  left  at 
Ronco.  Fortunately  for  Napoleon 
the  French  artillery,  on  the  right 
bank  of  the  Adige,  enfiladed  both 
causeways  so  completely,  that  its  fire 
was  alone  sufficient  to  drive  back 
the  assailants;  the  bridge  being  re- 
paired, the  Republicans  proceeded 
with  their  movement.  The  Austrians 
attacked  the  advanced  guard  as  they 
moved  along  the  causeway;  but 
following  some  trifline  success  too 
far,  were  taken  in  both  Hanks  and 
repulsed  with  loss.  The  manoeuvring 
also  of  entire  brigades  and  battalions 
in  these  marshes  shews  how  com- 
pletely the  ground  was  at  variance 
with  the  principle  on  which  Napoleon 
pretends  to  have  acted. 

Whilst  these  advanced-guard  com- 
bats were  fought  along  the  cause- 
ways, Augereau  had  reached  the  lefl 
wing  of  the  Austrians,  drawn  up 
between  the  village  of  Arcole,  which 
was  now  the  centre  of  their  position, 
and  an  extensive  morass  that  covered 
their  extreme  left.  The  French  at- 
tacked with  their  usual  gallantry, 
but  met  with  so  resolute  an  opposi- 
tion that  they  were  obliged  to  give 


way  at  all  points  and  at  every  onset. 
Napoleon  seeing  the  ill  success  of 
these  efforts,  fell,  as  he  tells  us,  upon 
the  idea  of  sending  a  troop  of  mty 
guides^  accompanied  by  several  trum- 
peters, round  the  morass,  with  orders 
to  sound  the  charge  as  soon  as  they 
should  have  turned  the  Austrian 
position;  and  this  measure,  he  as- 
sures us,  decided  the  fate  of  the  day 
and  induced  the  enemy  to  retire, 
thinking  they  were  assailed  by  the 
whole  Frencn  cavalry.  Those  who 
know  how  much  better  such  strata- 
gems tell  in  books  than  in  the  field, 
will  have  little  hesitation  in  placing 
this  brilliant  device  on  the  level  with 
so  many  other  puerilities  already  ex- 
posed in  this  memoir ;  and  Bertbier,  in 
a  private  letter  to  Gierke,  makes  no 
mention  of  this  pretended  stratagem. 

The  Austrians  tell  us  that  they 
resolved  to  retire  as  soon  as  they 
perceived  that  Augereau  had  crossed 
the  Alpon,  and  that  a  corps  was  on 
its  march  from  Legnano,  and  that 
they  only  made  front  with  their  left 
wing  to  give  the  troops  still  before 
Verona  time  to  fall  back  on  Villa 
Nova.  This  being  effected,  they 
withdrew  to  the  same  place  about 
two  o'clock  in  the  day.  Their  re- 
treat was  not  molested.  From  the 
position  which  they  occupied,  it  is 
evident  enough  that  they  had  no 
intention  to  fight  on  the  left  bank 
of  the  Alpon.  Their  right  wing 
fronted  that  river  above  Arcole  where 
their  centre  was  posted,  and  whence 
the  left  fell  back  to  the  morass  al- 
ready mentioned  in  an  angle  of  about 
90° ;  this  was  no  formation  in  which 
a  French  army  could  be  encountered. 
The  Austrians  lost  about  6000  men* 
in  these  three  actions;  the  French, 
perhaps,  a  few  more.  Little  was 
gained  by  either  party  in  the  field ; 
but  what  arms  left  undecided,  the 
superior  moral  force  of  the  French 
troops  here  achieved  for  their  com- 
mander. 

The  reader  will  recollect  that  on 
the  17th  November,  at  the  very  time 
when  Alvinzy  was  falling  back  from 
Arcole,  abandoning  the  cause  as 
hopeless,  forgetting,  it  would  almost 
seem,  the  very  obiect  of  the  enter- 
prise,   Davidowitcn    was    defeating 


*  In  the  St.  Helena  Memoirs  the  loss  of  the  Austrians  is  estimated  in  one  place 
at  18,000,  and  in  another  at  20,000,  and  in  a  third  at  26,000  men ,  that  ia,  in  the  last 
instance,  at  3000  or  3000  more  than  they  brought  into  field. 


1846.] 


The  Italian  Campaigns. 


285 


Vaubois  at  Rivoli,  and  gaining  a 
battle  which,  if  achieved  one  day 
sooner,  would  probably  have  turned 
the  scale  in  favour  of  Austria;  but 
standing  by  itself,  a  victory  gained 
over  a  single  division  could  not  re- 
trieve what  an  army  had  abandoned ; 
and  Napoleon  no  sooner  found  that 
Alvinzy  was  in  full  retreat  towards 
Montebello,  than  he  immediately 
turned  agiunst  Davidowitch.  The 
latter,  however,  was  apprised  of  his 
danger,  and  fell  back  rapidly  into  the 
mountains;  and  as  Alvinzy  also 
countermarched  and  made  a  new  de- 
monstration against  Verona,  Napo- 
leon was  obl£ed  to  return  to, the 
Adige.  On  the  part  of  the  field- 
marshal  this  was  only  a  feint  in  order 
to  gain  time  for  his  lieutenant,  who, 
thus  relieved,  retired  quietly  to  Trent, 
while  the  marshal  himself  established 
his  army  at  Bassano. 

Wurmser  had,  of  course,  been  ap- 
prised that  an  army  was  in  march 
for  the  relief  of  Mantua.  The  thun- 
der of  artillery  was  distinctly  heard 
in  the  direction  of  the  Adige ;  and, 
from  the  steeple  that  served  as  an 
observatory,  the  combats  round  Ar- 
cole  were  plainly  discernible ;  but  no 
movement  was  made  to  aid  the  re- 
lieving force,  as  the  field -marshal 
waited  for  a  signal  which  circum- 
stances never  permitted  Alvinzy  to 
make.  Three  salvoeSf  fired  at  five 
minutes*  interval,  from  eight  12- 
pounders,  were  to  tell  Wurmser  that 
nis  friends  were  preparing  to  pass 
the  Adige,  and  to  call  upon  him  to 
sally  from  the  fortress  and  join  in  the 
general  onset.  But  Alvinzy,  attacked 
at  Arcole,  was  never  in  position  to 
give  the  signal ;  and  the  hundred  of 
guns  fired  on  the  banks  of  the  Alpon, 
the  stern  combat  in  which,  for  tnree 
days,  he  saw  the  adverse  hosts  en- 
gaged, were  unfortunately  not  deemed 
enough  to  convince  Marshal  Wurm- 
ser that  the  hour  to  strke  home  had 
arrived! 

It  was  in  vain  that  victory  seemed 
to  court  these  unhappy  commanders, 
even  with  open  arms.  At  last,  on 
the  23d  of  November,  and  when  all 
the  blockading  corps  had  returned  to 
their  posts,  a  sally  was  made  from 
the  fortress.  It  proved  singularly 
successful:  the  Favorita,  St.  An- 
tonio, and  Montado,  were  taken ;  but 
'with  them,  also,  a  number  of  prison- 
ers, who  informed  Wurmser  of  what 

TOL.  XXXm.  HO.  CXGY. 


had  happened.  The  field-marshal 
again  withdrew  to  his  fastnesses,  and 
a  gallant  army,  which,  if  properly 
employed  for  one  hour,  wnile  the 
combats  were  waging  round  Arcole, 
might  have  avert^  from  its  country 
twenty  years  of  humiliation  and  sor- 
row, was  doomed  to  perish  by  famine 
and  sickness  amidst  the  pestilential 
marshes  of  the  Mincio. 

The  Austrians  had  recovered  Trent 
and  tbe  line  of  the  Brenta  by  this 
expedition,  and  could,  probably,  shew 
a  &w  guns  and  standards  as  trophies 

gained  in  the  various  combats ;  but, 
owever  much  these  advantages 
might  be  put  forwiurd,  the  under- 
taking had,  nevertheless,  proved  a 
complete  fiulure,  and  one  which, 
added  to  so  many  previous  disasters, 
was  certain  to  produce  the  most  un- 
favourable effects  on  the  minds  of 
the  soldiers,  for  they  had  often  been 
victorious,  whereas  their  leaders  had 
been  constantly  foiled.  A  complete 
want  of  confidence  in  the  skill  and 
fortune  of  their  superiors  was  the 
natural  consequence;  and  the  next 
act  will  shew  what  may  be  expected 
even  from  brave  troops  once  im- 
pressed with  so  fatal  a  sentiment. 

To  enter  into  any  serious  examina- 
tion of  the  movements  already  de- 
scribed, would,  of  course,  be  worse 
than  useless;  for  it  is  sufiiciently 
evident  that  neither  of  the  parties 
had  any  clear  idea  of  what  their  re- 
spective manoeuvres  were  to  produce. 
From  the  moment  that  Alvinzy 
placed  himself,  with  an  army  that 
nad  gained  little  advantage  over  the 
French  in  open  field,  dose  before 
Verona — ^a  fortified  town,  if  not  a 
fortress — and  the  Adige,  from  that 
moment  his  career  was  run.  And 
this  he  seems  to  have  felt  himself, 
for,  there  arrived,  he  stood  motion- 
less, and  like  a  conscious  malefactor, 
over  whom  the  sword  of  vengeance 
was  suspended,  waited,  in  crouching 
inactivity,  till  the  oft-repeated  blows 
of  an  unskilfVil  adversary  struck  him 
fairly  to  the  ground. 

Tne  French,  on  their  part,  were 
victorious,  notwithstanding  the  re- 
verses they  had  experienced  in  most 
of  the  combats,  for  they  had  main- 
tained their  point — the  blockade  of 
Mantua ;  anothe  buoyant  and  elastic 
spirits  of  the  soldiers  were  naturally 
elevated  by  this  additional  proof  of 
their  own  prowess  and  of  the  skill  of 

V 


286 


Principal  Campaigni  in  the  Sise  of  Napoleon.     [March, 


their  leader ;  for  soldiers  are  liberal 
in  such  cases,  and  readily  ascribe  to 
the  talents  of  their  general  not  only 
what  fortune  has  effected,  but  much, 
aho,  of  what  their  own  gallantry  has 
achieved.  Napoleon*s  confidence  was 
also  heiffhtened  by  this  continued  suc- 
cess, and  that  self-exaggeration  which 
formed  the  most  prominent  feature 
in  his  character,  was  naturally  fostered 
into  active  strength,  and  tended,  no 
doubt,  to  augment  for  a  time  some  of 
the  most  essential  elements  of  force 
belonging  to  his  arm^.  His  manner 
also  l^gan,  about  this  period,  to  be 
more  strongly  affected  oy  his  rising 
fortunes  than  had  before  been  visible. 
Every  victory  that  he  gained  di- 
minisned  in  something  his  repub- 
lican frankness;  the  thee  and  thou 
were  entirely  laid  aside,  and  the  re- 
served air  of  conscious  superiority 
was  gradually  assumed,  not  yet  in 
the  haughty  and  imperial  style  of 
after  days,  but  in  the  mysteriously 
tranquil  manner  that  might  best  bent 
'Uhe  man  of  destiny ;"  and,  backed 
by  a  wonderful  career  of  victory, 
even  this  produced  effect. 

During  the  two  months  of  repose 
that  followed  on  the  fourth  act  of 
the  Italian  Campaign,  we  find  both 
parties  engaged  in  preparing  for  the 
ultimate  struggle  which  was  rapidly 
approaching.  The  period  beyond 
Tmich  Mantua  could  not  possibly 
hold  out  was  now  drawing  near,  and 
it  was  an  im^rative  duty  on  the  part 
of  the  Austrians  to  use  every  effort 
for  the  relief  of  a  fortress  on  which 
the  fate  of  Lombar^  still  rested. 
The  Bepublic  was  also  bound  to 
strain  every  nerve  to  secure  the  niize 
for  which  so  many  battles  had  oeen 
fought  and  so  many  victories  gained, 
for  it  was  still  evident  that  a  single  de- 
feat on  the  Adi^  would  deprive  them 
of  all  the  fruits  of  the  campaign : 
the  end  of  the  next  act  will  shew 
how  far  either  of  the  parties  acted 
up  to  their  duties  on  this  oecadoiL 

in  Italy,  circumstances  were  daily 
becoming  more  favourable  to  the 
Austrians.  The  French  troops,  left 
without  food  or  pay,  notwithstanding 
the  imm^se  sums  levied  on  the 
country,  were  guilty  of  great  ex- 
cesses, and  Vial  6  brigade  even  mu- 
tinied at  this  period ;  while  the  au- 
thorities continued  their  usual  ex- 
tortions, and  tj^is  cooled  the  ardour 

"  their  friends  ;Aud  strengthened  the 


hands  of  their  enemies.  The  govern- 
ment of  Venice,  conscious  that  they 
would  not  be  spared  if  France  pre- 
vailed, assembled  troops  in  the  capi- 
tal, but  did  not  venture  to  employ 
them  in  support  of  the  cause  on 
which  they  knew  that  their  own 
safety  depended.  Napoleon  was 
bolder ;  being  fully  aware  of  their 
sentiments,  he  seized  on  the  fortress 
of  Bergamo  by  open  force.  Many  of 
the  nations  engi^ged  aaainst  France 
during  the  course  of  tne  long  ware 
that  arose  out  of  the  Revolution 
found  brave  soldiers  to  fight  their 
battles  in  the  field,  but  few,  indeed, 
were  those  who  found  themselves 
ruled  over  by  governments  possessed 
of  sufficient  courage  and  character  to 
act  with  eneigy  and  decision  at  the 
proper  time  and  place ;  and  the  small 
republican  governments  displayed,  in 
their  humble  way,  far  more  of  trem- 
bling and  temporising  timi^ty  than 
their  more  nowerful  neighbours. 

The  insolent  demand  of  France 
had  obli^;ed  the  Pope  to  break  off  all 
negotiations  with  the  Republic,  to 
reodl  the  15,000,000  livres  that  were 
already  on  their  way  to  the  French 
head-quarters,  and  to  continue  his 
military  preparations.  It  was  ^ne- 
rally  believ^  that  Naples  was  willing 
to  aid  the  Roman  government  if  a 
favourable  opportunity — that  is,  an 
opportunity  offering  a  prospect  of 
success  witnout  any  chance  of^^danger 
— should  present  itself.  And  yet  it 
was  the  consciousness  of  existing  dan- 
ger which  inspired  the  Neapolitan 
government  with  this  hostile  feeling, 
without  also  inspiring  it  with  the 
necessary  eoucage  to  strike  a  bold 
blow  for  safety  and  hononr. 

Tlie  court  of  Turin  continued 
neutral,  suspected  by  the  French, 
and  conscious,  like  all  the  other 
Italian  states,  that  its  ruin  would  not 
be  long  delayed  if  the  Austrians  were 
ultimately  aefeated.  The  French 
Directory,  aware  of  their  total  want 
of  popularity,  were  becoming  every 
day  more  anxious  for  peace,  in  order 
to  establish  themselves  in  the  good 
opinion  of  the  nation.  And  as  they 
intended  to  exchan^  the  Italian  con- 
quests against  Belgium  and  the  left 
bank  of  the  Rhine,  they  discouraged 
all  revolutionary  proceedings  in  Itdy. 
Napoleon,  however,  was  not  so  de- 
sirous of  peace,  and  seemed  now  to 
display  more  xeyolutionary  zeal  than 


1S46.] 


TTie  TtaUan  Campaigns, 


287 


4 


he  had  done  in  the  early  part  of  the 
campaign ;  he  allowed  Bdogna,  Fer- 
rara,  and  the  doch^  of  Modena,  to 
form  themselyes  mto  a  repablK, 
called  the  Cispaden,  and  would  have 
been  equally  liberal  to  the  Lombards, 
had  not  the  Directory  interfered  ; 
the  i&Glanese  were  obliged,  therefore, 
to  content  themsdves  with  their  pro- 
visional government. 

Much  has  been  said  of  Napoleon's 
success  in  ingratiating  himself  with 
the  Italians,  and  even  with  their 
clergy,  during  these  periods  of  mili- 
tary inactivity.  Such  things  could 
not  fail  to  be  said  and  written  a  mil* 
lion  of  times  over,  however  the  case 
might  reallv  have  stood.  His  iron 
hand  rested  for  twen^  years  on 
Europe;  he  was  dreaded  and  all* 
powerful,  had  thousands  of  flatterers 
who  were  aiUowed  to  speak,  while 
those  who  entertained  sentim^its  un- 
favourable to  him  were  forced  to  be 
silent.  He  wrote  a  few  compliment- 
ary letters  to  men  of  sdence,  which 
were  widely  circulated,  and  pro- 
duced, no  doubt,  some  effect ;  on  the 
other  hand,  his  abruptness  of  man- 
ner, totally  devoid  of  courtesy  and 
elegance,  was  W  remembered  in 
the  best  circles  of  fialian  society. 

We  shall  illustrate  the  probability 
of  the  pretended  popularity  by  a 
couple  01  simple  facts  that  historians 
have  neglected  to  record.  When 
the  provisional  government  of  Milan 
solicited  permission  to  confiscaite  cer- 
tain portions  of  the  property  belong- 
ing to  the  clergy  and  nobility,  they 
requested  leave  to  seize  the  whole 
of  the  church  plate  for  the  imme- 
diate use  of  Uie  state.  This  last  re*- 
quest  was  granted  to  the  full;  but 
no  sooner  was  the  treasure  .collected* 
than  the  spoilers,  who  mkht  possibly 
have  expected  some  sli^t  share  for 
their  trouble,  were  directed  to  ac- 
count for  the  produce  to  a  French 
commissioner,  and  then  to  pay  the 
amount  into  the  military  chest  of  the 
French  army.  In  this  manner  were 
the  clergy  conciliated.  Our  other 
fact  is  one  respecting  which  every 
idle  traveller  in  Italy  may  still  satisfy 
himself.  Near  every  town  which 
happened  to  be  the  seat  of  a  military 
government  or  commission,  the  coun- 
try people  point  out,  even  to  this  dinr, 
some  spot  as  the  place  where  the 
^*  French  shot  all  peasants  who  were 
condemned  by  the  military  tribunals.** 


The  belligerent  parties  made  at 
this  time  some  attempt  to  terminate 
the  war.  The  Enslish  government 
sent  Lord  Malmesbury  with  pacific 
overtures  to  Paris,  but  as  he  insisted 
on  ^e  reatoxation  of  Belgium  to 
Austria,  he  was  soon  ordered  to  leave 
France.  The  Directory,  on  their 
part,  deqfiatched  General  Gierke  into 
Italy  for  the  purpose  of  negotiating  a 
general  armistioe,  preparatory  to  tne 
assembling  of  a  congress.  The  gene- 
ral had  some  conferences  at  Yioenza 
with  Baron  Yinoent,  aide-de-camp  of 
the  £mperor  of  Austria,  who  was 
willing  to  agree  to  a  local  but  not  to 
a  general  armistice ;  and  as  General 
Gierke  had  no  power  to  accede  to 
these  terms,  his  n^tiation  also 
&Ued.  We  now  find,  nowev^,  that 
this  was  not  the  sole  object  of  his 
mission,  for  he  was  further  directed 
to  act  the  noble  part  of  a  spy,  and 
report  on  the  conduct  and  sentiments 
of  Napoteon,  and  of  the  principal 
officers  of  lus  army,  the  rapid  rise  of 
the  youthful  conqu^or  having  al- 
r^y  inspired  the  Directory  with 
some  alarm.  The  general  was  evi- 
dently no  unerring  observer,  for, 
aft^  bestowing  great  praise  on  Na- 
poleon*s  conduct  as  a  commander,  he 
proceeds  to  say,  that  "  nothing  need 
be  aj^Mrehended  from  him;  that  he 
is  sincerely  attached  to  the  constitu- 
tion, and  nevar  likely  to  take  any 
steps  against  the  liberties  oi  the  Re- 
public. He  adds,  howev^,  that 
"  General  BuonaiMirte  has  his  faults, 
and  is  too  lavisih  of  the  lives  of  the 
soldiers;  that  he  does  not  always 
^leak  to  the  military  moi  who  ap- 
proach him  in  the  measured  terms 
that  beoome  his  character,  and  is 
often  har^  impwtiait,  and  impe- 
rious.'* 

Napcdeon  had  also  been  accused  or 
suspected  of  some  acts  of  peculation, 
but  of  these  Gierke  aequits  him  en- 
tirely. The  civil  authorities  attached 
to  the  army  he  describes  as  dishonest, 
worthless,  and  rapacious  in  tiie  ex- 
treme ;  and  even  as  Nsfioleon  found 
them  at  the  commencement  of  his 
career,  so  he  left  them  at  the  termi- 
nation of  his  reu^,  as  continental 
Europe  can  testi^  to  its  cost.  The 
well-known  fact  furnishes  an  ample 
refutation  of  the  praise  so  lavishly 
bestowed  upon  himfor  ably  regulating 
the  coauniasariat  and  finanoi^  de- 
partment of  the  army. 


288 


Counsel  Mal-i-propos. 


[March, 


COUNSEL  MAL-A-PROPOS. 


"  You  may  replenish  my  cup,  Mrs. 
Froby,"  said  Mr.  Bradford  to  his 
housekeeper,  who  was  performing 
her  wonted  duties  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  "I  could  relish  another  slice 
of  that  broiled  ham,  too.  You  don*t 
think  it  will  do  me  any  harm  P" 

"  Harm !  I  assure  you  I  am  quite 
glad  to  see  you  so  hearty,  sir.** 

^^  And  I  certainly  do  not  see  where- 
fore I  should  not  have  my  indul- 
gences. At  an^  rate  I  can  afford 
them;  hare  neither  *kin  nor  kith,* 
as  they  say,  that  is,  none  whom  I 
care  for,  or  who,  I  suspect,  care  for 
me,  whatever  regard  they  may  have 
for  my  money.  But  they  may  be 
disappointed  after  all.  Eh,  Mrs. 
Proby  ?*• 

An  odd  humour  he  is  in  this  morn- 
ing, thought  the  dame;  and  then, 
without  seeming  to  notice  the  last 
remark'-^much  as  it  excited  her  cu- 
riosity— anxious  as  she  was  to  ascer- 
tain its  import,  she  replied, — 

"  Why,  to  be  sure,  sir,  if  you  can- 
not have  your  indulgences,  who 
should  ?  VoT  my  part,  I  think  you 
would  be  to  blame  not  to  enjoy  as 
many  as  you  can.  And  you  can, 
as  you  well  observe,  not  onlv  afford 
them,  but  have  no  one*s  will  except 
your  own  to  consult.** 

"Very  true;  thanks  to  my  old- 
bachelorship  for  my  independence. 
Still,  even  that  independence  is  not 
without  its  alloy — at  least,  I  almost 
begin  now  to  fancy  so.  Hang  it! 
after  all,  one  likes  to  have  some  one 
to  care  for.  Were  it  not  that  my 
cousin  £llingham*s  family  are  such  a 
strange,  untoward  set — don*t  you 
think  they  are,  Mrs.  Proby?  Did 
you  ever  see  such  a  conceit^,  extra- 
vagant puppy  as  that  Tom  EUing- 
ham  ?  However,  that  is  no  business 
of  mine :  if  his  father  can  afford  to 
make  a  harum'scartan  fine  gentle- 
man of  him,  and  fine  folks  of  all 
the  rest,  so  much  the  better.  They 
are  all  much  wiser  than  me,  I  dare 
say,  only  they  must  not  look  to  me 
to  be  tneir  banker.  To  say  the 
*^ruth,  they  seem  to  think  they  are 

fling  me  a  favour  by  allowing  me  the 

•portttuity  of  bestowing  upon  them 


with  my  own  hands  what  they  think 
would  be  theirs  a^r  my  death.'* 

How  far  honest  Mr.  Bradford  was 
justified  in  this  sprightly  tirade  against 
the  EUinghams;  whether  he  either 
overrated  nis  own  liberality,  or  their 
unworthiness  of  it,  it  is  not  necessary 
for  us  to  inquire  into  very  strictly. 
Certain  it  is,  that  although  she 
thought  proper  to  dissemble  ner  sa- 
tisfaction, his  remarks  were  not  par- 
ticularly disagreeable  to  Mrs.  Prob^, 
who  was  aware  that  these  cousins  did 
not  regard  her  with  much  goodwill. 
In  fact,  some  of  them  had  gone  so  far 
as  to  insinuate,  that  she  was  so  at- 
tached not  only  to  Mr.  Bradford 
and  to  his  interests,  but  to  his  name; 
that  she  desired  nothins  better  than 
to  exchange  her  own  for  it.  Now, 
if  she  did  entertain  any  idea  that  way 
tending,  it  probably  originated  in 
their  incautious,  not  to  say  unceremo- 
nious betrayal  of  their  own  suspi- 
cions, and  was  afterwards  cherished 
by  her,  out  of  the  laudable  desire  of 
proving  to  the  world  their  excessive 
loresignt.  The  reader  must  not  call 
upon  us  for  an  explanation  of  this 
doubtful  point;  because,  instead  of 
vindicating  Mrs.  Proby,  we  have  to 
attend  to  the  colloquy  at  the  break- 
fast-table. 

"  Really,  sir,  it  is  astonishing  how 
they  have  contrived  to  do  so  long  as 
they  do,  even  with  your  generous 
assistance.  Why,  there*s  Miss  El- 
lingham*s  and  her  sisters*  finery 
alone  must  cost  a  tolerable  income, 
and  all  to  no  purpose,  too,  for  not 
oiie  of  them  seems  likely  to  get  a 
husband.  And  Mr.  Thomas,  again ! 
racketing  about  every  where — now 
up  to  town,  now  post  haste  down 
into  the  country;  riding,  coursing, 
hunting,  horse-racing,  curricle-driv- 
ing !  Upon  my  word,  generosity  to- 
wards such  people  is  only  a  premium 
to  extravagance.  However,  as  you 
observe,  sir,  their  goings-on  need  be 
no  concern  of  yours.** 

"Most  certainly,  Mrs.  Proby.  I 
am  not  one  of  those  who  sympathise 
with  genteel  distresses, — with  folks 
who  •  must^  live  in  a  certain  style,  no 
matter  who  pays  for  it ;  and  who  itnll 


1846.] 


Counsel  MaUd-propos, 


289 


ran  headlong  into  difficulties  vnih 
their  eves  open,  considering  that  it 
is  the  dutj  of  their  friends  to  extri- 
cate them.  K  people  will  trust  to  a 
lucky  chance,  to  mere  windfalls,  to 
the  well-timed  death  of  rich  old  re- 
lations, rather  than  to  common  pru- 
dence; why,  they  ought  to  he  pre- 
pared for  hlanks  as  well  as  prizes  in 
the  lottery  of  life :  accordmgly,  if 
thty  find  all  their  fine  castles  in  the 
air  suddenly  transformed  into  a  real 
castle — ^that  is,  a  gaol,  they  ought  to 
enter  it  with  the  sang  from  of  a 
Turk." 

"  In  my  opinion,  it  is  quite  wicked 
for  any  one  to  speculate  upon  ad- 
vantages that  may  hefall  them  *in 
case  of  another's  death,  especially 
when  there  can  he  no  reasonable  ex- 
pectation of  such  an  event.  Why, 
the  EUinghams  may  he  all  dead  and 
gone  long  before  you,  sir !" 

"  At  any  rate,  were  they  to  know 
what  a  hearty  breakfast  I  have  made 
this  morning,  it  might  damp  their 
appetites,  rshaw !  People  don*t 
die  exactly  in  the  nick  when  the 
wreckers,  as  I  call  them,  are  looking 
about  for  a  ffood  '  godsend.*  That  is 
all  very  well  in  novels,  where  titles 
and  money-bags  fall  down  from  the 
clouds,  as  it  were;  and  where  an 
author  makes  no  scruple  of  bringing 
a  rich  old  uncle,  cousin,  or  cousin  s 
cousin,  from  India,  merely  to  de- 
spatch him  into  the  other  world,  that 
he  may  leave  his  rupees  and  treasures 
to  those  who  have  run  through  their 
own  fortunes,  or  else  have  been  too 
idle  to  think  of  making  one.  Mo- 
rality, poetical  justice,  indeed!  I 
call  it  poetical  manslaughter  at  the 
least.  By-the-by,  Mrs.  rroby,"  con- 
tinued he,  *^  don't  you  remember  the 
alarm  the  Ellinghams  were  all  in  at 
the  time  of  that  silly  report  about 
me  and  the  Widow  Dareall  ?  Poor 
woman,  what  insinuations  did  they 
throw  out  against  her  I  I  verily 
believe  that  that  uglv  anonymous 
letter  might  be  tra^  to  the  E.'s. 
However,  it  did  not  disturb  my  ease 
much,  for  nothing  was  further  from 
my  thoughts  than  any  matrimonial 
views  in  that  quarter.  Had  it  taken 
any  efiect  at  aH,  it  might  have  proved 
a  very  different  one  from  what  was 
intended.  It  is,  therefore,  perhaps 
quite  as  well  that  I  ptud  no  attention 
to  it.  Mrs.  Dareall  was  certainly  a 
very  fine  woman — a  very  fine  wo- 


man, indeed ;  a  woman  of  spirit,  onc 
of  your  dashers ;  still  I  very  much 

guestion  whether  she  would,  with  all 
er  good  qualities,  have  been  exactly 
the  wifb  for  me.  I  have,  as  you  have 
doubtless  long  ago  found  out,  my 
little  oddities  and  humours,  Mrs. 
Proby ;  and  although — ^that  is  speak- 
ing h3rpothetically — ^I  should  have  no 
objection  to  a  wife  who  could  awe 
people,  I  should  wish  to  be  excepted 
from  the  number.  To  be  a  good 
manager  is,  no  doubt,  an  excellent 
recommendation  in  a  wife,  but  her 
husband  ought  to  find  her  manage- 
able also." 

**  Which  is  not  always  the  case,  sir, 
with  your  very  high-spirited  ladies.'* 

**  Kight,  right  I  Besides,  thanks 
to  you,  my  good  Mrs.  Proby,  I  have 
never  experienced  the  want  of  a 
careful  manager." 

"  You  are  pleased  to  compliment.** 

"  Nay,  I  assure  you  it  is  no  more 
than  the  truth.  I  enjoy  as  many 
comforts  and  have  as  few  troubles  aa 
the  most  of  those  who  are  best  off  in 
the  world." 

"  Indeed,  you  do  so,  sir.  For  my 
part,  I  think  you  have  all  the  com- 
forts that  can  reasonably  be  desired.'^ 

'^  Including  a  good  appetite.  You 
did,  however,  in  some  degree,  qualify 
your  remark.  Pray  what  am  I  to 
understand  by  that  ?  That  a  wife  is 
a  comfort  out  of  all  reason,  or  that 
she  is  no  comfort  at  all  ?" 

"  Why,  sir ! "  exclaimed  the  good 
lady,  with  a  look  that  seemed  to  say, 
"  Gfo  on." 

"  You  evidently  do  not  wee,  1 
perceive,  with  our  great  English 
moralist  when  he  observes,  ^  Matri- 
mony has  many  pains,  but  celibacy 
has  no  comforts.'  I  think,  now,  I 
myself  am  a  tolerably  convincing 
proof  to  the  contrary  of  the  last  as- 
sertion; and  still  I  do  not  say  but 
that  even  now,  had  I  no  one  else  to 
please  but  myself ^" 

*^  And  pray  whom  else  should  you 
have  to  please,  sir,  I  should  like  to 
know?"  inquired  the  lady,  who 
seemed  mightily  busy  at  that  instant 
in  rubbing  out  some  spot  she  fancied 
she  discerned  on  the  well-polished 
silver  coffee-pot. 

"  AVho,  Mrs.  Proby !  Why  the 
world,  to  be  sure — that  is,  the  whole 
parish  of  Hampfield,  and  all  the 
neighbourhood  lor  ten  miles  round. 
Suppose  now,  by  way  of  argument, 


290 


Counsel  Mal'd'propot. 


[Marcby 


I  was  to  take  it  into  my  head,  one 
heaii  matin,  as  the  French  say,  to  hid 
good-hy  to  old  hachelorship— or  sap- 
pose  that  people  only  supposed  I  had 
now  an  intention  of  marrying,  should 
I  not  make  myself  the  unlucky  topic 
of  eyeiT  tea-table  within  earshot  ? 
Only  think  what  comments,  what 
remarks  would  pass  from  ton^e  to 
tongue!  Consider  the  quizzmg! — 
ay,  and  from  those,  too,  who  would 
have  looked  upon  ^e  old  bachelor  as 
a  capital  catch  for  themselves.  They 
shall  make  neither  catches  nor  glees 
of  me,  however." 

'*  Dear  me,  sir,  and  is  that  all  ? 
Let  them  gossip,  tittle-tattle,  and 
make  as  many  ixnpertinent  remarks 
as  they  please.  Provided  folks  do 
not  do  so  to  one's  face,  all  the  rest  is 
but  mere  imagination.  It  is  not  so 
much  what  we  hear  as  what  we  fkncy 
that  disturbs  us.  You  would  not  do 
for  a  prime  minister  if  you  cannot 
endure  the  idea  of  stupid  busy- 
bodies  sitting  in  jud^ent  upon  you 
incessantly.  Why,  sir,  for  aught  you 
can  tell,  censorious  folks  may  be 
blaming  you  every  day — excuse  my 
hinting  at  it — because  you  have  never 
married  I  ** 

"Eeally,  Mrs.  Proby,  there  is  a 
good  deal  of  solid,  though  homely 
philosophy  in  what  you  observe, 
xou  have  put  the  matter,  if  not  in 
the  moat  sentimental,  at  least  in  a 
most  good-sensible  light.  '  De  rebus 
non  apparentibus  et  non  existentibus,* 
as  the  lawyers  have  it,  *  eadem  ratio 
est.*  Of  which  your  interpretation  is, 
'The  scandal  that  does  not  reach  our 
ears  is  no  scandal  at  all.'  Most  as- 
suredly it  is  very  absurd  for  a  man 
who  is  sitting  comfortably  by  his 
own  fire-side  to  torment  himself  by 
conjuring  up  to  his  imagination  the 
silly  nonsense  his  neighbours  may  be 
uttering  about  him,  or  to  heed  tneir 
unsolicited  and  disinterested  inter- 
ference in  his  private  concerns,  when 
their  prudence  mi^ht  be  so  much 
better  employed  at  home.  So  then," 
added  he,  after  a  slight  pause  and 
Uie  inteijection  of  a  pinch  of  snuff, 
'*you  have  at  least  convinced  me 
that,  whether  I  continue  an  old  ba** 
chelor,  or  turn  an  old  Benedick,  if  I 
do  but  please  myself  in  the  matter,  I 
ycDL  not  exactly  bound  to  please  all 
>e  world.    'lo  say  the  truth,"  here 

lother  inteijection  from  the  snuff- 

»z,  **  I  begin  to  think— I  don't  know. 


but  really,  Mrs.  Proby,  you  are 
enough  to  tempt  one  to  commit  ma^ 
trimony." 

*'I  tempt  your  simpered  th« 
dame,  at  the  same  time  casting  a 
side-long  and  not  disapproving  glanoe 
at  her  own  comely  VDUge  and  smart 
cap,  reflected  in  a  highly  polished 
silver  waiter  that  formed  port  of  the 
breakfast  equipage. 

*'  Tes,  Mrs.  rroby,"  continued  the 
other  interlocutor  m  this  tkerii'teU 
(we  know  not  whether  first  or  second 
personin  this  breakfast-table  eclogue), 
without  noticing  the  meanins  implied 
by  her  tone,  and  indeed  harmy  aware 
or  her  exclamation,  "  yes,  Mrs.  Pro» 
by,  I  begin  to  question  whether  I 
should  incur  very  much  more  ridi- 
cule by  marrying  even  now  thim 
may  be  my  lot  if  I  remain  even  as  I 
am.  Besides,  you  know,  one  gets 
the  name  of  'old  bachelor'  beK>re 
one  is  actually  an  old  man  ;  so  that 
by  taking  a  wife  I  should  not  only 
for  a  certainty  set  rid  of  my  bache- 
lorship, but  mignt,  perhaps,  also  get 
rid  of  the  impertinent  epithet  at- 
tached to  it.  There  are  many,  I  be- 
lievCf  who  have  married  mudb  later 
in  lifb  than  myself — ay,  by  some  ten 
years." 

Thus  ingeniously  did  the  worthy 
Mr.  Bradford  devise  excuses,  all  the 
more  ingenious  and  refined  because 
he  could  not  help  secretly  feeling 
that  what  they  wanted  in  soundness 
must  be  made  up  for  in  plausibility. 
He  had,  however,  an  auditor  who  was 
by  no  means  disposed  to  scrutinise 
tnem  severely,  or  to  display  her  own 
ingenuity  by  exposing  their  fallacy ; 
— ^rather  one  who  was  willing  to  help 
him  out  of  every  dilemma  and  doubt. 

*' Assuredly,'  responded  she.  "No 
sooner  does  a  single  gentleman  reach 
the  prime  of  life  than  the  world  in- 
stantly dubs  him  an  '  old  bachelor !' 
Well,  people  are  so  malicious  and 
ill-natured !  After  all,  sir,  you  are 
much  younger — ay,  and  a  much 
younger-looking  man,  too,  than  Mr. 
Frankton,  who  married  not  so  veiy 
long  ago." 

"  Yes,  I  remember  that,  and  the 
plaguy  noise  it  made  at  the  time.  I 
thought  the  Miss  Goslings  would 
never  dve  over  joking  and  prating 
about  tne  afOur." 

"  Dear  me !  who  cares  for  the  jdc- 
ing  of  such  ill-bred  young  women  as 
the  Miss  Goslings?^'  oMerved  the 


1846.] 


Counnt  MtU'd'fropoi. 


291 


l«d7,  who  Almoti  repenled  si  hftting 
quoted  the  FranktoD  oim  mm  a  pre* 
eedent  in  point.  "BeGddeBMr.Frwik- 
Um  numed  such  a  mere  cbit*' 

"  Humph  I  the  girl  was  young,  to 
be  sure,  and,  in  my  opinion,  no  great 
beauty, — ^without  a  eizpenoe,  too.^* 

'*  As  you  say,  sir,  withoiit  a  toMr 
pence;  and  wnafs  more,  poor  Mr. 
Frankton  had  a  ffrown-m>  Hunily  hn- 
raediately  provided  lor  him,  that  is, 
who  expected  to  be  provided  for  by 
him.  I  mean  all  his  wife*8  brothets 
and  sisters.  Her  relations  had  more 
gentility  than  oasb,  Mr.  Frankton 
more  cash  than  gentility;  they,  there- 
fore,  looked  upon  the  alliance  as  a 
relief  of  thdr  mutual  neeessities.'* 

'*At  any  rate,  then,  he  did  not 
marry  beneath  himself.  There  is 
somethiiu;  in  that.  I  can  afford  to 
disregarif  money  quite  as  well,  or 
a  great  deal  better  than  Frankt<m. 
Whether  I  should  not  be  thought  to 
commit  myself  by  marrying  oelow 
my  own  rank  is  another  quertlon." 

To  this  certainly  not  unimportant 

Question  Mrs.  Proby  soon  came  to 
is  aid  with  ar  reply.  "  I  do  not  pre- 
tend to  judge ;  but,  for  my  own  part, 
I  should  say  that  those  who  ean 
afford  to  take  a  wife  without  a  for- 
tune, can  surely  afford  to  fake  one 
without  a  pedigree.  They  who  think 
otherwise  stumble  at  mere  straws.  If 
you  look  at  the  peerage  you  will  iad 
a  coronet  on  many  a  woman's  head 
of  whose  father  ana  mother  the  world 
knows  no  more  than  if  they  had  been 
cmtedivSUanSy  who  have  had  no  more 
to  boast  of  in  the  way  of  family  and 
GonneiQons  than  I  have — nay,  not  so 
much,  for,  thank  Heayen,  I  never 
had  any  ccmnexUmM  that  I  need  be 
ashamed  of.*' 

"  That  is  very  true,**  assented  Mr. 
Bradford,  although  he  was  too  gal- 
lant to  hint  that,  let  her  famdly  be 
ever  so  respectable,  there  was  never 
any  danger  of  her  running  her  head 
into  a  coronet  **  And,  in  fact,  if  a 
man  makes  up  hb  mind  to  marry 
chiefly  to  please  himself,  and  without 
greatly  earing  whether  he  please  the 
wcHrld,  the  d^free  of  otTenee,  more  or 
less  he  may  give  the  latter,  is  hardly 
worth  his  eonsideratbn.  We  may 
as  well  be  soused  over  head  sad  esrs 
in  scandal  at  oaoe,  as  have  it  some 
drop  by  drop." 

The  mperiond  ^  we"  here  made 
use  of  by  the  speaker  was  understood 


by  his  auditor  as  of  eoarse  ajiplyin^ 
to  the  two  parties  enwged  m  this 
mterestin^  leta-d-lsfe  ,•  ^she,  there- 
fore, replied,— 

**  Your  meamag  is  ^in  enough^ 
and  your  observation  very  correct, 
yet  scandal  is  by  far  too  harsh  a 
term.  There  would  only  be  a  little 
gossiping,  a  little  curiosity,  and  a 
good  dm  of  envy.  The  election, 
which  the;^  say  will  be  very  hotly 
oontested,  is  just  eomiog  on,  so  that 
people  will  not  have  mudi  leisure  to 
Dusy  thesQselveB  about  their  neigh'* 
boiurs'  private  affairs;  and  by  the 
time  that  stir  has  subsided,  the  other 
matter  would  have  lost  its  first 
novelt3r." 

"  So  it  would  I  that  is  yery  happily 
aigued.  To  confess  the  truth,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Proby,  you  have  bow  re* 
moved  all  mv  scruples;  or  rather, 
you  have  confirmed  a  resolution  that 
was  before  somewhat  wavering.  This 
conversation  has  relieved  me  of  not  a 
little  uneasiness;  because,  to  deal 
frankly  with  vou,  I  rather  expected 
that  you  would  have  endeavoured  to 
dissuade  me  from  any  idea  of  marry- 
ing." Here  the  lady  looked  discon- 
certed; for  this  speech  seemed  to 
hint  that  she  had  neglected  to  make 
that  show  of  obtuseness  of  compre* 
hension  which  is,  upon  some  occa- 
sisiis,  more  beooming  than  greater 
oniekneBS  of  mind.  Bxs  vetry  con- 
tnsiOB,  however,  came  to  her  relief, 
inasmuch  as  it  seemed  to  make  up  for 
her  pvevioiis  want  of  reserve.  **  I 
felt  embarrassed,"  continued  Mr. 
Bradford,  **  apprehending  that  the 
ehsoige  I  eontonphrte  would  not  be 
a  particularly  agreeable  one  to  your- 
self.   I  thoimht "" 

'<  Why  what  did  you  think,  ray 
dear  sor?  To  be  sure  the  change 
will  be  a  considerable  one,  but  that 
it  should  be  unwelcome ^ 

"  Well,  it  gives  me  sincere  pleasure 
to  find  that  you  so  readily  come  into 
my  pkn;  and  be  assured  my  marriage 
shall  not  make  the  slightest  dififereace 
in  your  present  situation." 

**  Why,  what  is  it  yon  mean,  Ikfr. 
Bradfoia?  You  reauy  eaa't  mean 
to  say  that  our  marriage ^" 

Poor  Bradford  I  his  artonishmsat 
was  far  greater  than  that  just  ex- 
pressed hf  the  lady,  and  equalled 
only  by  his  confuoon. 

**  Was  thore  ever  such  an  unfor^* 
tunate  blunder  1"  exchdmed  he,  ar 


292 


Margaret  Lucas^  Dttehea  of  Newcastle, 


[March  y 


soon  as  he  could  find  breath  to  make 
any  exclamation  at  all.  "  What  have 
I  been  saying,  or  what  have  you  been 
understanding  all  this  while,  Mrs. 
Proby?  How  vexatious,  that  I 
should  have  forgotten  to  inform  vou  I 
though  I  thought  you  might  nave 
guesiiied  that  the  wife  I  have  in  view 
is — Afary  Simpson !  ** 

"  Mary  Simpson  I "  ejaculated,  or 
rather  shrieked  out  Mrs.  Proby. 

*'  Why,  ay,  Mary  Simpson !  who 
else  should  it  her  Is  there  any 
thing  so  prodigiously  wonderful  in 
that?  You  surely  could  not  for 
an  instant  conceive  —  pshaw!  that 
would  have  been  ridiculous,  in- 
deed r 

Thus  saying,  and  easer  to  make 
his  exit  from  a  scene  wnere  he  now 
sustained  a  very  embarrassing  part, 
he  reached  the  door  with  more  than 
the  agility  of  a  bridegroom,  when, 
on  his  jerking  it  open,  who  should 
fall  into  his  arms  but  the  identical 
bloominff  Mary  Simpson  herself? 

StrucE  by  the  very  unusual  length 


of  this  morning's  break&st,  and  won- 
dering wherefore  the  bell  had  sum- 
monea  no  one  to  clear  the  things 
away,  she  had  come  into  the  hall, 
and,  hearing  her  own  name  pro- 
nounced in  a  very  emphatic  tone, 
was  listening  against  the  door,  when 
Mr.  Bradfora  suddenly  opened  it  as 
described. 

Here  was  a  fine  tableau  vivant! 
all  the  finer  and  more  natural  for 
being  quite  an  impromptu,  since  not 
all  the  previous  study  and  rehearsing 
in  the  world  could  have  got  it  up 
with  such  spirit  and  effect :  the  ac- 
tors were  all  perfect  in  their  parts. 
It  is,  however,  far  easier,  as  all  novel- 
vnriters  know,  to  eet  people  into 
striking  situations,  toan  to  get  them 
out  again  naturally  and  cleverly. 
We  shall  not,  on  this  occasion,  at- 
tempt it,  but  leave  the  task  of  ex- 
tricating Mary  from  her  master's 
embrace,  and  all  the  parties  from 
their  awkward  embarrassment,  to  the 
graphic  imagioation  of  our  readers. 


MAROARET  LUCAS,  DUCHESS  OP  NEWCASTLE. 

*'  The  whole  story  of  this  lady  is  a  romance,  and  all  she  doei  is  romantic." 

Pepys. 


Whbk  Waller  was  shewn  some 
verses  by  the  Duchess  of  Newcastle, 
On  the  Death  of  a  Stagy  he  declared 
that  he  would  give  all  his  own  com- 
TKMitions  to  have  written  them ;  and 
beinf^  charsed  with  the  exorbitance 
of  his  adiuation,  answered,  **  That 
nothinff  was  too  much  to  be  given 
that  a  lady  miffht  be  saved  from  the 
disgrace  or  sucn  a  vUe  performance." 
This  was  said  by  the  courtly  Waller 
of  the  thrice  noble,  illustrious,  and 
excellent  princess,  as  she  calls  her- 
self, Margaret  Lucas,  the  \nfe  of  the 
thrice  noble,  high,  nnd  puissant  prince 
William  Cavendish,  anke,  marquis, 
and  earl  of  Newcastle.  But  the  worth 
of  aU  the  poems  by  the  Duchess  of 
Newcastle  is  not  to  be  tested  by 
her  poem  on  the  death  of  the  stag ; 
nor  should  her  abilities  be  looked 
meanly  upon  through  the  contemp- 
tuous smartness  of  a  happy  remark.* 
Wit  and  satire  have  done  much  to 
keep  her  down .    Pope  has  placed  her 


works  in  the  library  of  his  Dunciad 

hero:  — 

■*  Hero  swells  tbe  shelf  with  Ogilby  the 

great ; 
There,  stamp'd  with  urns,  Newcastle 

shines  complete." 

And  Horace  Walpole,  a  far  inferior 
poet  to  the  duchess,  endeavoured  to 
turn  to  ridicule,  not  the  duchess  only, 
but  ^e  duke — to  do  for  the  names 
of  Cavendish  and  Lucas  what  he 
had  attempted  to  do  for  Sydney  and 
for  Falkland.  But  Walpole,  who 
affected  a  singularity  of  opinion, 
raised  a  laugh,  and  a  laugh  only; 
there  is  too  much  good  sense  in  the 
duchess*s  writings,  and  too  much  to 
love  about  her  character,  to  deprive 
her  altogether  of  admirers.  Charles 
Lamb  delighted  in  her  works;  Sir 
Egerton  Brydges  shewed  his  respect 
for  her  genius  by  reprinting,  at  his 
private  press,  her  own  little,  delight- 
ful autobiograi>hy,  to  which  he  ap- 
pended a  selection  of  her  poems.  And 


*  By  the  way,  Waller  has  a  copy  of  verses  On  the  Head  of  a  Stagy  far  below  even 
tbe  mid^e  leTel  of  the  duchess's  genius. 


1846.] 


Margaret  Lucas j  Duckess  of  Newcoiile. 


293 


Mr.  Dyce,  who  has  as  much  good 
taste  as  variety  of  knowledge,  is  too 
well  aconamtal  with  her  writings  to 
dislike  tnem ;  and,  fresh  from  '*  Greek 
and  Latin  stores,*"  can  vet  return  to 
her  pages  with  renewed  enjoyment, 
and  lose  nothing  in  a  reperusal  of 
the  complete  works  of  the  Duchess 
of  Newcastle. 

As  if  certain  that  some  day  or 
other  the  curiosity  of  after-ages 
would  be  extended  to  her  own  per- 
sonal history,  the  duchess  drew  up 
A  Trite  Relation  of  her  Birth^  Breed- 
ing, and  Idfe — the  too  short  but 
charming  piece  of  autobiography  we 
have  ah^idy  referred  to.  Her  father 
was  Sir  Thomas  Lucas,  of  St.  John's, 
near  Colchester,  in  Essex ;  her  mo- 
ther's maiden-name  was  Elizabeth 
Leighton.  Margaret  was  bom  about 
the  year  1626. 


(« 


My  father/'  she  says,  *'  was  a  gen- 
tlemao,  which  title  is  grounded  and 
given  by  merit,  not  by  princes.  He 
had  a  large  estate.  He  lived  happily 
and  died  peaceably,  leavinff  a  wife  and 
eight  children,  three  sons  and  five  daugh- 
ters, I  being  the  youngest  he  had,  and 
an  infant  when  he  died. ' 

Of  her  brothers  she  says : — 

"  There  was  not  any  one  crooked  or 
anyways  detbrmed ;  neither  were  they 
dwarfish,  or  of  a  giant-like  stature,  but 
every  ways  proportionable,  likewise  well- 
featured,  clear  complexions,  brown  hairs, 
but  some  lighter  than  others;  sound 
teeth,  sweet  breaths,  plain  speeches, 
tunable  voices— I  mean  not  so  much  to 
sing  as  in  speaking,  as  not  stuttering  or 
what  ling  in  the  throat,  or  speaking  through 
the  nose,  or  hoarsely  (unless  they  had  a 
cold),  or  squeakingly,  which  impedi- 
ments many  have."  • *'  How 

they  were  bred,"  she  continues,  she  was 
too  young  to  recollect ;  "  but  this  I  know, 
that  they  loved  virtue,  endeavoured  merit, 
practised  justice,  and  spoke  truth."  .... 
'*  Their  practice  was,  when  they  met  toge- 
ther, to  exercise  themselves  with  fencing, 
wrestling,  shooting,  and  such-like  exer- 
cises, for  I  observed  they  did  seldom 
hawk  or  hunt,  and  very  seldom  or  never 
dance,  or  play  bn  music,  saying  it  was 
too  effeminate  for  masculine  spirits ;  nei- 
ther had  they  skill,  or  did  use  to  play, 
for  ought  I  could  hear,  at  cards  or  dice, 
or  the  like  g^mes,  nor  given  to  any 
vice,  as  I  did  know,  unless  to  love  a  mis- 
tress were  a  crime ;  not  that  1  knew  any 
they  had,  but  what  report  did  say,  and 
usually  reports  are  false,  at  least  exceed 
the  truth/' 


Of  these  brothers,  one  became  the 
first  Lord  Lucas ;  the  youngest  was 
the  Sir  Charles  Lucas,  whose  melan- 
choly but  heroic  end  is  told  so  af- 
fectingly  by  Lord  Clarendon.  **  He 
had,*'  says  his  sister,  ^  a  superfluity 
of  courage.'* 

Her  own  breedinff,  she  says,  ¥ras 
according  to  her  birtn  and  the  nature 
of  her  sex.  Her  mother,  of  whom 
she  ^peaks  in  the  highest  and  most 
affectionate  terms, — 

"  Never  suffered  the  vulgar  aervinf- 
men  to  be  in  the  nursery  amongst  the 
nurse-maids,  lest  their  rude  love-making 
might  do  unseemly  actions,  or  speak  un- 
handsome words,  in  the  presence  of  her 
children.  As  for  the  pastimes  of  my 
sisters,"  she  says,  and  their  pastimes 
were  her  own,  *'  when  they  were  in  the 
country,  it  was  to  read,  work,  walk,  and 
discourse  with  each  other.  Commonly 
thejr  lived  half  the  year  in  London. 
Their  customs  were,  in  winter  time,  to 
go  sometimes  to  plays,  or  to  ride  in  their 
coaches  about  the  streets,  to  see  the 
concourse  and  recourse  of  people ;  and, 
in  the  spring  time,  to  visit  the  Spring 
Garden,  Ilyde  Park,  and  the  like  places ; 
and  sometimes  they  would  have  music, 
and  sup  in  barges  upon  the  water ;  these 
harmless  recreations  they  would  pass 
their  time  away  with ;  for,  I  observed, 
they  did  seldom  make  visits,  nor  ever 
went  abroad  with  strangers  in  their  com- 
pany, but  only  themselves  in  a  flock 
together;  agreeing  so  well,  that  there 
seemed  but  one  mind  amongst  them." 

Margaret  was  a  mere  girl  in  her 
teens  when  she  went  to  Oxford  to 
become  one  of  the  maids  of  honour 
to  Henrietta  Maria;  an  office,  she 
tells  us,  she  had  a  great  desire  to  fill, 
and  to  which  she  '*  wooed  and  won** 
her  mother's  consent  to  her  seeking 
and  accepting.  But  in  the  then  dis- 
turbed state  of  the  three  countries, 
Oxford  was  not  long  a  place  for 
Henrietta;  and  the  queen,  accom- 
panied by  her  youthful  attendant, 
lefl,  in  1643,  the  shores  of  Ensland 
for  the  court  of  the  French  Ions. 
In  April,  1645,  for  she  has  herself 
recorded  the  period,  Margaret  Lucas 
had  the  good  fortune  to  see  the  Mar- 
ouis  of  JN  ewcastle  for'  the  first  time. 
This  nobleman,  whose  name  for  loy- 
alty deserves  to  be  proverbial,  had 
come  to  Paris  to  tender  his  humble 
duty  to  the  queen.  The  fijzht  at 
Marston  Moor,  that  ill-fated  field  to 
King  Charles,  had  been  fousht  some 
ten  months  before;  and  I^wcastl' 


294 


Margaret  Lucasp  Duckiu  o/NeweatiU. 


[M»cti, 


seeiDg  the  uiter  homWsiiiefls  of  the 
kiiig*8  cause  uid  w  complete  ex- 
baostion  of  hit  own  finaDcesy  had 
resigned  his  command,'  and  retired  to 
the  Continent. 

*'  And  After,"  layt  the  ducliesa,  "  be 
had  stayed  at  Paris  some  time,  he  was 
pleased  to  take  some  particular  notice  of 
ase,  and  ezpraas  bsom  than  an  orcbaaiy 
affection  for  me ;  insoonich  that  he  fm 
solved  to  choose  me  for  his  second  wife ; 
and  though  I  did  dread  marriage,  and 
ahunned  men's  compaDies  as  much  as  I 
could,  jet  I  conld  not,  nor  bad  I  the 
power  to  refuse  bim,  br  reason  my  a^ 
fectiottS  were  fixed  on  him,  and  be  was 
the  only  person  I  ever  was  in  lore  witb. 
Neither  was  I  aahamed  to  own  it,  hut 
gloried  therein,  for  it  was  not  amorovs 
Mve ;  I  never  wss  infected  therewith ; 
it  is  a  disease,  or  a  passion,  or  both  I 
only  know  by  relation,  net  by  expe* 
rienoe :  neither  conld  title,  wealth,  power, 
or  person,  entice  me  to  love;  but  miy 
love  was  boneat  and  honourable,  beinff 
placed  upon  merit,  which  affectioD  joyed 
at  the  fame  of  his  worth,  pleased  with 
delight  in  bis  wit,  proud  of  the  respects 
he  lued  to  me,  and  the  affection  he  pro- 
fest  for  me."  . . .  •  "  Havmg  bat  two 
sons,"  she  says  ia  another  pnoe,  "be 
purposed  to  marry  me,  a  young  woman, 
that  might  prove  fruitfnl  to  him,  and 
increase  his  posterity  by  a  aMscoliae 
offspring.  Nay,  he  was  so  desiieua  ef 
male  issue,  that  I  have  heard  bim  aay 
he  cared  not  ao  God  would  be  pleased 
to  give  bim  many  sons,  although  they 
came  to  be  persons  of  the  meanest  for- 
tune ;  but  God,  it  seems,  had  ordered  it 
otherwise,  and  frustrated  his  designs  by 
making  me  barren  y  which  yet  did  never 
lessen  his  love  nod  affection  far  me." 

The  widower  of  fifty-two  pre- 
yailed  with  the  fearful  maiden  of 
twenty-one, — they  were  married. 

**  A  poet  am  I  neither  bom  nor  bred. 
But  to  a  witty  poet  married," 

she  was  wont  to  say  in  after  life, 
and  certainly  the  Marquis  of  New- 
castle was  not  without  pretensions  to 
literature:  his  comedies  are  bust- 
ling pieces  of  intrigue  and  wit,  cha- 
racteristic of  his  age,  and  verr  read- 
able ;  at  least  we  have  found  them  so. 
His  lyrical  attempts  are  sad  failures. 
He  was  the  munificent  patron  and 
friend  of  Ben  Jonson  and  Sir  Wil- 
liam Davenant,  and  lived  long  enough 
to  sneeour  Shadwell  and  befHml 
Diyden. 

"  He  was/'  says  Clsreadon.  "  a  very 
'iae  geatlsman,  aetiTe^  sad  liU  of  con- 


rage,  and  aoai  aecem^li«bed  in  tbeae 
Qualities  of  horsemanship,  dancing,  and 
fencing,  which  accompany  a  good  breed- 
ing, in  which  his  delight  was.  Baaides 
that  he  was  amorous  in  poetry  and  music, 
to  which  he  indulged  the  greatest  part 
of  his  time;  and  nothing  conld  bare 
tsmpted  inm  out  of  thoee  paths  of  pleasure, 
which  be  enjoyed  in  a  full  and  ample 
fortune,  but  honour  and  amlntioatoserve 
the  king  when  he  saw  bhn  in  diattfesa, 
and  abandoned  by  most  of  those  wbo 
were  in  the  highest  degree  obliged  to 
him  and  by  him."  . . .  .  "  He  liked,"  Cla- 
reodon  adds,  "  the  pomp  and  absolote 
authority  of  a  general  well,  and  preserved 
the  dignity  of  if  to  the  full;  and  for  the 
discharge  of  the  outward  state  and  cir- 
camstanoes  of  it,  in  acts  of  courtesy, 
afiibiHty,  bonnty,  and  generosity,  he 
abounded;  which,  m  the  infancy  of  a 
war,  became  him,  and  made  him,  for 
some  time,  very  acceptable  to  men  of  aU 
conditions.  But  the  substantial  part  and 
fatigue  of  a  geueral  he  did  not,  ia  any 
degree,  understand  (being  utterly  unac- 
quainted with  war),  nor  could  submit  to, 
but  referred  all  matters  of  that  nature  to 
the  discretion  of  his  Uentenant*genenl 
Kiug,  a  Scotcbmao.  In  all  actions  of 
the  field  he  was  still  present,  and  never 
absent  in  any  battle;  in  all  which  he 
gave  instances  of  sn  ioTincible  oonrage 
and  fearlessness  in  danger;  in  which 
the  exposing  himself  notoiioady  did  some- 
times change  the  fortune  of  the  day,  when 
his  troops  began  to  give  ground.  Such 
artielea  of  aetioa  were  no  sooaer  over 
than  he  retired  to  his  deligbtfol  com- 
pany, music  ;  or  hie  softer  pleasures,  to 
all  which  he  was  so  indulgent ;  and  to 
bis  ease,  that  he  would  not  be  inter- 
rupted upon  what  occasion  soever ;  imM> 
muob  as  he  sometimes  denied  admission 
to  the  obiefost  oftoers  of  the  srmy,  even 
to  General  King  himself,  for  two  dsys 
together,  from  whence  many  inconve- 
niences fell  out" 

The  times  pressed  hard  upon  the 
marquis  and  his  lady,  as  they  did 
indeed  upon  every  loyalist  abroad. 
"  The  people  would  have  pulled," 
she  says,  ^  God  out  of  heayen,  had 
they  had  the  power,  as  Uiey  pulled 
royalty  out  oi  his  throne.**  Of  the 
large  rental  of  his  estate,  not  one 
farthing  could  the  marquis  get  for 
his  own  use,  and  he  bved  on  his 
credit  abroad,  which  was  Impe,  till 
even  it  was  ezhanated.  HS  wift 
was  once  left,  she  tells  ua,  at  Ant- 
werp, aa  a  pawn  for  his  debts. 

"  He  lived  on  credit,"  stfys  the  du- 
chess, "  and  otttlired  his  tnist,  so  that 
his  steward  was  forced  at  one  tinia  te 


-,J 


1846.] 


Margaret  Imcos,  DucJuss  qf  Newcastle* 


395 


tell  him,  <  That  he  wu  not  able  to  pro- 
vide a  dinner  for  him,  for  his  ereditoxs 
were  resolved  to  trust  him  no  longer.' 
Turning  to  his  wife,  he  said,  tlMt  I 
must  of  necessitj  pawn  my  clothes  to 
make  so  much  money  as  woald  procure 
a  dinner.  I  answered,  that  my  clothes 
would  be  but  of  small  value,  and,  there* 
fore,  desired  my  waiting»maid.  Miss 
Chaplain,  to  pawn  some  sms^  toys,  which 
I  had  formerlv  given  her,  which  she 
willingly  did. 

It  iras  at  tikis  time  that  the  diiehe» 
"vrent  to  England  with  her  husfoand's 
cfoly  brothel",  Sir  Charles  Cayendish, 
to  ti^  and  extract  some  money  fW)m 
the  miplacable  Independents.  The 
eonfiacated  estates  were  at  auction  to 
any  that  would  buy  them,  firee,  it 
was  said,  of  any  inoumbranoe,  but 
the  claims,  and  they  were  either  ftw 
or  rejected,  of  the  wives  and  ehildraa 
of  the  old  noflsessors.  But  the  macr- 
chioness  solicited  in  vain ;  Newcastle 
had  been  too  steady  a  loyalist  to 
receire  any  mark  of  favour  or  of 
justice  firom  the  Independent  party, 
so  that  she  had  to  return  to  her  hus- 
band abroad  with  bnta^  ttiBmg  pro* 
duoe  firom  her  misrion. 

"  On  my  return,"  she  writes,  "  hi» 
creditors  came  clamorous  round  me,  sup- 
posing I  had  brought  a  great  store  of 
money  along  with  me." 

Even  royalty  itself  was  in  a  more 
reduced  condition;  and  the  duchess 
relates  a  saying  of  Charles  the  Se- 
cond*s  to  her,  i^en  dining  privately 
at  the  table  of  her  lord,  when  hi» 
funds  wero  at  ihek  lowest,  **  That 
he  perceived  my  loid*a  credit  could 
procure  better  meat  than  his  own." 

When  in  London,  she  says, — 

<*  I  gffve  some  helf-a-seore  of  visits^ 
and  went  with  my  lord's  brother  to  hear 
music  in  one  Mr.  Lawes  his  house,, 
three  or  four  times  [the  Lawes  that  called 
MiUon  Jrimd],  as  also  some  three  or  fi>or 
times  to  Hyde  Park  with  my  sisters  to* 
take  the  air,  else  1  never  stirred  out  of 
my  lodgings,  unless  to  see  my  brothers- 
and  sisters ;  nor  seldom  did  I  dress  my- 
self, as  tiddng  no  delight  to  adom  myseir,, 
since  he  I  only  desired  to  pleaae  was- 
absent." 

But  hii  kndahip  was  not  idle 
abroad*  He  lived  at  Antwerp,  aiid> 
in  great  state,  in  the  house  ^  vMf^ 


belonged  to  the  widow  of  Van  Ba- 
ben,  a  famous  pieture-drswer.**  *  His 
horses  were  of  the  finest  breed.  He 
was  attended  by  all  skilled  in  a 
knowledge  of  the  stable,  of  the  noble 
art  of  horsemanship,  and  the  science 
of  fendng.f  It  was  Newcastle  who 
taught  the  profligate  V tlfiers  the  cub* 
ning  of  the  swora.  If  or  was  his  Untt 
misemployed  in  wrHiAghii noble  book 
on  horsemanship,  a  work,  as  Horace 
Walpoie  observes,  **  read  by  those 
who  scarce  know  any  other  author.** 
The  duchess,  too,  leanit  much  from 
his  tuition ;  ^  for  I  beioff  young,**  she 
says,  ^when  your  lor&hip  married 
me,  could  not  have  much  knowledge 
of  the  world.  But  it  pleased  God.  to 
command  his  servant  ITattire  to  in<* 
due  me  with  a  poetical  and  phihMO- 
phical  genius,  even  from  my  veiy 
birth ;  ror  I  ^  write  some  bodks  m 
that  kind  before  I  was  twelve  years 
of  age,  which,  for  want  of  good 
method  and  order,  I  would  never 
divulge." 

The  year  of  the  Restoration  was 
the  sixteenth  of  the  e^e  of  the  loyal 
marquis,  and  the  year,  too,  of  his  re"* 
turn.  His  lordship  was  amonff  the 
first  of  the  exiled  loyalists  to  land, 
and  so  eager  was  he,  though  then 
sizty-nx,  to  set  his  fbot  once  more  on 
Eitt^lirii  tfRiund,  that  he  left  hiswiftio 
ibllow  lum  at  her  own  leisure,  and 
crossed  the  Channel  in  a  leaky  veS" 
Sel.  How  interestlnff  is  the  dudiess^s 
picture  of  her  lord^  return : — 

"  My  lord  (who  was  so  transported 
with  the  joy  of  returning  into  Ms  mtive 
'Coiitttry,  that  he  regarded  not  the  vessel), 
having  set  sail  from  Rotterdam,  was  so 
becalmed,  that  he  was  six  days  and  six 
nights  upon  the  water,  during  which  time 
he  pleased  himself  with  mirtb,  and  passed 
his  time  away  as  well  as  he  coukT;  pro* 
visions  he  wanted  none,  having  them  in 
great  store  and  plenty;  at  last,  betag 
come  so  far  that  he  was  able  to  dieeem 
the  smoke  of  London,  which  he  had  not 
aeen  for  a  long  time,  he  merrily  was 
pleased  to  desire  one  that  was  near  him  to 
jog  and  awake  him  ont  of  his  dream, 
'for  surely,' said  be»  '  I  have  been  aixleea 
years  saleep,  and  am  not  thoroughly 
awdn  yet.^  My  lofd  lay  that  aigbt  at 
Oreeawich,  where  his  iwppar  seemed 
more  savoury  to  him  tbaa  any  iMal  ha 
had  hitherto  tasted,  and  the  noise  of 


*  Rubens'  house,  still  shewn  at  Antwerp* 

t  Ben  Joneoa  has  two  oomaseBdaaory  epigtwaa  ta  the  dnke^  ea  his  hoiaenMHii'^ 
and  on  hia  foacin|^^Gifvoa2>'s  Joruom,  viii.  44*^  ia»  17* 


296 


Margaret  Lucas,  Duchess  of  ffewcastle,  [March, 


Bome  aertping  fiddlers  be  tbooght  the 
pleasantest  harmony  that  erer  be  had 
Leard** 

Her  ladyship  soon  followed  her 
lord,  and  in  the  ^neral  joy,  the  mar- 
quis, whose  services  for  the  king  had 
been  unsurpassed  throughout  the 
war,  was  elevated  by  Charles,  whose 
governor  he  had  been,  to  a  dukedom. 
The  house  at  Clerkenwell  received 
once  more  its  n^htful  owner,  and  the 
people  about  Welbeck  and  its  neigh- 
bourhood rejoiced  again  at  the  return 
of  the  princely  proprietor.  But  from 
the  court  and  the  general  intoxica- 
tion which  followed  the  restoration 
of  the  king,  the  duke  and  duchess 
absented  themselves  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. For  this  thev  were  made  the 
laughing-stock  of  the  Yillierses  and 
Wiimots,  the  Ethereges  and  the 
Sedleys,  that  frequented  the  courts  of 
St  Jameses  and  Whitehall.  Even  the 
king  joined  in  the  ^neral  ridicule  of 
bis  satellites,  and  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in 
his  PeverU  of  the  Peak,  has  entered 
into  this  feeling  with  his  usual  exact- 
ness, with  his  wonted  vivacity  and 
vigour. 

l^ow  and  then  the  duchess  made 
her  appearance  in  public.  One  of 
her  visits  was  to  the  Royal  Society, 
and  Birch,  in  his  History^  has  re- 
corded the  visit,  and  the  day  on 
which  it  took  place.  Evel3m  was 
there,  and  in  his  Diary  has  comme- 
morated the  occurrence : — 

•'  May  30,  1667.— To  London,  to  wait 
on  the  Duchess  of  Newcastle  (who  was  a 
mighty  pretender  to  learning,  poetry,  and 
philosophy,  and  bad  in  boUi  published 
divers  books),  to  the  Royal  Society,  whi- 
ther she  came  in  great  pomp,  and  being 
received  by  our  lord  president  at  the 
door  of  our  meeting-room — the  mace, 
&c.,  carried  before  him  —  had  several  ex- 
periments showed  to  her.  I  conducted 
her  grace  to  her  coach,  and  returned 
home." 

But  Fepys  has  the  superiority  over 
Evelyn ; — 

"30(^  May,  1667.^  After  dinner  I 
walked  to  Arundel  House,  the  way  very 
dusty,  where  I  find  very  much  company, 
in  expectation  of  the  I)uchess  of  New- 
castle, who  had  desired  to  be  invited  to 
the  Society,  and  was  after  much  debate 
pro  and  e<m,  it  seems  many  being  against 
it ;  and  we  do  believe  the  town  will  be 
full  of  ballads  of  it.  Anon  comes  the 
duchess,  with  her  women  attending  her ; 
among  others  the  Ferabosco,  of  whom  so 


much  talk  is,  that  her  lady  would  bid  her 
shew  her  face  and  kill  the  gallants.    She 
is,  indeed,  black,  and  hath  good  black 
little  eyes,  but  otherwise  but  a  very  ordi. 
nary  woman,  I  do  think,  but  they  say 
ainga  well.    The  duchess  hath  been  a 
goml,  comely  woman ;  but  her  dress  so 
antick,  and  her  deportment  so  ordinary, 
that  I  do  not  like  her  at  all :  nor  did  I 
hear  her  say  any  thing  that  was  worth 
hearing,  but  that  she  was  full  of  admira- 
tion— all  admiration.    Several  fine  expe- 
riments were    shewn    her   of  colours, 
loadstones,  microscopes,  and  of  liquors : 
among  others,  of  one  that  did,  while  she 
was  there,  turn  a  piece  of  roasted  mutton 
into  pure  blood,  which  was  very  rare . . . 
After  they  had  shewn  her  many  experi- 
ments, and  she  cried  still  she  was  full  of 
admiration,  she  departed,  being  led  out 
and  in  by  several  lords  that  were  there ; 
among  otbera,    Lord  George  Berkeley 
and  Earl  of  Carlisle,  and  a  yery  pretty 
young  man,  the  Duke  of  Somerset." 

The  excellent  Evelyn  has  recorded 
some  of  his  visits  to  this  extraordi-  . 
nary  woman : — 

<*  18t^  Ayril,  1667.  ^  I  went  to  make 
court  to  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  New- 
castle at  their  house  at  Clerkenwell,  being 
newly  come  out  of  the  North.  They  re- 
ceived me  with  great  kindness,  and  I  was 
much  pleased  with  the  extraoniinary  fan- 
ciful nabit,  garb,  and  discourse  of  the 
duchess." .... 

"  tbih  iljDn/.— Visited  again  the  Duke 
of  Newcastle,  with  whom  I  had  been 
acquainted  long  before  in  France,  where 
the  duchess  had  obligation  to  my  wive's 
mother  for  her  marriage  there ;  she 
was  sister  to  Lord '  Lucas,  and  maid 
of  honour  then  to  the  queen-mother; 
married  in  our  chapel  at  Paris.  My  wife 
being  with  me,  the  duke  and  duchess 
would  both  needs  bring  her  to  the  very 
court.  •  •  •  • 

"  Vtth  ApriL^lxL  the  afternoon  I  went 
again  with  my  wife  to  the  Duchess  of 
Newcastle,  who  received  her  in  a  kind 
of  transport,  suitable  to  her  extravagant 
humour  and  drees,  which  was  very  sin- 
gular." 

"  When  young,"  says  the  duchess,  "  I 
took  great  delight  in  attiring,  fiqe  dress- 
ing, and  fashions,  especially  such  fashions 
as  I  did  invent  myself,  not  taking  that 
pleasure  in  such  fashions  as  were  in- 
vented by  others :  also  I  did  dislike  any 
should  follow  my  fashions,  for  1  always 
took  delight  in  a  singularity,  even  in  ac- 
coutrements of  habits." 

Candid  enough  I 

"At  Welbeck,"  says  Walpole,  '•  there 
is  a  whole-length  of  the  duchess  in  a 


1846.1 


Margaret  Lucas,  Duchess  of  Newcastle* 


297 


theatric  habit,  which,  tradition  aaja,  she 
geDerally  wore." 

Fepys,  the  most  entertaining  of 
journalisto,  has  spoken  of  the  dudiess 
and  her  doings  in  several  places 
throughout  his  interesting  Diary:  — 

"  30th  Mareh^  1667— .To  see  the  silly 
play  of  my  Lady  Newcastle's,  called  The 
Humoroui  Lovers;  the  most  silly  thing 
that  ever  came  upon  a  stage.  I  was  sick 
to  see  it,  but  yet  would  not  haye  but  seen 
it,  that  I  might  the  better  understand 
her."»  . .  . 

'<  UthApriL^To  Whitehall,  thinking 
there  (o  have  seen  the  Dochess  of 
Newcastle's  coming  this  night  to  court 
to  make  a  visit  to  tbe  queen,  the  king 
having  been  with  her  yesterday,  to  make 
her  a  visit  since  her  coming  to  town. 
The  whole  story  of  this  lady  is  a  ro- 
mance, and  all  she  does  is  romantic.  Her 
footmen  in  velvet  coats,  and  herself  in  an 
antique  dress,  as  they  say;  and  was  the 
other  day  at  her  own  play.  The  Humorous 
Lovers;  tbe  most  ridiculous  thing  that 
ever  was  wrote,  but  yet  she  and  her  lord 
mightily  pleased  with  it ;  and  she  at  the 
end  made  her  respects  to  tbe  players 
from  her  box,  and  did  give  them  thaoks. 
There  is  as  much  expectation  of  her  com- 
ing to  court,  that  so  people  may  come  to 
see  her  as  if  it  were  the  Queen  of  Swe- 
den :  but  I  lost  my  labour,  for  she  did 
not  come  this  night." 

On  the  26th  of  the  same  month 
and  the  same  year  (April,  1667), 
Fepys  saw  his  romantic  duchess  for 
the  first  time.  His  entry  is  in  his 
usual  short  picturesque  style : — 

"  Met  my  Lady  Newcastle  going  with 
her  coaches  and  footmen  all  in  velvet; 
herself  (whom  I  never  saw  before),  as  I 
have  heard  her  often  described  (for  all 
the  town-talk  is  now-a«days  of  her  extra* 
vagancies),  with  her  velvet  cap,  her  hair 
about  her  ears ;  many  black  patches,  be- 
cause  of  pimples  aboat  her  month ;  naked- 
necked,  without  any  thing  about  it,  and 
a  hlack  just 'OU' corps.  She  seemed  to  me 
a  very  comely  woman  :  bnt  1  hope  to  see 
more  of  her  on  May-day." 

Well,  May-day  came,  and  Pepys 
and  his  fHend  Sir  William  Penn  went 
by  "  coach,  Tibume  way,  into  the 
Park,  where  a  horrid  dust,  and  num- 
ber of  coaches,  without  pleasure  or 
order.  That  which  we,  and  almost 
all  went  for,  was  to  see  my  Lady 
Newcastle ;  which  we  could  not,  she 
being  followed  and  crowded  upon  by 


coaches  all  the  way  she  went,  that 
nobody  could  come  near  her ;  only  I 
could  see  she  was  in  a  lurge  black 
coach  adorned  with  silver  instead  of 
gold,  and  so  white  curtains,  and  everv 
thing  black  and  white,  and  herseu 
m  her  cap."  "On  the  10th,"  savs 
Pepys,  "I drove  hard  towards  Clerk- 
enwell,  thinking  to  have  overtaken 
my  Lady  Newcastle,  whom  I  saw  be- 
fore us  lu  her  coach,  with  a  hundred 
boys  and  girls  running  looking  upon 
her ;  but  I  could  not :  and  so  sue  got 
home  before  I  could  come  up  to  her. 
But  I  wfll  get  a  time  to  see  her."  If 
this  time  ever  came,  Mr.  Pepys  over- 
looked its  entry.  His  last  notice  of 
the  duchess  rd*ers  to  th«  biography 
of  her  husband : — 

"  ISth  March,  1668.  —  Home,  and,  in 
favour  to  my  eyes,  staid  reading  the  ridi- 
culous history  of  my  Lord  Newcastle, 
wrote  by  his  wife ;  which  shews  her  to 
be  a  mad,  conceited,  ridiculous  womsn, 
and  he  an  ass  to  suffer  her  to  write  what 
she  writes  to  and  of  him." 

The  nlays,  poems,  letters,  essays, 
and  philosophical  fancies  of  the  du- 
chess fill  some  twelve  folio  volumes ; 
all  are  scarce  and  all  are  interesting. 

"  My  great  desire,''  says  the  duchess, 
"  is  to  be  had  in  remembrance  in  after - 
ages.  All  I  desire  is  fame;  I  would 
rather  venture  an  indiscretion,  than  lose 
the  hopes  of  a  fame." 

Unfortunately,  her  knowledge  was 
more  multi&rious  than  exact;  and 
her  reason,  overruled  by  an  over- 
flowing fimcy,  controlled  by  no  kind 
of  ju^ment  or  taste.  She  was  in- 
debted to  herself  for  all  her  thoughts, 
reading  little,  and  talking  but  with 
her  lord  or  her  attendants.  Yet  this 
masculine  -  minded  but  misdirected 
woman  lived  on  in  the  belief — the 
pleasing  belief— that  she  would  stand 
nigh  with  posterity  as  an  authoress. 

"  Perchance,"  she  says,  "many  that 
read  this  book  will  hardly  undei  stand  it.  •  • 
I  verily  believe  that  ignorance  and  pre- 
sent envy  will  slight  my  book,  yet  I  make 
no  question,  when  envy  is  worn  out  by 
time,  but  understanding  will  remember 
me  in  after-ages." 

The  work  by  which  the  duchess  is 
best  known  is  the  Life  of  her  hus- 
band, the  ridiculous  histonr  to  which 
Pepys,  as  we  have  seen,  alludes.  Nor 
is  the  title  the  least  curious  part  of 


*  The  Humorous  Lovers  is  the  work  of  the  duke,  not  of  tbe  daohess. 


2d8 


Margaret  Lueas^  D^ehea  of  NeweaaHe. 


[March, 


flrft  enxioitt  eom^Ottion  ;    Scmeifn     not  more  stately  or  taking 
nagaiflceiit  portico  to  St.  Faid*s  was     doorway  of  the  duchess : — 

Tbe  Lm 

of  the 
Thrice  Noble,  Hifh  and  Puintnt  Prince 

WXLUAM  CaVKNDISBB, 

Duke,  Marquess,  and  Eaii  of  TfmocauU;  Earl 
of  Ogle,  Viacount  Mansfield;  and  Baron  of 
BoUovert  of  Ogle,  Bothal  and  HtppU ;  Gentle- 
man  of  His  Majestjee  Bed-chamber ;  one  of  His 
Majeatiea  moat  Honourable  Prir j-Coancel ; 
Knight  of  the  most  Noble  Order  of  the  Garter ; 
Hia  Majesties  Lieutenant  of  the  County  and 
Town  of  N&HiMigkam;  tmd  Justice  in  Ayre 
TT$M^N0nh :  who  had  the  honour  to  be  Gorer- 
nonr  4o  our  moat  Glorious  King,  and  Gracioua 
Sorersign,  in  his  Youth,  when  He  was  PHnce 
of  WaUs ;  and  soon  after  was  made  Captain  Ge- 
neral of  all  the  Proirincea  beyond  the  RiFer  of 
Trent,  and  other  Parts  of  the  Kingdom  of  Eng* 
land,  with  Power,  by  a  special  Commission,  to 
make  Knights. 

WBITTEN 

B^f  tkt  Thrice  Noble,  Illuttrioui  and  Excellent  Priweu, 

Maaqaret,  Duchess  of  Newoastlej 

His  Win. 

London 
Printed  by  A.  Maxwell,  in  the  year  1667. 

Ifolio] 


This  \a  lengthy  and  pompous 
enough;  but  no  one  page  is  free 
from  vanity,  from  folly,  affectation, 
and  good  sense. 

"  Such  a  book^  for  instance,"  says 
Chsrles  Lamb,  "  as  the  Life  of  the  Duke 
of  Neweattie  by  hU  Dueheu;  no  casket  is 
rich  enouffh,  no  casing  aufficiently  du- 
rable, to  aoDOor  and  keep  safe  such  a 
jewel."* 

'•When  I  first  intended,"  says  the 
duchess,  *'  to  write  this  history,  knowing 
myself  to  be  no  sobolar,  and  ignorant  c^ 
thi  rules  of  wiisiiig  histGories,  I  desired 
say  lord,  Ihat  he  would  be  pleased  to  let 
me  bare  sobm  elegant -and  leamed  histo- 
rian to  assist  me :  which  request  his 
frace  would  not  grant  me  ;  sayinc^,  that 
aring  nerer  had  any  assistance  m  the 
writing  of  my  former  books,  I  should 
hare  no  other  in  the  writing  of  his  life, 
but  the  informations  from  himself  and  his 
secretary,  of  the  chief  transactions  and 
fortunes  occurring  in  it,  to  the  time  he 
married  me.  I  humbly  answered,  that 
widbont  a  leomed  ass'istsnt  the  whole 
history  woidd  be  defective;  b«t  he  re- 
plied, that  traUi  oould  not  be  defootive. 
I  said  again,  that  rhetoric  did  adora 
truth  ;  and  he  answered,  .that  rhetoric 
as  fitter   for    falsehoods   than    truths. 


Thus  was  I  forced  by  his  gnice*s  oom« 
mauds  to  write  thia  history  in  my  own 
plain  st^le,  without  elegant  flourisbings 
or  exquisite  method." 

Her  grace  went  resohitely  to  work 
at  onee  :^-^  I  an  resolved  to  write  in 
a  natural,  plain  style,  wi^oujt  Laitiii 
sentences,  moral  instruGti^Mia,  jpcdilic 
designs,  or  feigned  orations.  ^'  I 
write  it,"  she  says,  "  whilst  my  noble 
lord  is  yet  alive,  and  at  such  a  time 
wherein  truth  ma^  be  declaced  and 
falsehood  contradicted;  and  I  ehal- 
leoipe  imy  one  (although  I  be  a  wo^ 
num^  4o  Motfadiet  any  thiag^  I  have 
set  doim,  or  prove  it  to  he  coierwiw 
than  truth.**  But  f(»r  the  oompoaition 
and  style,  lAie  says :  —  ^  Nobody  can 
certainly  be  more  ready  to  find  Jaults 
in  this  work  than  I  am  to  confess 
them.** 

Of  the  principal  passag^es  of  his 
life  his  lordship  himself  informed 
her ;  other  intelugenoe  she  had  &om 
Bolleston,  his  secretary.  It  is  not 
our  intention  to  inquire  into  these ; 
«<  they  are  as  Ml  of  truth  as  of 
words,**  she  herself  save,  and  at  thia 
distance  of  time  it  would  be  unfair  to 
question  or  impugn  in  any  way  her 


*  £lia.    Oft«*Ml  Thougkm  on  Botiki  and  ifeading. 


1846.] 


Margaret  LncaSf  Dncheu  of  Newea9th. 


299 


statemento.  We  are  told,  and  there 
can  be  no  doubt  of  the  fiu^t,  that  the 
annnal  rental  of  his  lordship's  estates 
was  about  22,293/.  10^.  Id.  (for  stew* 
ards*  accounts  deal  always  in  pence), 
and  that  in  three  entertainments  to 
Charles  I.  he  had  spent  the  inecyme  of 
a  year.  h<xd  Clarendon  bears  testi- 
mony to  the  magnifieence  of  these 
feasts.  A  pound  then  was  equal  to 
fiTepounds  of  our  money. 

The  dnehes^s  adauration  of  her 
husbuid,  whom  she  had  looked  up  to 
from  Uie  first,  is  perhaps  pardonable, 
•^it  certainly  is  amusing.  **  His  be- 
haviour,'* she  says,  "  is  manly  with- 
out fimnaltty,  and  firee  without  eon- 
straiat"  "I  hare  obsenred,"  she 
says  in  floother  place,  '^  that  many, 
by  flattering  poets,  have  been  com- 
pared to  Cnsar,  without  desert;  but 
this  I  dare  fteelv,  and  wtthoiit  iait* 

S,  say  of  my  lord,  that  though  he 
not  Cesar's  fortune,  yet  be 
wanted  iiot  Cesar's  courage,  not  his 
prudence,  nor  his  good-nature,  nor 
nis  wit.  Nay,  in  some  particulars 
he  did  more  than  Csssar  ever  did." 
After  this  we  may  expect  to  hear  her 
say,  as  aay  she  does,  that  ^^he  was 
the  best  lyric  and  dramatie  poet  of 
his  age ! "  without  wonder.  Nor  can 
one  refrain  from  a  smile  when  they 
read  that  Archbishop  Laud  (who  had 
left  her  husband  a  diamond  pSn  of 
the  value  of  200?.)  once  said  to  Kine 
Charles,  and  the  bequest  confirmea 
the  observation,  "  That  my  lord  was 
one  of  the  wisest  and  prudentest 
persons  that  ever  he  was  acquainted 
with." 

All  this  is,  as  Lamb  thought,  ck- 
quiaitelyddightful.  But  the  duchess 
is  not  uways  in  the  yein  of  exori^ 
«Dt  pane^iyrie,  but  lets  us  see  at 
times  a  uttle  of  domestic  portrast- 
paintii^  in  words.  **  In  abort,"  die 
says,  *^I  knew  him  not  addicted 
to  any  manner  of  vice,  except  that 
he  has  been  a  great  lover  and  ad- 
mirer of  the  female  sex ;  whidii,  whe- 
ther it  be  so  great  a  crime  as  to  con- 
deann  him  for  it,  FU  leave  to  the 
judgment  of  voung  gallants  and  beau- 
tiful ladies.*  8he  then  enlaives  on 
the  elegance  of  his  exterior,  the  be- 
comingness  of  his  dress,  on  his  diet, 
and  diAcourse.  Of  his  diet,  she  writes, 
"  He  makes  but  one  meal  a-day,  at 
which  he  drinks  two  good  glasses  of 
small-beer, — one  about  the  begin- 
ning, the  Other  at  the  end  thereof, 


and  a  little  jglan  of  sack  in  the 
die  of  his  dmner ;  whidi  glass  of  sack 
he  also  uses  in  the  mormng  for  hn 
breakfast,  with  a  morsel  of  bread. 
His  supper  consists  of  an  egg  and  a 
draught  of  small-beer."  Theduchess 
herself  lived  on  boiled  chickens  cmd 
water;  her  mind,  she  says,  was  so 
acUoe^   that    her    appetite   be^une 

There  is  much  of  what  Fanny  Kem- 
ble  calls  dear  goodUtOe  hm  in  all  her 
ladyship's  writii^.  Thus,  she  teUs 
us  (and  how  desirable  is  the  inform- 
ation) that  she  cared  not  for  cards  or 
for  re  veilings : — 

"Ai  for  diMiag,  aUboQgh  it  be  a 
graeelhl  art,  aiMl  beeometh  imaMRM 
peraons  wail,  yet,  fer  thoae  that  sre  mar* 
lied  it  is  too  ligbt  an  tctioa,  dingieaiag 
with  the  gravity  thereof."  ...  "^  I  em 
as  laarfal  as  a  hare;  for  I  start  at  the 
Boiie  of  a  pop^fran,  uid  ehvt  my  eyes  at 
the  iigbt  of  a  sword,  end  ran  away  at 
the  least  alarm."  .  .  .  "I  speak  but 
little,  beeanse  I  am  given  to  coatem^- 
tioB ;  and  though  I  have  seen  mvoh  eom« 
pany,  I  have  oonvarsed  with  fow,  for  my 
nature  being  dull  aod  heavy,  and  my  dis- 
position not  meny,  mdcea  me  thfini  my- 
self not  fit  for  company ;  for  I  take  con- 
versation to  be  in  talking,  whicfa  I  have 
not  praotieed  'vwj  much,  unless  it  be  to 
partiottlar  (rieads,  for  natnrally  I  am  so 
wedded  to  contemplation,  that  many 
times,  when  I  have  beea  ia  company,  I 
had  not  known  one  word  they  have  said, 
by  reason  my  busy  thoughts  had  stopped 
the  sense  of  my  hearing." 

In  learning  languages  she  had  a 
natural  stupidity. 

"  I  understaod  no  other  language  than 
my  own :  not  French,  although  I  was  in 
France  nve  years.  Neither  do  I  under- 
stand my  own  native  language  very  well ; 
for  there  are  many  words  I  know  not 
what  they  signify.  .  .  .  "  I  think  it 
against  nature,'*  she  says  in  another 
place,  "  for  a  woman  to  speak  right;  for 
my  part,  t  confess,  I  cannot."  •  •  • 
"  As  for  the  grammar  part,  I  confess  t 
am  DO  scholar."  ..."  My  fancy  is 
so  Quick,  that  it  is  quicker  than  the  pen 
with  which  I  write;  insomuch,  that  my 
ideas'' are  many  times  lost  through  the 
slowness  of  my  hand,  and  yet  I  write  so 
fast,  as  I  stay  not  ao  long  as  to  make  per- 
fect letters." 

What  she  was  writing,  she  tells  us, 
she  uttered  audibly,  and  that  her 
waiting-maids  deciphered  her  hiero- 
g^hics,  and  at  times  took  down  the 
wisdom  that  fell  £ix)m    her   lips. 


300 


Margaret  Lucas^  Duchess  of  Newcastle, 


[March, 


<«  Many  times,*'  she  confesses,  ^*  I  did 
not  peruse  tiie  copies  that  were  tran- 
scribed, lest  they  should  distract  mv 
following  conceptions;  by  which 
neglect  many  errors  have  slipt  into 
my  works." 

She  has  defended  her  own  author- 
ship, however,  and  ably,  too. 

"  Instead,"  she  says,  "  of  running, 
like  other  wives,  from  church  to  church, 
from  ball  to  ball,  from  collation  to  colla- 
tion, gossiping  from  house  to  house,  I 
dance  a  measure  with  the  Muses,  feast 
with  the  Sciences,  and  sit  and  discourse 
with  the  Arts.  Our  sex  takes  so  much 
delight  in  dressing  and  adorning  them- 
selves, as  we,  for  the  most  part,  make  our 
gowns  our  books,  our  laces  our  lines,  our 
embroideries  our  letters,  and  our  dress- 
ings are  the  time  of  our  study  ;  and  in- 
stead of  turning  over  solid  leaves,  we 
turn  our  hair  into  curls.**  ..."  Sure 
this  kind  of  work,"  she  apologetically 
adds,  "  is  belter  than  to  sit  still  end  cen- 
sure my  neighbour's  actions,  which  no* 
thing  concerns  me,  or  to  condemn  their 
humours  because  they  do  not  sympathise 
with  mine,  or  their  lawful  recreations, 
because  they  are  not  agpreeable  to  my  de- 
light; or  ridiculously  to  laugh  at  my 
neighbours*  clothes,  if  they  are  not  of  the 
mode,  colour,  or  cut,  or  the  ribbon  tied 
with  a  mode-knot ;  or  to  to  busy  myself 
out  of  the  sphere  of  our  sex,  as  in  politics 
of  state ;  or  to  preach  false  doctrine  in  a 
tub,  or  to  entertain  myseJf  in  hearkening 
to  vain  flatteries,  or  to  the  incitements  of 
evil  persuasions,  when  all  these  follies, 
and  many  more,  may  be  cut  off  by  such 
innocent  work  as  this."    .    •    . 

And  to  the  reader  of  her  Poems 
and  Fancies  she  says, 

"  Pray  be  not  too  severe  in  your  cen- 
sures, for  I  hnye  no  children  to  employ 
ray  care  and  attendance  on ;  and  ray  lord's 
estate  being  taken  away,  had  nothing  for 
housewifervf  or  thrifty  industry  to  em- 
ploy myself  in."  .  .  .  '*  I  b^gan  a  book 
about  tnree  years  since,"  says  this  scrib- 
bling duchess,  "  which  I  intend  to  name 
TheWorld'i  Olio;  and  when  I  come  into 
Flanders,  where  those  papers  are,  I  will, 
if  God  give  me  life  and  health,  finish  it, 
and  send  it  forth  in  print.  I  imagine  all 
those  that  have  reaid  my  former  books 
will  say  thst  I  have  writ  enough,  unless 
they  were  better ;  but  say  what  vou  will, 
it  pleaseth  me,  and  since  my  delights  are 
harmless,  I  will  satisfy  my  humour. 


For  had  my  brain  as  many  fancies  in't 
To  fill  the  world,  I'd  put  them  all  in  print ; 
No    matter  whether  they  be  well    ex- 

rress*d, 
_  is  done— 4ind  that  please  Woman 

best!" 

A  determined  authoress  indeed! 
"  This  is  to  let  you  know,**  she  says 
at  another  time,  *'that  my  book  is 
neither  wise,  witty,  nor  methodical, 
but  various  and  extravagant.  I  doubt 
it  will  never  gain  applause.** 

There  were  many  m  the  duche8s*8 
day  who  affirmed  that  her  conceptions 
transcended  her  capacity,  denying 
her  to  be  the  true  authoress  of  them. 
^*  As  for  my  being,**  she  says  to  tiie 
duke,  **  the  true  and  only  authoress 
of  them,  your  lordship  knows  b^t, 
and  my  attending  servants  are  wit- 
ness that  I  have  had  none  but  my 
own  thoughts,  fancies,  and  specula- 
tions to  assist  me ;  and,  as  soon  as  I 
have  set  them  down,  I  send  them  to 
those  that  are  to  transcribe  them  and 
fit  them  for  the  press.** 

"  Truly,"  says  the  duke,  in  hisjuxri/i- 
cation*  of  his  duchess,  "she  did  never 
imp  her  high-flying  fancies  with  any  old 
broken  feathers  out  of  sny  university. 
As  for  her  Poems,  where  are  the  excep- 
tions to  these  t  Marry,  they  miss  some- 
times in  the  numbers  and  in  the  rhymes. 
It  is  well  known  by  the  copies,  that  those 
faults  lie  most  upon  the  corrector  and  the 
printer ;  but  put  the  case,  there  might  be 
some  slips  in  that  kind,  is  all  the  book 
damned  for  it? — No  mercy,  gentlemen  1 
When,  for  the  numbers,  every  schoolboy 
can  make  them  on  his  fingers,  and  for 
his  rhymes,  Fennerf  would  have  put 
down  Ben  Jonson ;  and  yet  neither  the 
boy  nor  Fenner  so  good  poets !  No,  it  is 
neither  of  those  that  either  makes  or  con- 
demns a  poet ;  it  is  new-born  and  creat> 
ing  fancies  that  glorifies  a  poet ;  wad  in 
her  book  of  poems  I  am  sure  tliere  is  ex- 
cellent and  new  fancies,  as  have  not  been 
writ  by  anv ;  and  that  it  was  only  writ 
by  her' is  the  greatest  truth  in  the  world. 
It  is  said  she  has  not  the  experience  or 
the  terms.  But  here's  the  crime, — a 
lady  writes  them,  and  to  intrench  so 
much  on  the  male  prerogative  is  not  to 
be  forgiven ;  but  I  know  gownmen  will 
be  more  civil  to  her,  because  she  is  of  the 
gown  too,  and  therefore,  I  am  confidenti 
will  defend  her  and  truth." 


*  <*  An  Epistle  to  Justifie  the  Lady  Newcastle  and  Truth  against  Falshood,  saying 
those  false  and  malicious  Aspersions  of  her,  that  she  was  not  Author  of  her  Bootrs." 
^Playi,  fol.  Lond.  1669. 

t  See  GifFord's  Ben  Jorum,  vii.  499. 


1846.] 


Margaret  Lucas^  Duchesi  of  Newcasile, 


301 


She  was  accused  of  pilfering  from 
Des  Cartes  and  Hobbes ;  and,  in  her 
vindication  of  herself,  tells  us  what 
she  knew  of  these  two  extraordinary 
men. 

"  Some  say  that,  from  my  Book  of  Phi- 
losmhy,  it  seems  aa  if  I  had  oonveraed 
with  Dea  Cartes  or  Master  Hobbes,  or 
both,  or  baTe  frequented  their  atodies, 
by  reading  their  works ;  but  I  cannot  say 
but  I  haye  seen  them  both ;  but,  upon 
my  conscience,  I  ne^er  spake  to  Aloo- 
aieur  Des  Cartes  in  mr  life»  nor  ever  un« 
0  derstood  what  be  saicl,  for  be  spake  no 
English,  and  I  understand  no  other  lan- 
guage, and  those  times  I  savr  him,  which 
was  twice  at  dinner  with  my  lord  at  Paris, 
he  did  appear  to  me  a  man  of  the  fewest 
words  I  ever  heard.  And  for  Master 
Hobbes,  it  is  true  I  have  had  the  like 
good  fortune  to  see  him,  and  that  very 
often,  with  my  lord  at  dinner,  for  I  con- 
versing seldom  with  any  stranger,  bad 
no  other  time  to  see  those  two  famous 
philof ophers ;  yet  I  never  heard  Master 
IJobbes,  to  my  best  remembrance,  treat 
or  discourse  of  philosophy,  nor  I  never 
spake  to  Master  Hobbes  twenty  words  in 
my  life.  I  cannot  say  I  did  not  ask  him 
a  question }  for  when  I  waa  in  London  I 
met  bim,  and  told  him,  aa  truly  I  was, 
very  glad  to  see  him,  and  asked  bim  if 
be  would  please  do  me  that  honour  to 
atay  at  dinner ;  but  be  with  great  civility 
refused  me,  as  having  some  business 
which,  I  suppose,  required  his  absence." 

The  duchess,  however,  admits  that, 
at  times,  the  duke  assisted  her,  with 
"this  my  lord  writ,"  and  such-like 
acknowledgments :  "  For  I  being  no 
lyric  poet,  my  lord  supplied  that  de- 
^t  of  my  brain  with  tne  superfluity 
of  his  own  brain ;  thus  our  wits  join 
as  in  matrimony, — my  lord*8  the 
masculine,  mine  the  Kminine  wit, 
which  is  no  small  glory  to  me  that 
we  are  married  souls,  bodies,  and 
brains.**  "  What  a  picture  of  foolish 
nobility,**  says  Walpole,  "  was  this 
stately  poetic  couple,  retired  to  their 
own  little  domain,  and  intoxicating 
one  another  with  circumstantial  flat- 
tery on  what  was  of  consequence  to 
no  mortal  but  themselves  r  Wel- 
beck  was,  at  least,  as  Gifford  says, 
when  commenting  on  this  passage,  as 
big  as  \Valpole*8  baby-house  at  Straw- 
berry Hill. 

The  folio  works  of  this  indefatig- 
able woman  are  stored  with  pre- 
faces, notices,  dedications,  a^logies, 
and  advertisements.  Every  idea  she 
considered  of  consequence,  every  fear 

TOL.  zixni.  no.  cxcv. 


reauired  its  eommittal  to  paper;  the 
duke  interested  himself  in  her  pursuits, 
and  why,  she  thought,  shoula  not  the 
public  participate  m  their  pleasure  P 
Some  of  her  requests  from  her  read- 
ers are  characteristic  "  Let  me  en- 
treat you,**  she  says, "  to  consider  only 
the  fancies  in  this  my  book  of  poems, 
and  not  the  language,  numbers,  nor 
rhymes,  nor  false  pnnting;  for  if  you 
do  you  will  be  my  condemning  judffe, 
which  will  grieve  my  muse.**  This 
is  before  her  Poems  and  Fancies ;  at 
pa^e  123  of  the  same  volume,  she 
writes: — 


« 


I  must  entreat  my  noble  reader  to 
read  this  part  of  my  book  very  slow,  and 
to  observe  very  strictly  every  word  they 
read ;  because,  in  most  of  these  poems, 
every  word  is  a  fancy.  Where&re,  if 
they  lose  by  not  marking,  or  skip  by  too 
hasty  reading,  ibey  will  entangle  the 
sense  of  the  whole  copy." 

At  page  212:  — 

"  I  know  those  that  are  atrict  and  nice 
about  phrases,  and  tbe  placing  of  words, 
will  carp  at  my  book,  inasmuch  aa  I 
have  chose  to  leave  tbe  elegance  of  words 
rather  than  obstruct  the  sense  of  the 
matter:— 

When  that  a  Book  doth  from  the  press 

come  new. 
All  buy  or  borrow  it,  this  Book  to  view, 
Not  out  of  love  of  Learning  and  of  Wit, 
But  to  find  faults  that  tbey  may  censure 

it." 

"  Excuse  and  pardon  me,"  ahe  says  io 
another  place,  "  for  making  all  this  noise 
about  my  own  books ;  I  nave  launched 
my  labours  into  the  world,  and  am  rejoic- 
ing at  my  own  handiwork :— 

Just  like  a  bird,  when  her  young  are  in 

nest. 
Goes  in  and  out,  and  hops,  and  takes  no 

rest; 
But  when  their  young  are  fledgM,  their 

heads  ootpeep ; 
Lord  !  what  a  chirtiing  does  tbe  old  one 

keep!*' 

A  natural  image  naturally  expressed. 
The  duchess*s  most  unreadable 
works  are  her  six-and-twenty  plap. 
Langbaine,  however,  venturea  a  com- 
mendation in  their  behalf. 

'*  I  know  there  are  some,*'  he  writet, 
"  that  have  but  a  mean  opinion  of  her 
plays;  but  if  it  be  considered  that  both 
the  language  and  plots  of  them  are  all 
her  own,  I  think  she  ought,  with  justice, 
to  be  preferred  to   otbers    of  ber  sex 


302 


Margaret  Lueas^  Ihtcheu  of  NeweaUU. 


[March, 


wfaidi  faftve  built  tbeir  fanM  on  other 
people*!  foandatiom." 

Something  like  this  the  duehen 
herself  says,  in  the  general  prologue, 
where  the  reader  Is  entreated  not  to 
try  her  nerformances  by  the  master* 
hand  of  Jonson's  muse : — 

"  What  length  of  time  he  took  those 

plays  to  write, 
I  cannot  goess,  not  knowing  his  wit's 

flight; 
But  I  have  heard  Ben  Jonion's  plays 

came  forth 
To  the  world's  view  as  things  of  a  great 

worth  ; 
Like  foreign  Emperors,  wbieh  do  appear 
Unto  their  subjects  not  'hove  once  a 

year; 
So  did  Ben  Jensen's  plsys  so  rarely  paas 
As  one  might  think  they  long  in  writing 

was." 


*'  Greek,  Latin  poets  I  eovld  never  read, 
Nor  their  historians,  but  our  English 

Speed; 
I  could  not  steal  their  wit,  nor  plots  out 

tske. 
AU  my  plays*  plots  my  own  poor  brain 

did  make." 

Her  volume  oi Philosophical  Fancies 
was  written  in  less  than  three  weeks. 
In  what  sfMce  of  time  she  composed 
her  plays  she  has  not  thought  fit  to 
tell  us. 

A  lady  of  the  rank,  and  wit,  and 
wealth  of  the  Duchess  of  Newcastle 
could  not  be  without  her  train  of  at- 
tendant flatterers. 

''Methisks  I  behold  in  you,*'  writes 
Dryden  to  the  duke,  before  ha  had  lost 
tft«  art  affrauingt*  "  snotlier  Cuius  Ma- 
rina, who,  in  the  extremity  of  his  sge, 
exercised  himself  almost  every  morning 
in  the  Campus  Martins,  amongst  the 
youthful  nohility  of  Rome;  and  after* 
wards,  in  your  retirements,  when  you  do 
honour  to  poetry,  by  employing  part  of 
your  leisure  in  it,  I  regard  you  at  another 
Silius  ItaUcus,  who  having  passed  over 
his  consulship  with  applause,  dismissed 
himself  from  business  and  from  the  gown, 
and  amployed  his  age  among  the  anadss 
in  the  reading  and  imitation  of  Virgil. 
In  whicb,**he  adds,  *'  lest  anything  abould 
be  wanting  to  your  happineas,  you  have, 
by  a  rara  efiect  of  fortune,  found  in  the 

{person  of  your  exoellent  lady,  not  only  a 
over,  but  a  partner  of  your  studies ;  a 
lady  whom  one  may  juatly  equal  with  the 
Sappho  of  the  Greeks,  or  the  Sulpitia  of 
the  Romans ;  who,  by  being  taken  into 
your  bosom,  seems  to  be  in^ired  with 


your  genius,  and  by  writing  the 
of  your  life  in  so  masculine  a  style,  haa 
already  placed  you  in  the  nonber  of  the 
heroes.  It  esnaot  he  denied  b«t  that 
your  grace  has  received  a  double  aatisiftc- 
tion,  the  one  to  see  yourself  consecrated 
to  immortality  while  yon  are  yet  alive ; 
the  other,  to  have  your  praisea  oeLebiwled 
by  so  dear,  so  just,  and  ao  piooa  an  bia. 
tortan." 

This  was  the  age  of  flattery,  and 
Shadwell  and  Fledknoe  punoed  the 
duke  and  the  ducheas  with  the  awne 
sort  of  adulatory  language;  but  it 
cannot  be  concealed  that  theezcdlmt- 
minded  Evelyn  has  the  better  of  them 
in  the  force  and  variety  of  his  eneo- 
miums.  Her  grace  hiad  made  him 
a  present  of  her  works  (complete), 
and  of  her  husband^s  very  useful 
book  of  Horsemanship,  and  £vel yn*s 
acknowledgment  is  an  unrivalled 
piece  of  forced  and  fodish  flatteiy : 
a  complete  ransacking  of  the  nmnes 
of  illustrious  ladies  of  all  covintries 
and  of  all  ages. 

"  I  do  not  intend/*  saya  £vel3m»  **  to 
write  a  panegyric  of  your  virtuea,  which  all 
the  world  admirea,  leat  the  indignity  of  my 
style  ahould  prophase  a  thing  so  sacred*; 
but  to  repeat  my  admiration  of  yov 
genitts  and  sablime  wit,  so  con^Mehca. 
sive  of  the  most  sbstracted  appearascea, 
and  so  admirable  in  your  aex,  or  rather 
in  your  giace*s  person  alone,  which  I 
never  call  to  mina  but  to  rank  it  amonnt 
the  Heroines,  and  constellate  witb  ue 
Graces.  Such  of  ancient  daya  waa  Ze* 
nobia,  queen  of  Palmjra,  that  writ  the 
hiatory  of  her  country,  as  your  erace  has 
done  that  of  my  lord  duke  your  husband, 
worthy  to  be  transmitted  to  pooSerity. 
Your  grace  has  title  to  all  her  psrfeetions. 
8uch  was  Anna  Conmiena,  who  called 
Alexius  Cither,  and  writ  fifteen  books  of 
biatoiy.  Such  was  St.  Catharine  of  Sioona, 
St.  Bridget,  and  Iberese  (for  even  the 
greateat  aaints  have  cultivated  the  sd- 
snces).  Such  wss  Fulvia  Morala«  Isabella 
Andreini,  Margarita  of  Valoia  (slater  to 
Francis  I.),  whose  novels  are  equal  to 
those  pf  tiie  witty  Boccaccio.  But  all 
these  summed  together  possess  but  that 
divided  which  your' grace  retains  in  eiie. 
For  what  of  auhUsse  and  woitby  in  the 
aatnre  of  thinga  does  not  yew  grace  oom* 
prehend  and  explain  V 

Surely  the  arrow  of  adulation  is 
here  drawn  to  the  head ;  and  this  is 
the  mighty  pretender,  too,  to  the 
Bcienoe,  philosophy,  and^poetnr  of  the 
Diary  of  the  same  indiyidual  I 


*  See  his  Dedicstion  to  Flatsrch*s  tivet. 


1846.] 


Margaret  Lueoi^  Ducheu  ofNewemMe. 


3M 


Soothed  with  a  series  of  letters 
f\ill  of  flattery  of  this  description, 
and  bnoyed  np  with  a  beliei  that 
her  fame  would  stand  high,  and  se- 
curely high  with  po^rity,  the 
duchess*  descended  quietly  to-  the 
grave,  as  Fulman  informs  us,  on  the 
7th  Januaij,  1673-4.  The  produce 
of  her  brain  was  her  only  offiipring. 
The  duke  survired  her  some  three 
years,  when  he  was  laid  by  the  side 
of  his  wife  and  biographer,  in  the 
chapel  of  St.  ^lichael,  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  where  there  is  to  this  day 
a  stately  monument  to  their  memories 
(erected  at  the  duke's  expense),  with 
an  inscription  which  has  callea  forth 
the  adnuration  of  Addison,  and  of 
Mr.  Washington  Irving : — 

"  Here  lies  the  loyal  Duke  of  New- 
castle and  bis  Duchess,  his  second  wife, 
by  whom  he  had  no  istae.  Her  name 
was  Margaret  Lucas,  youngest  sister  to 
Lord  Lucas  of  Colchester,  a  noble  family, 
for  all  the  brothers  were  valiant,  and  all 
the  sisters  virtuous*  This  duchess  was  a 
wise,  witty^  and  learned  lady,  which  her 
many  books  do  well  testify :  she  was  a 
most  virtuous,  and  loving,  and  careful 
wife,  and  was  with  her  lord  all  the  time 
of  bis  banishment  and  miseries;  and  when 
they  came  home,  never  parted  with  him 
in  his  solitary  retirements." 

This  is  evidently,  in  part,  the  com* 
position  of  the  duchess  herself;  it  is 
verv  beautiful. 

We  have  as  yet  but  looked  upon  the 
eccentricities  of  this  extraordinary 
woman,  whom  it  has  been  too  long 
the  custom  to  decry.  There  is  no 
volume  altogether  without  its  good, 
without  a  redeeming  sentence,  with- 
out something  to  praise.  The  oc- 
casional Doetrv  and  good  sense  and 
vrit  of  the  auchess  atone  for  all 
her  whims  and  oddities  of  thought 
and  manner.  Her  verse  is  emineirtly 
characteristie— vigorous  at  times,  and 
at  times  poetical.  We  select  a  few 
pieces  not  generally  known  :^ 

"  A  BEQUEST  TO  MY  FaiENDS. 

When  I  am  dead  and  buried  lie 
Wiibin  a  grave,  if  friends  pass  by. 
Let  them  not  turn  away  their  sight, 
Because  they  would  forget  me  quite ; 
But  on  my  grave  a  tear  let  fall, 
And  me  unto  remembrance  call. 
Then  may  my  ashes  rise  that  tear  to  meet, 
Beceive  it  in  my  urn  like  balsam  sweet. 

Oyou  that  are  my  dearest  friends,  do  not. 
When  I  am  dead,  lie  in  the  grave  forgot. 


Bat  let  me,  in  yoor  mhid.as  OM  thoogbt 

be; 
So  shall  I  live  still  in  your  memory. 
If  you  had  died  my  heart  still  should 

have  been 
A  room  to  keep  and  hang  year  piotares  in. 

Here  is  what  she  calls  "  An  Elegy,** 
pretty  and  fanciful  in  the  extreme: — 

**  Her  oorps  was  borne  to  ohnrcb  on  gray* 

goote  teing. 
Her  sh^t  was  jmper.wkUe  to  lap  her  in. 
And  cotton  dyed  with  itUc  her  covering 

black. 
With  letters  for  her  scutcheon's  print  in 

that; 
Fancies  bound  up  with  verse,  a  garland 

made, 
And  at  the  head  upon  her  hearse  was  laid ; 
And  nnmhers  ten  did  bear  her  to  the  grate, 
The  AfufM  nine  a  motniment  her  gave." 

Nor  is  what  she  styles  '^  A  Farewell 
to  the  Muses  **  without  its  excellen- 
des: — 

**  Farewell,  my  Masoi  thou  gentle,  harm- 
less sprite. 
That  us'd  to  haunt  me  in  the  dead  of 

night. 
And  on  the  pillow  where  my  head  I  laid 
Thou  sit'st  close  by,  and  with  my  fancies 

play'd  ; 
Sometimes  upon  my  eyes  you  dancing 

•kip, 
Making  s  vision  of  some  fine  landskip. 
Thus  with  your  sportiogs  kept  me  oft 

awake, 
Not  with  your  noise,  for  ne*er  a  word 

you  spake ; 
But  with  your  fairy-dancing,  circling 

wind. 
Upon  a  hill  of  thoughts  within  my  mind. 
When  'tvras  your  sport  to  blow  out  every 

light, 
Then  I  did  rest,  and  sleep  out  all  the 

night." 

The  following  is  impressive,  but 
careless  in  its  execution.: — 

"  Great  God,  from  Thee  all  in6nites  do 

How, 
And  by  Thy  power  from  thence  effects 

do  grow. 
Thou  order*dst  all  degrees  of  matter,  just 
As  'tis  Thy  will  and  pleasure  —  move  it 

must. 
And  by  I'hy  knowledge  order*dst  all  ihe 

best— 
For  in  Tliy  knowledge  doth  Thy  wisdom 

rest. 
And  wisdom  cannot  order  things  amiss. 
For  where  disorder  is,  no  wisdom  is. 
Besides,  great  God,  Thy  will  is  just ;  for 

why! 
Thy  will  still  on  Tby  wisdom  doth  rely. 


304 


Margaret  Lueas^  Duehegs  of  Newcastle* 


[March, 


O,  ptrdon,  Lord,  for  what  I  now  bore 

tpeak 
Upon  •  guesf  •— my  knowledge  is  but 

weak. 
But  Tbou  baat  made  aucb  creatures  as 

mankind « 
Andgir'st  tbem  sometbing  wbich  we  call 

a  mind ; 
Always  in  motion,  never  quiet  lies, 
Until  ibe  figure  of  his  body  dies. 
His  several  tbougbts,  wbich  several  mo- 
tions are. 
Do  raise  up  love  and  hope,  joys,  doubts, 

and  fear. 
At  love  doth  raise  op  hope,  to  fear  doth 

doubt. 
Which  makes  him  seek  to  find  the  great 

God  out 
Self-love  doth  make  him  seek  to  find, 

if  be 
Came  from  or  shall  last  to  eternity. 
But  motion  being  slow  makes  knowledge 

weak. 
And  then  his  thoughts  *gaintt  ignorance 

doth  beat. 
As  fluid  waters  'gainst  hard  rocks  do 

flow, 
Break  their  soft  streams,  and  so  they 

backward  go  ; 
Just  to  do  thoughts,  and  then  they  back« 

ward  slide 
Unto  the  places  where  first  they  did 

abide : 
And  there  in  gentle  murmurs  do  com- 
plain 
That  all  their  care  and  labour  is  in  vain. 
But  sinc«i  none  knows,  the  great  Creator 

must: 
Han,  seek  no  more,  but  in  His  goodness 

trust," 

The  prose  of  the  duchess  is  bold  bnt 
involred,  her  thoughts  and  her  style 
are  peculiarly  her  own.  We  select 
a  few  of  her  most  striking  sentences ; 
the  mind  continually  active^  could 
not  fail  at  times  to  write  something 
that  was  good : — 

"  The  reason  why  women  are  so  apt  to 
talk  too  much,  is  an  overweening  opinion 
of  themselves  in  thinking  they  speak 
well ;  and  striving  to  take  off  that  blemiih 
from  their  sex  of  knowing  little,  by 
speaking  much,  as  thinking  that  many 
words  neve  the  same  weight  as  much 
knowledge." 

**  Courts  should  be  a  pattern  and  an 
example  of  virtue  to  all  the  rest  of  the 
kingdom,  being  the  ruler  and  chief  head 
to  direct  the  body  of  state ;  but  most  com- 
monly, instead  of  clemency,  justice,  roo- . 
desty,  friendship,  temperance,  humility, 
>nd  unity,  there  it  faction,  pride,  ambi- 

1,  luxury,  covetousness,  hate,  envy, 
ier,  treachery,  flattery,  impudence, 
many  the  like ;  yet  they  are  ofttimes 


covered  with  a  veil  of  smooth  professions 
find  protestations,  which  glisters  like  gold 
when  it  is  but  coppered  tinsel.*' 

*'  Great  memories  are  like  standing 
ponds  that  are  made  with  lain ;  so  that 
memory  is  nothing  but  the  showers  of 
other  men's  wits." 

"  Poetry  is  so  powerful,  and  hath  such 
an  attractive  beauty,  that  those  that  can 
but  view  her  perfectly  could  not  but  be 
enamoured,  her  charms  do  so  force  affec- 
tion. Surely  those  that  do  not  delight  in 
Poetry  or  Music  have  no  divine  souls  or 
harmonious  thoughts." 

"  Men  who  can  speak  long  and  elo- 
quently, contrasted  with  those  who  can 
say  but  little,  but  that  to  the  point,  are 
like  several  sized  candles,  the  longer  or 
shorter  ere  they  come  to  a  snuff." 

*'  Vanity  is  so  natural  to  our  sex,  that 
it  were  unnatural  not  to  be  vain." 

*'  Platonic  love  is  a  bawd  to  adultery." 

"  True  affection  is  not  to  be  measured ; 
because  it  is  like  eternity,  not  to  be  com- 
prised." 

"  There  is  no  greater  usury  or  extor- 
tion than  upon  courtesy ;  for  the  loan  of 
money  is  but  ten,  twenty,  or  thirty  in  the 
hundred ;  but  the  loan  of  courtesy  is  to 
enslave  a  man  all  his  life." 

"  Some  have  more  words  than  wit,  and 
more  wit  than  judgment.  And  others 
have  more  years  than  experience,  and 
more  experience  than  honesty." 

"  Our  natural  English  tongue  was  sig- 
nificant enough  witliout  the  help  of  other 
languages ;  but  as  we  have  merchandised 
for  wares,  so  have  we  done  for  words : 
but  indeed  we  have  rather  brought  in 
|han  carried  out." 

"  Ben  Jonson,  I  have  heard,  was  of 
opinion  that  a  comedy  was  not  a  natural 
or  true  comedy  if  it  should  present  more 
than  a  day's  action." 

*'  In  truth,  I  never  heard  any  man  read 
well  but  my  husband,  and  have  heard 
him  say,  he  never  heard  any  man  read 
well  but  Ben  Jonson,  and  yet  he  hath 
beard  many  in  his  time.''..L#l(ers,  p.  362. 

"  King  James  was  so  great  a  lover  of 
peace,  that  rather  than  he  would  lose  the 
delights  of  peace,  he  would  lie  under  the 
infamy  of  being  thought  timorous;  for  in 
that  It  was  thought  he  had  more  craft 
than  fear." 

"Children  should  be  taught  at  first 
the  best,  plainest,  and  purest  of  their 
language,  and  the  most  significant  words; 
and  not  as  their  nurses  teach  them,  a 
strange  kind  of  gibbridge,  broken  lan- 
guage of  their  own  making,  which  is  like 
•craps  of  several  meats  heaped  together. 


1846.] 


Margaret  Lucas,  Duchesi  of  Neweoitte. 


306 


or  baah'd,  mixt,  or  minced :  so  do  they 
the  purest  of  their  language ;  as,  for  ex* 
ample,  when  nurses  teach  children  to  go, 
instead  of  saying,  Go,  they  say,  Do,  ao ; 
and  instead  of  saying,  Come  to  me,  they 
say,  Turn  to  me ;  and  when  they  newly 
come  out  of  a  sleep,  and  cannot  well  open 
their  eyes,  they  do  not  say.  My  child 
cannot  well  open  his  or  her  eyes,  but  My 
child  tant  open  its  nies  ;  ana  when  they 
should  bid  them  speak,  tliey  bid  them 
peak ;  and  when  they  should  ask  them,  if 
they  will  or  would  drink,  they  ask  them 
if  they  will  diock ;  end  so  all  the  rest  of 
the  language  they  teach  children  is  after 
this  manner.  .  .  .  Likewise  they  learn 
them  the  rudest  language  first ;  as  to  bid 
them  say,  such  a  one  lies,  or  to  call  them 
rogues  and  the  like  names,  and  then 
laugh  as  if  it  were  a  witt^  jest.  And  as 
they  breed  them  in  their  language,  so 
they  breed  them  in  their  sports,  pastimes, 
or  exercises,  as  to  play  with  children  at 
bo-peep,  blinUman  s-buff,  and  cock's- 
ho<C" 

"  A  gentleman  oueht  to  be  skilful  in 
the  use  of  his  sword,  in  the  manage  of 
horses,  to  vault,  to  wrestle,  to  dance :  the 
first  defends  his  honour  and  country ;  the 
next  is  for  command  in  cavalry ;  the  tiiird 
makes  him  ready  in  the  day  of  battle  to 
horse  himself;  the  fourth  keeps  Lira  from 
being  overcome  hy  a  clown  or  peasant, 
for  the  sleights  in  wrestling  will  over* 
come  great  strength  ;  the  fifth  gives  his 
limbs  a  graceful  motion.  His  exercises 
should  be  masculine :  for  better  it  were 
to  see  a  gentleman  shoe  a  hone,  than  to 
play  on  the  viol  or  lute,  virginal,  or  any 
other  musical  instrument;  for  that  shew- 
eth  the  command  man  hath  over  beast. 
Or  to  carry  a  burthen  on  his  back,  than 
to  sit  idly  at  cards  or  dice :  for  idleness 
is  like  the  sluggish  worm,  that  is  neither 
able  to  help  nor  defend  itself." 

"  Some,  in  their  praises  of  women, 
say,  they  never  speak  but  their  words  are 
too  many  in  numoer  for  the  weight  of  the 
sense;  besides,  the  ground  of  their  dis* 
course  ia  impertinent,  as  enquiries  who 
dined  and  who  supped  at  such  a  table ; 
what  looks,  words,  and  actions  passed 
among  the  company ;  what  addresses 
such  a  man  made  to  such  a  woman,  and 
what  encouragement  they  received  in 
their  courtships ;  then  who  was  at  court, 
who  at  church  ;  or  slandering  or  defam. 
ing  one  another ;  or  bragging  of  them* 
selves,  what  clothes  they  have  or  will 
have ;  what  coaches  or  lacqueys,  what 
]ove.4ervants  they  have  or  may  have ; 
what  men  are  like  to  die  for  love  of  them ; 


what  feast  they  made  for  such  t  eom- 
pany ;  who  took  them  out  to  dance  at 
such  a  ball ;  who  ushered  them  out  of 
church,  and  who  they  aaw  there,  and  not 
of  what  they  heard  there  ;  and  for  their 

Sastimes,  say  thejr  are  seldom  at  home 
ut  to  receive  visits.  Neither  are  they 
pleased  with  the  company  of  their  own 
sex;  for  if  there  be  no  man  amongst 
them,  they  are  very  dull,  and  as  mute  as 
one  would  wish ;  unless  it  be  at  a  gos. 
sipping,  where  a  cup  of  good  liquor  runs 
about." 

"  All  women  are  a  kind  of  mounte* 
hanks  ;  for  they  would  make  the  world 
believe  they  are  better  than  they  are; 
and  they  do  all  they  can  to  draw  com- 
pany ;  and  their  allurements  is  their 
dressing,  dancing,  painting,  and  the  like ; 
and  when  men  are  catch t,  they  laugh  to 
see  what  fools  they  were  to  be  taken 
with  such  toys :  for  women's  ends  are 
only  to  make  men  profess  and  protest* 
lie  and  forswear  themselves  in  the  admi- 
ration  of  them :  for  a  woman's  only  de« 
light  is  to  he  flattered  of  men  ;  for  they 
care  not  whether  they  love  truly,  or  speak 
falsely,  so  they  profess  earnestly." 

"  Some  parents  sniFer  their  children  to 
run  about  into  every  dirty  office,  where 
the  young  master  must  learn  to  drink  and 
play  at  cards  with  the  kitchen-boy,  and 
learn  to  kiss  his  mother's  dirty  maid  form 
mess  of  cream.  The  daughters  are  danced 
upon  the  knee  of  every  clown  and  ser« 
ving  man,  and  hear  them  talk  scurrilous 
to  their  maids,  which  is  their  complement 
of  wooing,  and  then  dancing  SeUinger*i 
Round  with  them  at  Christmas  time.' 

"  Some  say  a  man  is  a  nobler  creature 
than  a  woman,  because  our  Saviour  took 
upon  him  the  body  of  man ;  and  another, 
that  man  was  made  firat :  but  these  two 
reasons  are  weak';  for  the  Holy  Spirit 
took  upon  him  the  shape  of  a  dove»  which 
creature  is  of  less  esteem  than  mankind ; 
and,  for  the  pre-eminency  in  creation,  the 
devil  was  made  before  man."  * 

Mrs.  Piozzi  gave  a  saffiron  colour  to 
her  cheeks  by  painting.  Thotuand», 
by  following[  a  very  foolish  and  per- 
nicious fashion,  had  done  the  Bame 
before  her. 

"  Painting  the  face,  when  it  is  used 
for  a  ffood  intent,  as  to  keep  or  increase 
lawful  affection,  is,  perhaps,  admissibbft  | 
but  in  a  widow,  painting  ia  most  dis- 
allowable—a  widow  once,  a  widow  ever* 
I  am  utterly  against  the  art  of  painting, 
out  of  three  respects ;  the  first  is  danger- 
ous -.  for  most  paintings  are  mixed  with 


*  *'  He  to  God's  image,  she  to  his  was  made. 

So  farther  from  the  fount  the  stream  at  random  stray'd." 

pRYOBNt 


306 


Margartt  Lueas,  Duckeis  of  Newcastle.  [Marck, 


mevour^,  wherein  is  mttek  cjiiicktilrer, 
which  »  of  so  subtk  and  malignant  a  nn- 
tnre,  as  it  will  fall  from  the  head  to  the 
lungs*  and  cause  consumpttona,  and  is  the 
canee  of  swelling  about  the  neck  and 
throat.  The  next  is»  that  it  is  so  far  from 
adorning,  that  it  disfigures  :  for  it  will 
rot  the  teeth,  dim  the  eyes,  and  take 
away  both  the  life  and  youth  of  a  face, 
which  is  the  greatest  beauty.  Thirdly, 
and  hwtly ..  ue  slnttishneae  of  it,  and 
especially  in  the  preparatives,  as  maska 
of  sear-clothes,  which  are  not  only  horrid 
to  look  upon,  iu  that  they  seem  as  dead 
bodies  embowelled  or  emoalmed,  but  the 
Btink  is  offensive,  llien  the  pomatum 
and  pultls,  which  are  yery  uneasy  to  lie 
in,  wet  and  greasy,  and  very  unsavoury ; 
for  an  the  while  they  have  it  on  ic  pre- 
sents to  the  nose  a  chandler's  shop,  or  a 
greasy  dripping-pan,  so  as  all  the  time 
they  fry,  as  it  were,  in  grease  -,  neither 
will  their  perfumes  mend  it,  or  their  oils: 
and  though  I  cannot  say  they  live  in 
purgatory,  because  they  shun  all  hot 
places,  for  they  cannot  have  the  comfort- 
able heat  of  the  fire,  and  shun  the  natural 
heat  of  the  sun,  as  they  must  live  always 
as  if  they  were  at  the  North  Pole,  for  fear 
the  heat  should  melt  away  their  oil,  and 
oily  drops  can  be  no  grace  to  their  faee. 
Dry  painting  shrivels  up  the  akin  se,  aa 
if  imprints  age  in  their  faee,  in  filling  it 
fall  of  wrinklea ;  wherefore  paintinga  ate 
both  dangeroua,  ill-fiivonred,  and  slntttsh, 
beaidea  the  troublesome  paina.  But  for 
other  adornments  in  women,  they  are  to 
be  commended,  as  cvrline,  powdering, 
pouncing,  clothtng,  and  all  the  varietieB 
of  accoutrement." 

One  of  the  most  interesting  works 
of  the  duchess's  composition  is  a 
large  folio  volume  of  SoeiabU  LH^ 
tersj  for  so  they  are  styled,  211  in 
number.  The  odd  eleven  are  for  in- 
dividuals with  names,  the  200  to  some 
madam,  evidently  an  admirer  of  the 
duchess  and  her  writings.  There  is 
no  such  thing  as  a  date  throughout 
the  work,  and  names  are  distk^ish- 
ed  by  initials,  which,  provokingly 
enouffh,  are  of  frequent  occurrence. 
The  letters,  however,  seem  to  have 
been  written  wholly  abnxEid,  and  the 
collecti<m  was  prindtod  at  London  in 
1664. 

There  is,  of  course,  acomplinientary 
copy  of  verses  by  the  duke,  and  a 
letter  of  gratitucfe  and  extravaeant 
adulation  from  the  duchess,  wiu  a 
preface  to  all  professors  of  learning 
and  art,  and  another  to  the  Many. 

*'  It  may  be  said  to  me,'*  ahe  writes  to 
hu  loxd, "  aa  one  said  to  a  lady,  <  Work, 


lady,  work, let  writing  books  aloii«»  ^or 

sorely  wiaer  women  ne  er  writ  one  ;*  b«i 

Jrour  lordship  here  bid  me  to  work,  nor 
eave  writing,  except  when  yoa  would 
persuade  me  to  spare  ao  much  time  frooa 
my  stady  as  to  take  the  air  for  my  health  ; 
the  trntn  ia,  my  Imrd,  I  eaanot  work,  I 
mean  such  work  aa  ladies  use  to  {Mas 
their  time  withal :  but  I  am  not  a  dmnce 
in  dl  empk>yment8,  for  I  oaderstamd  the 
keeping  of  sheep,  and  ordering  of  m  grasi^, 
indiflbrently  well,  although  I  do  not  busy 
myaelf  much  with  it,  by  reason  my  aenb- 
bhog  takes  away  most  part  of  my  time." 
.     •    •    "  As  for  the  present  iMMik   of 
letters,"  she  writes,  "I  know  not,  as 
yet,  what  aspersion  they  will  lay  o] 
it,  but  I  fear  they'll  aay,  they  are 
written  in  a  mode  atyle,  that  is,  in  a 

Elimenting  and   romantieal   way,    ... 
igh  words  and  mystical  ezpressione, 
moat  of  our  modem  letter«writera  use  to 
do." 

The  twenty-first  letter  containa  a 
sad  character  of  her  sex. 

"  I  observe,"  she  says,  "  that  cards  is 
one  of  the  chief  pastimes  of  our  sex,  and 
their  greatest  delight  -,  for  few  or  none  of 
our  sex  loves  or  delights  in  noetry,  un- 
less a  copy  of  versea  made  iu  tneir  praise, 
wherein,  for  the  most  part,  is  more  flat- 
tery than  wit,"  ..."  Neither  doth  our 
sex  take  much  pleasure  in  harmonioas 
music,  only  in  violins  to  tread  a  mea- 
sure  ;  the  truth  is,  the  chief  study  of  our 
sex  is  romances,  wherein  reading,  they 
fall  in  love  with  the  feigned  heroes  and 
carpet-knights,  with  whom  their  thoughts 
secretly  commit  adultery,  and  in  their 
converaation  and  manner,  or  forma  or 
phrases  of  speech,  they  imitate  the  ro» 
mancy.lailies." 

The  forty-seventh  letter  ia  a  long 
account  of  the  pains  that  ladies  take, 
and  the  cost  the;^  go  to,  in  setting, 
making,  and  buymg  fine  ana  costly 
child -bed  linen,  swaddling -dotheSi 
mantles,  and  the  like,  their  banquets 
of  sweetmeats,  cakes,  wafers,  bisciitts, 
jellies,  and  such  sinmg  drinks  as  hip* 
pocras  and  burnt  wine,  with  hot 
spices,  mulled  sack,  strong  and  hi^- 
coloured  ale,  well  spiced  and  stuffed 
with  toasts  of  cakes.  This  should  be 
read  with  Letter  cm.,  where  there  is 
an  account  of  a  gossip-meeting. 

Some  of  her  oescnptions  are  voy 
graphic,  such  as  that  of  the  sanctified 
uidy  to  whom  black  patches  had  be- 
come abominable,  and  fans,  ribaads^ 
pendants  and  necklaces,  the  tempta- 
tions of  Satan,  and  laeed  shoes  and 
galoshoes,  as  so  many  steps  to  pride. 
(Utt.u.) 


1846.] 


Margaret  LucaSf  Duchess  qf  Newcastle. 


307 


"  You  were  pleased,  in  your  last  let- 
ter," she  writes  (No.  cxlvi.),  "  to  re- 
quest me  to  send  you  my  opinion  of  Virgil 
and  Ovid,  as  which  1  thooglftt  was  ue 
better  poet.  Truly,  madam,  my  reason, 
skill,  or  understanding  in  poetry  and  poets 
is  not  sufficient  to  giveajudgpnentoftwo 
such  famous  poets,  for  though  I  am  a 
poetess,  yet  I  am  but  a  poetastress,  or  a 
pett^  poetess ;  but,  howsoerer,  I  am  a 
legitimate  poetical  child  of  Nature,  and 
though  my  poems,  which  are  the  body  of 
the  poetical  soul,  are  not  so  beautiful  and 
pleasing  as  the  rest  of  her  poetical  child- 
rens'  belies  are,  yet  I  am,  neTertheless, 
her  child,  although  but  a  brownet.'' 

Here  is  a  very  beautiful  picture  of 
the  qualities  required  of  a  ballad- 
siuger: — 

"The  vulgar  and  plainer  a  voice  is, 
the  better  it  is  for  an  old  baliad ;  for  a 
sweet  Toice  with  quavers,  and  trilloes, 
and  the  like,  would  be  as  improper  for  an 
old  ballad,  as  golden  laces  on  a  thrown 
suit  of  cloth,  diamond  buckles  on  clouted 
or  cobbled  shoes,  or  a  feather  on  a  monk's 
hood ;  neither  should  old  ballads  be  sung 
80  much  io  a  tune  as  in  a  tone,  whten 
tone  is  betwixt  speaking  and  singing,  for 
the  sound  is  more  thni  plain  spealdiig 
aad  less  than  clear  singing,  and  the  rum- 
mtng  or  hummiag  of  a  wheel  should  be 
the  mosie  to  that  tone,  for  the  bumming 
b  the  noise  the  wheel  makes  in  the  tarn* 
log  round,  which  is  not  like  the  music  of 
the  spheres ;  and  ballads  are  only  proper 
to  be  sung  by  spinsters,  and  that  only  ia 
cold  winter  nights,  when  a  company  of 
good  housewives  are  dravriog  a  thread  of 
flax." — Lett,  ocii. 

Her  admiratioa  of  Davenant's  Oot^' 
dibert  is  iBftde  tibe  subieet  of  a  letter, 
(No.  cxxvii.),  where  ske  speaks  with 

freat  diserimination  when  findisg 
tult  with  the  oyer«pieeisioii  of  his 
language  and  the  compact  closeness 
ci  his  expressions,  "  for  the  language 
16  like  so  curious  and  finely  engraven 
a  seal  as  one  cannot  readily  see  the 
figure  engraven  thereon  without  a 


maspifving  glasB. 
Her  love  n 


for  the  writings  of  Shak- 
speare  hreaks  out  in  two  or  three 
l^laees,  nor  has  it  been  hitherto  no- 
ticed tiiat  the  duchess  was  among  the 
first  who  dared  to  publish  their  admi* 
ration: — 

"  I  wonder,"  she  writes,  "  how  that 
person  you  mention  in  your  letter  could 
either  have  the  conscience  or  confidence 
to  dispraise  Shakspeare's  plays,  as  to  say 


they  were  made  up  only  with  clowns, 
fools,  watchmen,  and  the  like."  •  .  • 
"  Sbakspeare,*'  she  sa^s,  with  admirable 
wily  '*  did  not  want  wit  to  express  to  the 
life  all  sorts  of  persons*  of  what  quality, 
possession,  degree,  breeding,  or  birth 
whatsoever ;  nor  did  he  want  wit  to  ex- 
press the  divers  and  different  humours, 
or  natures,  or  several  passions  in  man- 
kind ;  and  so  well  he  hath  expressed  in 
his  plays  all  sorts  of  persons,  as  one  would 
think  he  had  been  transformed  into  every 
one  of  those  persens  he  bath  described; 
and  as  sometimes  one  would  think  bo 
was  really  himself  the  elown  or  jester  he 
foiglis,  so  one  wonld  think  he  was  also 
tlie  king  and  privy-counsellor ;  also  as 
one  would  think  he  were  really  the  cow- 
ard he  feigns,  so  one  would  think  he  were 
the  most  valiant  and  experienced  soldier; 
who  would  not  think  be  had  been  such  a 
man  as  his  Sir  John  Fnlstafft  and  who 
would  not  think  he  had  been  Harry  tho 
Fifth  ?  and  certainly  Jufius  Caesar,  An- 
gustus  CflBsar,  and  Antonins  did  reaHy 
never  act  their  parts  better,  if  so  welt,  as 
he  hath  described  them,  and  I  beKeve 
that  Antonins  end  Brutus  did  not  speak 
better  to  the  people  than  ho  had  feigned 
them ;  nay,  one  would  think  that  he  had 
been  metamorphosed  from  a  man  to  a 
woman,  for  who  could  describe  Cleopatra 
better  than  be  has  done,  and  many  other 
females  of  his  own  creating  1  Who  would 
not  swear  that  he  had  been  a  noble  lover  ? 
wbo  couM  woo  so  wdl  T  and  there  is  not 
any  person  he  hath  described  in  bis  book 
bat  nis  readers  might  think  thoy  were 
well  acquainted  with  them."— Fp.  246| 
6,7. 

All  this  is  excellent,  but  when  the 
duchess  tells  us,  some  hundred  pages 
on  (p.  338),  that  her  husband  is  as 
far  beyond  Shakspeare  for  comical 
humour,  as  Shakspeare  is  beyond  an 
ordinary  poet  in  that  way,  we  love 
and  respect  the  wife,  but  laugh  out** 
rig^t  at  the  silly  weakness  of  the 
woman. 

Here  we  stop^  and  in  the  belief^ 
be  it  known,  that  our  readers  are  as 
much  in  love  with  Margaret  Lucas 
as  OliverYorkeis,  or  was  old  William 
Cavendish  himself 

«'  Is  this  a  lady's  eloset  1  't  cannot  be. 
For  nothing  here  of  vanitjf  we  see. 
Nothing  ofcuriosity  or  pride» 
As  most  of  ladies*  closets  haye  beside. 
Scarcely  a  glass  or  mirror  in'tyou  fiod. 
Excepting  books,  the  mirror  ot  the  mind. 
Nor  is't  a  library,  bat  only  as  she 
Makes  each  place  where  she  comes  a 
library."* 


*  On  the  Duchess  of  Newcastle's  CIoistt^FLscKNox's  Efigr^mt, 


308 


Milliners*  Apprentices* 


[March, 


MILLINERS    APPRENTICES. 

*'  Etsi  Dtillom  tnemorabile  nomen 
Fceminea  in  pcsnk  est  nee  faabet  Yictoria  laudem, 
Extinxtsse  nefas  tamen,  et  sumsisse  merentU 
Laadabor  posnas." — Vx&o.  ^n.  ii. 


/ 


The  warmest  advocate  for  the  advan- 
tages of  luxury  and  civilisation  in  a 
state,  cannot  disguise  from  himself  the 
melancholy  truth,  that  to  administer 
to  that  condition  and  those  advan- 
tages, the  privations  and  sufferings 
of  many  individuals  must  he  in- 
creased m  such  a  ratio  as  fully  to 
bear  out  what  othenvise  would  seem 
a  paradox,  that  where  there  is  the 
greatest  wealth,  there  is  the  greatest 
misery.  Whether  it  is  that  man, 
naturally  tyrannical  and  arbitrary, 
shews  this  disposition  more  particu- 
larly when  successful  industry  makes 
him  less  dependent  on  his  fellow- 
man,  or  that  the  excitement  of  com- 
petition, which  is  inseparable  from 
wealth  and  aggrandisement,  renders 
him  selfish  and  hard-hearted,  certain 
it  is  that  at  no  period  is  it  more  ne- 
cessary to  protect  the  weak  against 
the  strong,  than  when  one  might 
suppose  that  increased  security  and 
abundance  of  every  thing  conducive 
to  happiness  or  comfort  would  cause 
him  to  do  all  in  his  power  to  relieve 
the  condition  of  those  less  prosperous 
or  fortunate  than  himself.  While 
this  reflexion  leads  the  speculative 
philosopher  to  examine  and  discuss 
the  relative  good  or  evil  of  luxury 
and  refinement  in  the  abstract,  the 
practical  philanthropist  will  endea- 
vour to  miticate  the  disadvantaffes 
arising  from  them  by  wise  and  salu- 
taiy  laws.  The  sympathy  of  the 
British  public  has  been  awakened  in 
behalf  of  those  so  hardly  tasked 
under  the  factory  system,  and  not- 
withstanding the  opposition  created 
against  the  measure  by  the  advocates 
of  what  is  termed  uncontrolled  free- 
dom of  labour,  the  Ten-hours*  Bill 
will  sooner  or  later  become  the  law 
of  the  land,  and  the  truth  of  that 
maxim  of  our  poet,  "  Be  just  and 
fear  not,"  be  fully  and  universally 
recognised.  At  the  very  moment, 
however,  that  the  hardships  under- 

Ssne  by  the  youth  of  both  sexes  in 
le    manufacturing    districts   have 
been  engaging  the  attention  of  the 


public  mind,  and  the  feelings  of  so- 
ciety have  been   harrowed   by  the 
piteous  description  of  the  trials  they 
are  exposed  to  in  their  round  of  daily 
toil,  thera  has   been  discovered  to 
exist  a  class  of  persons  whose  suffer- 
ings far  exceed  those  of  the  poor  me- 
chanic or  the  factory-girl.    I  allude 
to  the  young  women  employed   by 
the    milliners  and  dress-in^ers  to 
assist  in  their  business,  either  as  ap- 
prentices or  day-workers,  in  large 
towns,  more  particularly  in  the  me- 
tropolis.   The  object  of  the  present 
article  is,  first,  to  enumerate  some  of 
those  evils,  physical  and  moral,  which 
arise  from  the  tyranny  and   severe 
tasking  so  generally  practised  in  thb 
department  of  trade ;  and,  2dly,  to 
examine  briefly  if  any  remedies,  le- 
gislative or  otherwise,  can  be  ap- 
plied to  a  system  of  over- working  so 
manifestly  requiring  alteration  and 
improvement. 

if  we  enter  the  work-room  of  some 
dress-maker  in  tolerable  business,  we 
shall  see  a  number  of  girls,  many 
of  them  pale  and  emaciated,  crowd^ 
together,  and  under  the  superintend- 
ence of  a  forewoman,  whose  oflice  it 
is  to  keep  order  and  nige  on  the 
appointed  task.    Of  these  some  are 
"  apprentices,**   others   are    •*  day- 
workers,**  the  remainder  are  what 
are  termed  "  improvers."    The  ap- 
prentices are  placed  with  the  pro- 
prietress of  the  establishment  for  a 
certain  period,  generally  for  about 
two  or  three  years,  sometimes  five. 
They  are  apprenticed  usually  about 
the  age  of  fourteen,  and  reside  en- 
tirely on  the  premises.    The  pre- 
mium, of  course,  varies  according  to 
the  situation  and  notoriety  of  the 
house.    It  is  sometimes  as  high  as 
sixty  guineas.  The  day- workers  either 
live  at  home  or  in  their  own  lodg- 
ings ;  they  come  to  the  dress-maker  s 
from  nine  in  the  morning  till  nine 
at  ni^ht,   and   receive  from   ]#.  to 
Is,  6a.  per  day.    If  required  to  work 
extra  hours,  they  are  paid  accoid- 
ingly.  Th^  bring  Uieir  own  dinxien 


I3F 


1646.] 


Milliners*  Apprentices, 


309 


with  them,  but  are  found  in  tea  and 
sugar.    The  "improvers"  are  girls 
from  seventeen  to  twenty  years  of 
age,  who  come  up  from  the  country, 
and  remain  usually  six  months  with 
their  employer,  during  which  period 
they  nuuce  themselves  generally  use- 
ful;  their  time  is  entirely  at  the 
disposal  of  the  dress-maker;  they 
reside  with  her,  but  receive  no  wages 
and  pay  no  premium.    During  the 
Liondon  season,  the  fatigue  they  un- 
dergo is  excessive.    At  a  period  of 
life  when  adequate  rest,  and  even 
some  relaxation,  are  absolutely  ne- 
cessary to  the  bodily  health,  they  are 
confined,  with    scarcely  any  inter- 
mission for  their  meals,  which  they 
are  frequently  obliged  to  leave  half- 
finished  to  return  to  their  work,  often 
till  three  or  four  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, in  a  heated  and  unwholesome 
atmosphere.    The  whole  frame  ex- 
haust^, and  the  nervous  system  fre- 
quently too  much  unstrung  for  the 
enjoyment  of  the  little  sleep  allowed 
them,  thev  are  expected  to  be  early 
a^in  at  the  work-table,  and  return 
with  apparent  cheerfulness  to  the 
toil  which  is  silently  sapping  the  se- 
cret sprinffs  of  life.   No  wonder  that 
many  fall  victims  to  untimely  dis- 
ease, or,  escaping  the  immediate  l»d 
consequences,  in  after  life  become  the 
mothers  of  an  unhealthy  and  mise- 
rable offspring.    It  is  lamentable  to 
see  the  change  that  sometimes  comes 
over  the  country  gii-l  shortly  after 
her  admission  as  an  apprentice.    Ar- 
riving,   perhaps,    from   her  happy 
village  home,  where  she  has  been  the 
pride  of  honest  and  industrious  pa- 
rents, her  cheeks  redolent  of  rosy 
health,  her  step  elastic,  her  spirits 
light  and  buoyant,  at  first  the  no- 
velty and  excitement^  and  constant 
variety  of  the  busy  town  amuse  her ; 
she  delights  in  the  companionship  of 
giris  of  her  own  age,  and  strives  to 
the  utmost  of  her  power  to  win  the 
approbation  and  confidence  of  her 
employer.    By  degrees   her   pallid 
cheek  and  attenuated  form  shew  that 
the  loss  of  fresh  air,  and  the  absence 
of  accustomed   exercise,   are  eating 
into  the  bud  of  youth.    Her  appetite 
leaves  her:  she  sighs    occasionally 
over  her  work,  but  utters  no  com- 
plaint. Then  comes  the  short  hacking 
cough,  the  supematurally  brilliant 
ejre,  the   hectic   spot.    She  is  de-* 


spatched  in  haste  to  her  native  home, 
but  rest  then  comes  too  late. 

"  Purpurcua   vcluti    cum  flea   succisus 

aratro 
Languescit  moriensj  lassove  papayera 

col  Id 
Demisere  caput,  plavi^  cum  forte  gra- 

vantur."— ViBO.  ^n.  ix. 

This  is  not  a  highly  coloured  pic- 
ture, sketched  by  fancy,  but  the  his- 
tory of  many  a  poor  girl,  the  words 
of  truth  and  soberness.  And  if  it 
be  possible  to  prevent  such  tales  from 
being  so  common,  if  we  can  devise 
any  scheme  for  rescuing  one  victim 
from  being  immolated  on  the  shrine 
of  Vanity  and  Fashion,  will  not  every 
Englishman  and  every  Englishwo- 
man— ^for  much  is  in  her  power— join 
with  us  in  the  sacred  work  ? 

It  appears  that  the  diseases  to 
which  the  young  dress-maker  is  most 
subject  are  complaints  of  the  liver 
and  stomach.  The  constant  waste 
which,  to  constitute  vigorous  health, 
must  be  carried  on  by  means  of  the 
secretions,  being  interrupted  by  want 
of  air  and  exercise,  the  circulation 
becomes  languid  and  sluggish,  the 
blood  is  loaded  with  impure  humours, 
and  congestion  of  the  abdominal  vis- 
cera necessarily  ensues. 

Not  only  are  the  sedentary  habits 
of  young  dress-makers,  so  long  con- 
tinued, prejudicial  to  the  full  deve- 
lopemeut  of  the  body,  but  the  stoop- 
ing position  which  they  are  obliged 
to  adopt,  with  the  head  and  neck 
bent  forwards,  are  productive  of  se- 
rious mischief.  Accordingly,  spinal 
diseases,  and  the  contortion  com- 
monly called  the  wry-neck,  which 
arises  from  the  stemo-mastoid  muscle 
growing  out  of  its  natural  place,  are 
often  the  consequences  of  this  posi- 
tion. It  is  not  uncommon  also  to 
see  disorders  of  the  eyes,  arising  from 
painful  and  difficult  work  done  by 
candle-light,  sometimes  by  gas-light. 
It  is  at  this  time  of  the  day  that  the 
young  prisoners  suffer  most  from 
confinement.  After  the  atmosphere 
of  the  work-room  has  been  cor- 
rupted by  the  numbers  employed  in 
it  during  the  morning,  perhaps 
during  winter,  when  the  windows 
have  not  been  oi>ened,  the  lighting 
of  it  up  at  ni^ht  sfenerates  a  quan- 
tity of  carbonic  acid,  which  it  is  ex- 
tremely pernicious  to  breathy.  Ifw^ 


diO 


MilUmrs^  Apprentices. 


[March, 


auppofle,  what  is  not,  perhaps,  oftes 
the  case,  that  gas  is  employed  in  the 
work-room,  the  noxious  effects  are 
still  greater.  To  shew  the  import- 
ance of  proper  ventilation,  we  will 
quote  a  passage  on  the  subject  from 
an  article  bv  Mr.  Squire,  in  a  late 
number  of  the  Pharmaceutical  Jow" 
nai: — 

"  The  usual  argaud  gas-burner  con* 
sumes  about  five  cubic  feet  of  gas  per 
hour,  producing  rather  more  timn  five 
cubic  feet  of  carbonic  acid,  and  nearlj 
half  a  pint  of  water.  Shops  using  thirty 
of  these  lights,  therefore,  in  an  evening 
of  four  hours,  produce  upwards  of  nine 
gallons  of  water,  holding  in  solution  the 
noxious  products  of  the  gas.  An  argand 
lamp,  burning  in  a  room  twelve  feet  high 
and  twelve  feet  square,  containing  17S^ 
cubic  inches  of  air,  with  closed  doors  and 
windows^  produces  sufficient  carbonic 
acid  in  rather  more  than  three  hours  to 
exceed  more  than  one  per  cent,  which  is 
considered  unfit  for  respiration,  and  when 
it  amounts  to  ten  per  cent  it  is  fatal  to 
life.  A  man  makes  on  an  average  twenty 
respirations  in  a  minute,  and  at  each  re« 
spiration  inhales  sixteen  cubic  inches  of 
sir.  Of  these  S20  cubic  inches  inhaled, 
tkirty-two  cubic  inches  of  oxygen  are 
consamed,  and  twenty-five  cnbic  inches 
of  carbonic  aeid  produced." 

With  regard  to  exercise,  the  ap- 
prentices and  day-workers  are  better 
off  than  the  improyers.  The  appren- 
tiees  are  often  sent  out  on  what  is 
termed  to  ^  match,**  that  is,  to  fetch 
from  large  houses  of  business  the 
different  articles  which  ladies  have 
made  ohoioe  of  to  be  made  op. 
Sometimes  they  ore  out  on  th^ 
errands  the  whole  morning;  but, 
with  the  exception  oi  what  they 
get  on  Sundays,  this  is  the  only 
exercise  they  are  allowed  to  take. 
The  day-workers  coming  early  in 
the  morning,  and  retuminff  home  at 
night,  have  some  time  of  the  day  at 
least  to  themselves ;  but  there  is  thb 
serious  disadvantage  to  whidi  they 
are  exposed,  namely,  that  th^  are 
turned  loose  upon  the  town  at  a  time 
of  the  day  when  the  public  streets 
are  least  respectable^  and  Uviiig  as 
they  often  &  alone,  or  one  or  two 
together,  in  lodgmgs,  they  are  liable 
to  form  improper  conaexiotts,  and 
become  lax  in  their  moral  habits. 
The  poor  improyers  seldom  set  oat 
at  ali,  and  they  are  wmaUy  the 


greatest  sufferen.    The  tame  they 
remain  with  the  milliner  is  indeed 
short,  but  it  is  often  %aite  swfficimt 
to  undermine  their  eoastitations^  and 
sow  the  seeds  oi  disorders  which  last 
for  Ufe.    Sunday,  that  day  <^  rest  so 
grateful  to  the  whole  creatioB,  caanot 
be  said  to  be  one  to  theyouBg  dreaa- 
maker.   Much  moral  e^  neoeasaiily 
ensues  from  the  way  she  is  treated  oa 
a  Sunday.    Having  worked  perhaps 
on  the  evening  before  till  long  pest 
midnight,  she  is  expected  not  to  re- 
main at  home  on  the  Sabbath.    Her 
employer  is  quite'regardless  whether 
she  frequents  a  place  of  divine  war- 
ship or  not,  her  presence  is  disagree- 
able, and  the  work-room  shut  up. 
Perhaps  a  stranger  in  the  metn^ohs^ 
she  has  no  relations  or  friends  with 
whom  to  spend  her  hours  of  recrea- 
tion, and  no  wonder  that  she  often 
spends  her  time  at  such  places  of 
amusement  as  are  open  oa  the  Sah- 
bath,  or  in  the  parks,  ¥rith  some  ac- 
quaintance or  admirer  she  accident- 
ally picks  up.    This  is  an  evil  which 
should  be  remedied.    The  Boistress 
should  make  their  home  comfortable 
and  aareeable  to  the  girls  on  the 
SabbaUk ;  her  table  should  be  aa  onen 
to  them  on  that  aa  on  any  ouer 
day  in  the  week ;  she  diould  plarc 
in   their  way   suitable  Inm^  and 
they  should  not  be  driven,  fatigued 
in  body  and  mind  as  they  must  be^ 
to  seek  amusement  and  relaxation 
abroad. 

In  case  of  temporary  illnesB  and  in- 
disj^ticn,  the  young  diesa-maker's 
position  is  very  forli»n  and  distreas- 
mg.  She  cannot  absait  hoself  from 
the  work-room  without  incurring 
the  displeasure  of  the  lady  of  the 
house,  and  if  she  £uicie8  any  httte 
delicacy,  soch  as  broth  or  gruel,  she 
can  only  obtain  it  by  porchaauig  it 
at  her  own  expense,  imd  giving  a 
perauisite  to  the  cook  to  pr^are  it 
for  her.  If  her  indispositioa  conti- 
nues, she  must  either  go  to  her 
fHends  or  to  the  hospital.  With  this 
alternative  before  her,  she  often 
struggles  on  a^^ainst  sickness,  rather 
thaaputher  irmds  to  the  additionil 
burthen  of  keeping  her,  after  the 
payment  of  a  premium  for  her  in- 
stniction,  the  amount  of  which  per- 
Inms  they  have  raised  with  ^^reat 
difficulty  and  self-denial.  To  the 
espewea  of  bar  wariiiiv  «m^  ^ 


1846.] 


MUlineri  Apprentices. 


311 


clothes  is  now  added  the  apothe- 
cary's bill,  and  she  has  not  unfre- 
5^ueiitly  to  bear  the  reproaehes  of  the 
orewoman,  and  what  are  called  the 
*'*  first-hands,'*  for  the  n^lect  or  un« 
skilfulness  of  her  work.  Many  a 
heart  has  been  brokai  under  this  se» 
vere  and  cruel  usage.  Not  that  we 
would  have  it  inferred  that  the  de* 
acription  given  in  these  pages  of  the 
haraships  endured  by  the  young  ap-> 

J>rentiee  are  of  universal  application; 
ar  from  it.    There  are  many  houses 
-where  the  kindness  and  consideration 
shewn  her,  and  the  efforts  made  by 
the  mistress  to  counteract  any  mis- 
chief arising  from  her  close  confine- 
ment  to  business  by  occasional  in- 
dulgence and  relaxation,  have  long 
been  remembered  by  the  inmates 
with  feelings  of  the  deepest  gratitude 
and  affection.   It  is  indeed  the  policy 
of  the  employer  to  be  ocmsiderate 
and  kind  to  the  girls  placed  under 
her  care.    Such  kindness  is  by  no 
means   thrown   away   upon   tnem. 
When  called  upon  to  make  any  ex- 
traordinary exertion,  the  reaainess 
and  cheerfSolness  with  which  they  en- 
deavour to  sive  her  satisfaction,  and 
the  pains  which  they  take  to  execute 
well  the  commission  entrusted  to 
them,  shew  clearly  that  a  willing  in- 
dustry and  unforced  obedienee  are 
most  successful  and  happiest  in  their 
results.    Such  a  mistress  vnll  make 
the   call  for  particuhur  application 
only  when  it  is  necessary.    At  the 
dim  season  of  the  year,  when  busi- 
ness m  slack,  she  will  not  keep  her 
girls  up  till  a  late  hour,  empknred  in 
sevnn(|[   for  herself  or  her  mmily. 
She  will  allow  them  to  take  that  op- 
portunity  of  making   or  mending 
their  own  clothes,  or  permii  them 
to  amuse  themselves  in  any  manner 
they  may  think  best.    She  will  iom 
in  their  conversation,  enter  into  their 
hdpes  and  prospects,  sympathise  with 
them  in  sickness,  and  endeavour  to 
make  herself  rather  beloved  by  her 
kindness  to  them,  than  feared  by  the 
Btriotaess  and  severity  of  her  disd- 
p&ie.    Were  such  treatment  more 
general,  the  whole  moral  character 
of  the  establishment  woidd  not  only 
be  greatly  impoved,  but  even  the 
despatch  of  bnsmeas  itself  accelerated. 
There  would  not  be  that  system  of 
deceit  carried  on  between  uie  girls 
and  their  emdbyers  which  is  now  so 
preyalent.    When  the  jsdgtitm  or 


forewoman  are  absent  from  the  work- 
room, as  they  often  unavoidaldy  are, 
for  the  purpose  of  taking  orders,  the 
girls,  from  mere  physical  exhaustion, 
watch  their  opportunity  and  leave 
off  work ;  the  pent-up  spirits  now 
escape;  they  make  up  for  the  pre* 
vious  silence  which  they  have  been 
obliged  to  keep,  and  the  greatest 
anarchy  and  confhsi<m  prevafl. 

The  diet  in  many  houses  is  very 
deficient.  Between  five  and  six  in 
the  morning  the  girls  are  expected  to 
get  up;  half  an  hour  is  allowed  them 
mr  dr^in^  themselves.  The  break- 
fast hour  IS  eight  o'clock,  and  this 
meal  consists  of  two  cups  of  indifferent 
tea,  and  a  round  of  bread  and  butter. 
The  dinner  at  1  p.m.  is  usually  com- 
posed of  a  joint  of  meat  and  potatoes. 
Of  this  each  ^rl  is  helped  cmce ;  she 
seldom  asks  lor  more  without  being 
subject  to  unpleasant  remarks.  Pud- 
ding iB  a  great  rarity.  In  some 
houses  they  have  table  ale,  not  of 
the  strongest  or  most  nourishinj; 
quality,  but  in  venr  many  water  is 
tne  only  beverage  allowed.  The  tea 
at  5  P.M.  is  a  repetition  of  the  break- 
fast, and  the  supper  at  nine  consists 
of  bread  and  cheese,  termed  by  the 
girls  *^  the  dry  meal."  If  they  are 
obliged  to  sit  up  very  late,  they  are 
allowed  additional  tea  and  coffee 
during  the  night.  Sometimes  there 
is  a  strike  among  them,  when  the 
mistress  is  too  unreasonable  even  for 
a  house  of  business.  An  apprentice 
informed  the  writer  that  she  remem- 
bered havinff  sat  at  work,  with  a 
short  interval  for  meals,  from  6  a.m. 
till  the  next  morning;  at  3  A.M.,  when 
the  employer  brought  in  more  work. 
The  girls  had  previously  determined 
among  themselves  to  hold  out  against 
her  if  she  should  expect  more  to  be 
done,  and  accordingly,  on  coming  in, 
she  tried  each  apprentice,  but  they 
resolutely  refused,  informing  her 
that  **  they  thought  they  had  done 
a  Mr  day's  work."  The  Penelope 
retreated  from  the  scene  of  rebellion 
in  sullen  dignity,  giving  a  reluetant 
permission  to  her  maidens  to  retire 
then  to  bed,  but  adding  ^  that  they 
must  take  care  to  be  aU  up  early  in 
the  morning."  This  circumstance  oc- 
curred durmg  the  pressure  to  get 
ready  a  court  mourning,  but  it  might 
as  r^ulily  occur  during  the  urgency 
of  preparation  for  a  lady's  court 
dxesSi 


312 


Milliners*  ApprenHces. 


[Marcli> 


Among  the  evils  arising  from  the 
hard  life  of  the  yonng  work- woman, 
it  does  not  appear  that  the  bad  habit 
of  recruiting  the  exhausted  spirits 
by  drinking  is  to  be  met  with. 
Examples  of  this  vice,  of  itself  so 
pernicious  to  health,  are  extremely 
rare.  Tea  and  coffee  seem  to  be  the 
restoratives  chiefly  coveted  among 
the  ^rls.  Their  confinement,  under 
the  immediate  eye  of  the  mistress, 
possesses,  among  many  bad  conse- 
quences,  this  good  one,  that  they  can- 
not get  out  to  obtain  wine  or  spirits ; 
nor,  if  they  did,  could  they  conceal 
them  on  the  premises,  or  resort  to 
them  without  detection.  The  extra 
pocket-money  they  possess  appears 
to  be  chiedy  spent  in  purchasing 
little  articles  of  dress  or  finery,  for 
this  is  a  temptation  to  which  they  are, 
from  their  very  profession  and  em- 
ployment, particularly  liable.  If  a 
girl  has  a  pretty  face,  she  is  often 
made  to  try  on  a  bonnet  or  a  mantle 
for  a  customer,  and  if  she  is  told 
that  it  becomes  her,  which  she  very 
soon  discovers,  it  is  no  wonder  that 
she  acquires  a  taste  for  personal  de- 
coration. Hearing  so  much  said  on 
every  side  respecting  dress  and  orna- 
ments, she  learns  naturally  to  give 
them  an  undue  value  in  her  estima- 
tion. Perhaps  less  fortunate  than 
those  around  her,  in  the  supply  of 
pocket-money  allowed  her  by  her  re- 
latives, this  love  of  dress,  and  the 
ambition  of  appearing  as  nice  in  her 
personal  appearance  as  those  who 
are  richer  than  herself,  cause  her 
often  to  fall  a  victim  to  her  own 
vanity,  and  lead  to  the  degradation 
of  her  character  and  the  ruin  of  her 
moral  happiness.  It  is  inconceivable 
how  many  of  those  unfortunate 
beings  who  live  on  the  wages  of 
prostitution,  might  refer  the  first 
step  taken  towards  the  downward 
patn  to  the  house  of  the  milliner  or 
dress-maker.  The  love  of  dress 
would  perhaps  be  found  to  be  one 
of  the  chief  temptations  which  led 
them  to  go  astray.  But  let  the  cen- 
sorious and  uncharitable  reflect  at 
the  same  time  how  severe  the  trials 
they  were  exposed  to,  when  the  cha- 
racter and  principles  were  most 
pliant,  most  prone  to  receive  every 
external  impression.  Let  those  whose 
advantages  are  great,  to  whom  de- 
corous conduct  iTom  their  difference 
of  circumstances  is   comparatively 


easy,  consider  how  the  image  of 
Mammon  and  worldliness  was  ccm* 
stantly  before  them ;  how  the  kinder 
and  more  genial  feelings  of  woman's 
heart,  expanding  as  tney  do  with 
most  warmth  and  "  beauty  most  ad- 
mired** in  the  early  spring  of  youth, 
were  chilled  and  frozen  by  hard- 
ships and  neglect.  Happy  are  ye 
who  have  the  culture  and  discipline 
of  Religion  to  throw  their  shield 
around  you  when  the  passions  begin 
to  assert  their  despotic  power,  wno 
have  the  mother's  arm  to  lean  on,  or 
the  voice  of  the  friend  to  warn  yon, 
when  the  jeers  of  companions,  already 
lost  to  shame,  assau  your  totter- 
ing virtue,  or  your  own  heart  is 
treacherous  to  itself!  Surely,  O 
ladies  of  England — ye  women  that 
are  at  ease,  you  have  some  part  or 
lot  in  this  matter — ^the  cry  of  the 
poor  dress-maker  appealing  to  you 
for  assistance  to  alleviate  her  condi- 
tion will  not  be  heard  in  vain  ?  WiU 
you  continue  to  require  your  orders 
to  be  executed  in  an  unreasonably 
shoit  time,  when  you  know  that 
many  a  poor  girl  must  be  deprived 
of  rest,  of  health,  of  strengtio,  nay 
perhaps  of  life,  for  the  satismction  of 
your  fashionable  caprice,  and  for  the 
sake  of  a  luxury  which  you  would 
be  just  as  well,  and  just  as  happy,  if 
you  had  it  not?  Will  you  cheapen 
and  haggle  for  the  price  of  a  silk  or 
muslin,  when  you  learn  that  the  few 
pounds  or  shillings  you  may  gain  to 
yourself  will  be  wrung  out  of  the 
forced  labour  and  midnight  weari- 
ness of  a  jaded  artisan,  who  has  feel- 
ings as  well  as  you,  and  necessities 
far  greater  than  you  can  ever  have  ? 
Think  not  only  of  yourselves  in  that 
crowds  show-room,  where  the  mir- 
rors reflect  your  jewelled  fonns, 
arrayed  in  all  the  splendour  that  the 
most  costly  material  can  furnish 
forth.  More  enviable  would  you  be 
if  you  made  one  of  those  pale  girls 
less  miserable  for  a  single  hour,  than 
if  ni^ht  after  night  you  shone  at  the 
brilliant  opera,  or  in  the  «ift«y.iing 
ball-room,  the  brightest  stars  of  rank, 
and  wealth,  and  beauty. 

Not  much  now  remains  to  be  said 
respecting  what  we  proposed  to  make 
the  first  part  of  our  present  inquiry. 
The  great  competition  in  every  de- 
partment of  trade  and  business  at 
the  present  day,  in  dress-making  and 
milluiery  among  the  rest,  and  th« 


1846.} 


MillinetB*  Apprentices. 


313 


exertion  made  to  manufacture  every 
article  at  the  lowest  price,  cause 
fewer  hands  to  be  engaged  than  are 
properly  competent  to  do  the  work 
expected  from  them ;  and  hence  the 
burthen  of  labour  presses  very  hea- 
vily on  those  few.  Ten  or  fifteen 
apprentices  are  made  to  do  the  work 
of  thirtv.  In  many  houses  Uie  ac- 
commodation would  not  admit  of 
more ;  in  many  it  is  entirely  inade- 
quate for  those  employed.  The  sleep- 
ing rooms  are  improperly  crowded, 
and  the  work-room  is  made  to  con- 
tain double  the  number  it  ought. 
But  this  grievance  arises  as  often 
from  the  desire  of  the  proprietress  of 
the  house  to  realise  a  rapid  profit,  as 
it  does  from  the  deficiency  of  accom- 
modation. If  the  profit  is  small  on 
each  individual  article,  it  is  made 
up  for  by  the  number  of  articles 
which  a  few  hands  by  means  of  ex- 
aggerated labour  can  produce.  Thia 
is  an  evil  very  difficult  to  remedy, 
while  the  importance  of  wealth,  so 
strikingly  characteristic  of  a  com- 
mercialage  and  countiy,  is  so  univer- 
sally recognised.  We  all  struggle  to 
be  rich,  high  and  low,  young  and 
old ;  those  behind  press  on  those  be- 
fore, they  in  their  turn  on  those  in 
firont :  if  it  is  the  spur  to  our  indus- 
try, it  at  the  same  time  gives  the 
rem  to  our  selfishness ;  if  it  deve- 
lopes  and  calls  into  full  action  our 
perseverance,  our  activity,  our  un- 
tiring energies,  it  is  at  the  same 
time  a  clog  to  the  secret  springs  of 
virtuous  action,  and  an  impediment 
to  the  finer  feelings  of  the  heart. 
'^  If  we  make  haste  to  be  rich,**  said 
the  wisest  of  men,  "  we  shall  as- 
suredly not  be  innocent.** 

If  the  number  of  work-women  em- 
ployed in  each  house  of  business  is, 
consistently  with  a  healthy  and  pro- 
per system  of  treatment,  q^uite  in- 
adequate to  the  drudgery  unposed 
upon  them,  we  shall  not  expect  that 
they  can  obtain  many  intervak  of  re- 
laxation, when  they  can  be  entirely 
absent  from  the  establishment.  Ac- 
cordingly, we  find  that  the  holidays 
allowed  to  each  girl  seldom  exceed 
three  weeks  or  a  month,  during  au- 
tumn, a  period  of  the  year  when  their 
attendance  is  least  requisite.  Were 
it  not  for  this  breathing  time  to  re- 
cruit their  exhausted  energies,  no 
degree  of  physical  strength  would 
enable  them  to  bear  up  against  tiie 


fatigues  they  submit  to,  sometimes 
voluntarily,  to  obtain  a  knowledge  of 
their  business,  but  more  frequently 
from  necessity,  and  a  persuasion  that 
if  they  abandon  this  service,  they 
have  no  other  prospect  before  them 
but  poverty  and  want.  An  increased 
population,  and  wealth  unequally  dis- 
tributed, have  depreciated  the  value 
of  labour,  and,  while  the  merchant 
or  manufacturer  is  amassing  a  splen- 
did fortune,  the  poor  mechanic  or 
artisan  earns  a  scanty  subsistence 
where  he  can.  The  amount  of  the 
pittance,  called  his  wages,  is  fixed  by 
others,  who  exercise  tne  tyranny  of 
opulence,  and  he  must  either  take 
that  or  starve.  The  condition  of  the 
poorer  orders  of  society  at  the  pre- 
sent day  deserves  the  most  careful 
attention  of  the  statesman.  The  com- 
forts which  refinement,  and  many 
years  of  uninterrupted  peace,  have 
aifi*used  amone  the  higher  and  mid- 
dling classes,  nave  not  yet  reached 
the  operative ;  he  alone  seems  chained 
to  the  earth  without  power  to  rise ; 
the  bread  he  eats  by  the  sweat  of  his 
brow  is  barely  sufficient  for  his  main- 
•  tenance.  His  history,  were  he  to  tell 
it,  would  in  many  points  resemble 
that  of  the  young  milliner  described 
in  these  pages — chiefly  in  this,  that 
his  labour,  inadequately  paid  as  it 
is,  is  bestowed  upon  another  for  his 
aggrandisement,  and  the  fruits  of 
his  patient  industry  doth  a  stranger 
take. 


If 


'*  Sic  ▼OS  Don  Tobis  Tellera  fertis,  oves : 
Sic  vos  non  vobis  fertis  aratra,  boves. 

ViRO. 


From  this  imperfect  description  of 
the  hardships  endured  by  the  mil- 
liner and  dre8s-maker*s  apprentice, 
in  many  houses — ^for  we  must  recol- 
lect that  there  are  honourable  excep- 
tions to  the  rule,  but  that,  if  proper 
treatment  were  universal,  this  essay 
would  be  useless— we  may  now  proceed 
to  enumerate  some  of  those  remedies 
by  which  her  condition  appears  capa- 
ble of  improvement.  And  on  enter- 
ing this  part  of  our  subject,  it  must 
be  remembered  that  the  mitigation 
of  evils,  such  as  have  been  described, 
depends  very  materially  upon  the 
disposition  of  the  employers  them* 
selves.  At  the  same  time,  although 
public  opinion  is  so  powerful  in  this 
country  that  to  lay  open  an  abuse 
may  be  said  almost  to  rectify  it,  yet 


314 


MillinerM*  Af prentices. 


[March, 


hi  a  matter  where  tbe  motives  of 
self-interest  are  so  contrary  to  hu- 
manity, it  is  scarcely  safe  to  trust  too 
far  to  the  influence  of  general  feel- 
iug  and  sympathy  upon  individual 
conduct.  The  first  and  most  obvious 
remedy  that  suggests  itself  is,  that 
the  legislature  should  interfere  to 
prevent  any  young  person  from  being 
obliged  to  work  more  than  twelve 
hours  in  the  day,  exclusive  of  the 
time  devoted  to  her  meals.  Extra 
work  should  be  optional,  but  it  should 
1)e  entitled  to  extra  remuneration. 
This  single  and  simple  enactment 
would  be  productive  of  incalculable 
good,  and  would  strike  at  the  root  of 
most  of  the  evil  we  have  been  dis- 
cussing. This  boon  obtained,  the 
young  dress-maker's  lot  would  be 
comparatively  a  happy  one.  It  would 

£*ve  her  rest,  it  would  give  her  re- 
xation,  her  actual  slavery  would  be 
no  more.  Fatigues  she  would  have 
to  undergo,  hanl  words  to  put  up 
with,  close  confinement  to  brook ;  but 
then  its  term  would  be  fixed  and 
definite.  She  would  no  longer  have 
to  watch  through  the  weary  hours  of 
nisht  at  another's  will  and  for  an- 
other's gain.  In  the  gladsome  sum- 
mer evening  she  mij^ht  then  some- 
times, at  the  close  of  her  work,  step 
forth,  not  to  do  her  mistress's  bid- 
ding, but  to  breathe  the  refreshing 
air  of  heaven,  and  liberty. 

The  legislature  might  also  extend 
its  power  to  regulate  the  time  allowed 
to  each  girl  for  vacation  during  the 
year.  This  should  never  be  shorter 
than  one  month.  From  the  first  of 
these  regulations,  viz.  by  shortening 
the  hours  of  labour,  a  twofold  ad- 
vantage would  ensue.  Not  only 
would  a  considerable  improvement 
take  place  in  the  condition  of  each 
individual  employed,  but  it  would 
oblige  the  employers  to  keep  more 
hands  at  work  than  they  do  now. 
The  quantity  of  business  done  would 
be  the  same,  but  it  would  give  occu- 
pation and  a  livelihood  to  a  greater 
number  of  young  women,  who,  under 
the  present  system  of  late  hours  and 
few  apprentices,  continue  out  of  work, 
or  wnose  services,  if  engaged,  are 
considerably  underpaid.  By  an  oc- 
casional exertion  out  of  lYork  hours, 
the  apprentice  might  then  earn  some- 
thing towards  keeping  herself  in 
shoes  or  clothes.  Then  the  know- 
ledge that  she  was  entitled,  as  of 


right,  to  a  certain  season  in  the  year 
for  relaxation,  and  for  vimting  her 
friends,  would  materially  contribute 
to  support  her  health  and  smirits. 
With  this  to  hope  for  and  look  fbr- 
wflurd  to,  she  would  take  greater  pride 
in  the  dignity  of  her  own  character, 
and  be  tess  apt  to  forget  the  early 
lessons  of  duty  and  virtuous  prin- 
ciple taught  her  by  those  under 
whose  immediate  control  she  no 
longer  is. 

The  more  we  examine  the  snbjeet, 
the  more  inclined  shall  we  be  to  the 
opinion  that  the  only  material  re- 
medy for  the  evils  under  discussion, 
to  be  obtained  at  the  hands  of  the 
legislature,  is  that  already  suggested, 
and  which  would  probably  suggest 
itself  immediately  to  every  one,  name- 
ly, an  act  for  shortening  the  hours 
of  labour.     The  legislature  nii|;ht 
also  fix  the  age,  under  which  girls 
should  not  be  allowed  to   be<»iBe 
aj^prentices.    Much,  however,  would 
still  remain  to  be  done  for  them, 
which  it  would  not  be  in  the  power  of 
any  act  of  parliament  to  accomplisb. 
A  society  of  benevolent  individuals 
has,  we  believe,  been  already  formed, 
with    a    view    of   discussing    and 
adopting  the  best   means    for   im- 
proving   their   condition.     One   of 
the  most  acceptable  git^  which  the 
society  could    offer   would  be  the 
institution  of  a  hospital,  appropriated 
entirely  to  the  use  of  young  work- 
women when  out  of  health,  ana  afford- 
ing them  at  those  times  a  comfortable 
home.     When  the  nature  of  their 
indisposition  would  admit  of  it,  they 
might  here  receive  religious  instruc- 
tion, and  be  employed  m  light  work, 
and  of  this  they  should  be  Slowed  to 
receive  the  profits.    The  certificate  of 
a  physician  or  surgeon  should  be  ne- 
cessary to  procure  them  admission  to 
the  institution.    Many  girls  would 
most  gladly  and  gratefully  avail  them- 
selves of  such  a  diarity  who  now  have 
an  insuperable  objection  to  a  public 
hospital.    On  their  return  to  their 
employment,  religious  books  should 
be  lent  to  them,  and  they  should  be 
encouraged  to  come  to  the  chaplain 
or  matron  of  the  hospital,  if  at  any 
future  time  in  want  of  comfort  or 
advice.     By  these  means  the  good 
impressions  made  upon  them  in  sick- 
ness would   be   fostered    and  kept 
alive.    They  might  possibly  be  ex- 
tended to  others  also.    It  is  a  question 


■i 


1846.] 


MUliners*  Afpreniiees. 


315 


lebether  lending  librariefl,  not  con- 
fined to  the  girifl  who  have  been  ill, 
gueb  as  are  common  in  the  factories 
of  the  United  States,  would  not  be 
very  popular  among  this  class  and 
produce  much  good.  Attached  to 
the  hospital  above  proposed  should 
be  a  di^nsary,  where  medical  ad- 
vice should  be  given,  and  medicines 
furnished  to  such  as  are  not  sufficient- 
ly iU  to  leave  their  work.  The  ma- 
cninery  of  such  an  institution  woidd 
be  very  simple,  and  the  sympathy 
of  the  BritiBn  public  would  not  bd 
in  vain  appeal^  to  for  its  support. 
At  the  house  of  business  itself  a  con- 
siderable change  in  the  present  system 
is  absolutely  necessary.  Sunday 
should  be  a  day  of  rest  to  the  girls. 
It  would  be  desirable,  if  possible, 
that  one  of  the  riiow-rooms  should  be 
cleared  on  the  Saturday  night,  and 
given  up  entirely  to  them  lor  their 
use  and  recreation  on  the  Sabbath. 
The  mistress  should  see,  as  far  as  her 
power  extends,  that  her  apprentices 
and  improvers  go  to  divine  service; 
or,  at  all  events,  she  ought  to  provide 
for  them  a  pew  in  some  neighbouring 
church,  where  those  who  were  de- 
sirous of  attending  might  do  so.  As 
before  mentioned,  the  mistress's  table 
should  be  as  open  to  such  as  have  no 
friends  to  visit  on  that  as  on  any 
other  day.  There  might  even  be  on 
that  day  a  little  improvement  in  the 
dinner.  An  indulgence  of  this  sort 
would  make  them  feel  less  anxious 
to  get  out,  and  what  now  often  occurs 
would  be  less  common,  namely,  that 
they  are  quite  as  much,  if  not  more 
fatigued  and  exhausted  on  the  Sunday 
night,  than  on  any  other  night  in  the 
week.  It  would  be  very  desirable 
that  mominff  and  evening  prayers 
should  be  o&red  daily  in  each  house 
of  business,  the  whole  establishment 
being  present.  Independently  of  its 
good  moral  effect,  this  jpractice  would 
tend  greatly  to  regularity  and  order. 
Each  girl,  on  her  first  arrival,  should 
be  exTOcted  to  bring  with  her  a  Bible 
and  rrayer-book.  For  meals  a  cer- 
tain period  should  always  be  allowed. 
At  present  the  girls  are  often  obliged 
to  rise  from  dinner  almost  before 
they  have  finished  it,  and  to  return 
immediately  to  the  work-room.  This 
is  not  one  of  the  least  causes  of  the 
indigestion  and  nausea  from  which 
they  often  suffer.  An  interval  of 
twenty  minutes  or  half  an  hour  after 


the  prindpal  meal  ought,  eomnatibly 
with  health,  to  occur,  before  they  sit 
down  again  to  their  work.  During 
thdr  absence  in  the  dining-room,  t\Z 
apartment  where  they  have  been 
working  should  be  well  ventilated* 
There  is  an  objection  often  made  to 
the  windows  being  opened,  that  the 
dresses  or  bonnets  wiU  spoil  by  the 
admission  of  air  or  damn ;  but  this 
mi^ht  easily  be  avoided  by  their 
bein^  coveted  up.  When  tne  ven- 
tilation has  been  complete,  the  ap- 
prentice will  feel  greatly  refreshed 
after  her  meal,  even  without  exavise, 
and  apply  hers^f  to  her  work  with  a 
feeling  of  lightness,  which  she  would 
be  quite  a  stranger  to  if  the  atmo- 
sphere were  uncluuiged.  Gas  should 
never  be  admitted  to  the  work-  room ; 
it  is  scarcely  ever  so  now,  except 
where  there  is  a  shop  attadied  to  tne 
business.  Cleanliness  of  the  person 
is  so  conducive  to  bodily  health,  that 
it  seems  scarcely  necessary  to  urge  it 
as  indispensable  to  the  young  work- 
woman. This  is  a  point  on  which 
every  mistress,  it  appears,  is  very 
particular.  Cold  ablutions,  and  tlie 
use  of  the  flesh  brush,  particularly  on 
rising  in  the  morning,  will  greatly 
assist  the  circulation,  and  prove  the 
best  substitute  for  exercise.  The 
importance  of  the  skin  secretions  has 
been  as  yet  scarcely  attended  to  suffi- 
ciently by  the  physician,  and  yet  the 
skin  is  an  organ,  on  the  state  of  which, 
especially  in  our  variable  climate, 
the  health  materially  depends.  An 
occasional  use  of  the  warm-bath  would 
be  one  of  the  best  restoratives  and 
safest  stimulants  that  the  young 
milliner  could  resort  to.  When  at 
work,  she  should,  if  possible,  not 
continue  very  long  in  the  same  posi- 
tion, standing  on  every  opportunity, 
and  avoid  aU  tight  ligatures  round 
the  body,  particularly  tightly  laced 
stays,  whicn  often  of  themselves  occa- 
sion great  derangement  to  the  health. 
How  much  more  so  when  the  person 
who  wears  them  is  obliged  to  main- 
tain so  long  a  stooping  position  ?  The 
French  women  when  at  work  wear 
their  stays  much  looser  than  the 
English,  and,  consequently  suffer  less 
inconvenience.  The  food  supplied 
should  be  simple,  but  of  the  most 
nourishing  quality;  above  all,  it 
should  not  be  always  of  the  same 
description.  The  capricious  appetite 
sometimes  fancies  cofiTee  or   cocor 


316 


Millineri  Appreniieeu 


[March, 


when  it  reiectfl  tea;  sometiines 
hu  a  relish  lor  soup  or  broth  when 
it  is  disinclined  to  solid  food.  In  the 
absence  of  much  exercise  it  will  be 
found  absolutely  necessary,  to  the 
maintenance  of  anything  like  health, 
to  vary  the  dishes.  We  should  not 
be  understood  to  mean  that  the  in- 
mates of  a  house  of  business  should 
have  luxuries,  but  merely  that  the 
nature  and  ingredients  of  their  food 
should  be  occasionally  changed. 
Great  attention  should  be  paid  to  the 
apartments  where  the  girls  sleep; 
these  should  be  thoroughly  ventilated 
and  kept  clean ;  the  number  of  fe- 
males sleeping  in  one  room  should 
not  exceed  four.  A  reform  in  many 
of  these  apparently  insignificant  mat- 
ters would  enhance  greatly  the  com- 
fort and  alleviate  the  physical  suffer- 
ings endured  by  the  apprentice.  Let 
those  who  are  disposea  to  laugh  at 
some  of  the  above  recommendations 
as  frivolous,  reflect  that  there  is  no 
circumstance  so  trifling  as  not  to 
derive  value  from  the  consideration 
that  it  detracts  from  the  misery  of  a 
fellow  creature. 

It  is  time  to  draw  this  article  to  a 
close,  protracted  already  to  a  con- 
siderable length.  Imperfect  as  it  is 
in  the  catalogue  of  tlie  evils  it  at- 
tempts to  describe,  and  incomplete  in 
the  remedies  it  suggests,  enough  at 
least  has  been  said  to  shew  that  the 
case  is  not  altogether  a  hopeless  one 
and  incapable  of  amelioration.  We 
would  not  conclude  our  remarks, 
however,  without  a  few  observations 
to  the  vounff  milliner  herself,  as  well 
as  to  the  mistress  who  employs  her. 
To  the  former  we  would  say :  "  Re- 
member you  have  duties  to  perform, 
as  well  as  rights  to  assert ;  shew  by 


your  condaei  that  you  are  not  un- 
worthy of  the  sympathies  which  h»,yre 
been  enlisted  in  your  behalf.  En- 
deavour to  win  the  confidenee  and 
approbation  of  your  employer  by 
domg  the  work  allotted  yon  in  the 
best  and  neatest  manner  yon  can. 
Be  as  diligent  in  her  absence  as  in 
her  presence.  Be  meek  and  gentle 
in  your  temper;  pay  a  ready  obe- 
dience to  her  orders;  if  any  indul- 
gence is  shewn  you,  do  not  abuse  it ; 
and  above  all,  fora;et  not  your  religions 
duties ;  they  will  not  only  bri^ten 
and  cheer  the  gloom  of  your  dafly 
daily  toil,  but  they  will  strengthoi 
you  against  those  temptations  which 
will  frequently  be  thro>vn  in  your 
way." 

To  the  employer  our  advice  is: 
"  Reflect  that  it  is  no  small  respon- 
sibility you  have  undertaken.  The 
future  conduct  and  happiness  of  the 
young  women  under  your  charge 
depend  in  a  ^cat  measure  upon  you. 
Do  not  consider  that  they  are  under 
your  roof  for  the  single  purpose  of 
assistinff  to  make  you  ricn.  While 
you  enforce  a  rigorous  discipline  in 
the  work-room,  neglect  not  entirely 
the  moral  discipline  of  their  minds. 
In  your  treatment  of  them,  let  that 
golaen  rule  of  Christianity,  'Do  ye 
unto  others  as  ye  would  they  should 
do  unto  you,*  guide  and  direct  you. 
And  while  you  expect  from  them 
steadiness  of  conduct  and  rectitude  of 
principle,  remember,  that  what  we 
see  makes  a  far  more  vivid  impresaon 
upon  us  than  what  we  hear,  and  that 
example  is  more  powerful  than  pre- 
cept. Let  your  pupils,  for  so  Uiey 
may  be  called,  learn  to  look  up  to 
you  as  a  model  for  their  virtuous 
imitation,  and  respect  you  asafriend." 


1846.] 


Coniemparaty  Oratots. 


311 


CONTEMPORARY    ORATORS. 


Ncvm. 


LORD  PALMLRRSTOH. 


Ih  a  debate  some  few  years  ago  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  Sir  Robert 
Feel  excited  considerable  merriment 
by  calling  Lord  Palmerston  '*  a  pure 
old  Whig."  The  expression  was  felt 
to  be  an  equivocal  one.  It  might  be 
taken  as  an  ironical  allusion  to  the 
ostentation  with  ivhich  the  noble  lord 
then  paraded  what  he  termed  "  Whig 
principles  "  before  the  House, — prin- 
ciples which  he,  at  that  time,  adhered 
to  with  the  tenacity,  and  propounded 
with  the  zeal,  proyerbial  in  recent 
converts ;  or,  stul  in  the  same  spirit 
of  quizzing,  the  right  honourable  ba- 
ronet might  have  meant  to  allude  to 
the  weiffht  of  authority  which  the  no- 
ble lora  added  to  any  intrinsic  truth 
there  might -be  in  the  political  views 
referred  to ;  because,  from  the  oppor- 
timities  he  has  had  of  testing  the 
opinions  of  other  j^litical  parties  of 
which  he  has,  during  his  long  life, 
been  a  member,  his  preference  for 
•*  Whig  principles*'  might  be  held  to 
be  the  result  of  settl^  conviction. 
There  was  still  another  sense  in  which 
the  sly  humour  which  dictated  the 
phrase  might  have  designed  it  to  apply 
to  the  nome  lord. 

The  sexagenarian  iuvenility  of 
Lord  Palmerston  has  been  the  sub- 
ject of  much  ffood-humoured  rail- 
lery. The  pumic  are  already  suffi- 
ciently familiar  with  the  somewhat 
stale  jokes  which  the  newspapers 
have  for  some  time  applied  to  the 
noble  lord,  because  they  nave  chosen 
to  assume  that  he,  more  than  most 
men,  sacrifices  to  the  Graces.  Lord 
Palmerston  is  too  respectable,  both 
in  talents  and  character,  to  be  affected 
by  such  harmless  nonsense;  more 
especially  as  it  is,  in  point  of  fact, 
founded  on  error.  Nor  should  we 
here  so  particularly  refer  to  the  sub- 
ject, but  that  not  only  in  his  outward 
man,  but  also  in  his  mind,  the  noble 
lord  certainly  does  reverse  some  of 
the  usual  laws  of  Nature.  Although 
from  early  youth  he  has  been,  m 
some  capacity  or  other,  before  the 
public,  and,  during  the  greater  part 
Yoi*.  XXX  m.  no.  cxcv. 


of  the  time,  in  the  service  of  th^ 
state,  it  is  only  of  late  years  that  he 
has  ^  come  out "  either  as  a  statesman 
or  as  an  orator.  Perhaps  this  may 
have  arisen  from  constitutional  indo- 
lence, yet  the  restless  activity  of  his 
subsequent  ministerial  career  dmost 
forbids  the  assumption.  It  may  have 
been  because  he  did  not  desire  to 
thrust  himself  prominently  before 
the  public  while  he  still  occupied  a 
|x>sition  in  the  senate,  or  filled  situa- 
tions in  the  government  compara- 
tively subordinate;  but  a  reference 
to  Hansard  wiU  shew  that  at  no  time 
was  the  noble  lord  deficient  in  a 
characteristic  propensity  for  self-dis- 
play, although  his  efforts  in  parlia- 
ment for  many  years  scarcely  distin- 
guished him  from  the  ordinary  herd 
of  level  speakers.  Like  the  blossom- 
ing of  the  aloe,  the  parliamentary 
fruition  of  his  genius,  though  long 
delayed,  is  marvellous,  l^w,  in* 
deed,  are  the  men  who,  after  passing 
through  a  youth  and  manhood  of 
indifference,  apathy,  or,  at  the  ut- 
most, of  persevering  mediocrity,  could, 
long  after  the  middle  age  has  passed, 
after  the  fire  of  life  might  be  sup- 
posed to  be  almost  exhausted,  blaze 
out,  like  the  sacred  flame  on  the  altar 
of  the  fire-worshipper,  at  the  very 
moment  of  decay.  In  this  respect, 
as  in  many  others.  Lord  Palmerston 
is  a  puzzle.  He  has  begun  where 
most  men  end.  Long  passed  over 
and  forgotten  by  Fame,  he  suddenly 
recalls  lier,  and  arrests  her  in  her 
flight,  compelling  her  to  trumpet 
forth  his  name.  Not  even  recognised 
as  a  statesman,  but  classed  among  the 
Bed  Tapists;  as  a  speaker  ranked 
with  the  steady-paced  humdrums; 
he  was  almost  the  very  last  man  in 
the  House  of  Commons  on  whom  one 
would  have  fixed  as  being  likely  ever 
to  rival  Lord  John  Russell  in  the 
leadership  of  the  Whig  party.  Sud- 
denly, without  apparent  cause,  with- 
out Its  being  discovered  that  he  had 
become  possessed  of  the  elixir  of  life, 
he  astonished  his  contemporaries  by 

T 


:m8 


Coutemporary  Orators^ 


[March, 


the  display  of  a  vigour  which  neither 
his  youth  nor  middle- ^e  had  shewn ; 
he  entered  the  lists  uike  w^ith  the 
veterans  and  the  young,  ardent  spi- 
rits of  the  House  of  Commons,  prov- 
ing himself  a  very  master  of  the  art 
which  he  had  thus  with  so  tardv  a 
haste  essayed,  and  raising  himsen  to 
a  level  with  the  very  best  speakers, 
nay,  even  ultimately  rivalling  Lord 
Lyndhurst  himself  in  the  ability  and 
power  with  which  he  used  the  ordi- 
nary weapons  of  party  for  the  annoy- 
ance of  his  foes.  Like  the  sleeping 
prince  in  the  fairv  tale,  although  by 
the  influence  of  the  spell  half  an  age 
had  passed  over  his  bodily  frame, 
the  fire  and  energy  of  his  earljr  da^^s 
remained.  The  heat,  the  vigour, 
even  the  rashness  of  youth,  were  in 
him  most  strangely  combined  with 
the  authority  and  experience  of  more 
advanced  years.  The  hero  of  God- 
win's romance  did  not  more  secretly 
or  more  instantaneously  discard  the 
crust  of  time.  It  is  told  of  Mathews, 
that  one  of  bis  most  pleasing  pastimes 
was — suddenly,  chance  wise — to  min- 
^\q  with  any  group  of  boys,  asking  to 
loin  in  then:  play ;  when  he  would, 
by  the  force  of  iiis  rare  genius  for 
imitation,  throw  himself  completely 
into  the  childish  character,  romp  witn 
them,  laugh  with  them,  cheat  with 
them,  quarrel  with  them;  till,  al- 
though they  could  not  at  first  quite 
fraternise  with  the  very  tall  stranger, 
they  gradually  began  to  look  on  him 
as  less  unlike  themselves,  and,  at 
last,  admitted  him  to  the  full  rights 
of  companiouship.  Similar,  one  may 
suppose,  were  the  feelings  of  the  lead- 
infi  men  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
when  Lord  Falmerston,  after  having 
wilfully  hid  his  powers  so  long,  burst 
out  upon  them  as  a  first-rate  speaker. 
It  took  them  some  time  to  believe  it 

Sossible,  but  gradually  their  incre- 
ulity  gave  way  under  the  proofs  of 
his  ability  and  vigour,  and  taev  now 
acknowledge  to  the  utmost  of  their 
admiration  the  mistake  which  they, 
in  common  with  the  noble  lord  him- 
self, had  made  during  so  many  years. 
Like  some  diseases,  Lord  Falmerston*s 
oratorical  and  political  talent  was 
chronic ;  it  required  time  for  its  de- 
yelopement. 

Ail  things  taken  into  account, 
LK)rd  Falmerston  is,  perhaps,  the  best 
debater  among  the  W  hig  leaders  of 
the  House  of  Commons.     la   the 


different  qualities  which,  when  com- 
bined, go  to  render  a  man  an  orator, 
he  is  excelled  by  many  individoals 
among   his    contemporaries.       Lord 
John  Russell  shews  more  tact,  more 
intimate   acquaintance    with     party 
history  (not  with  parties,  for,  in  that 
knowwdge,  Lord  Falmerston   bests 
all  men  fiving,  having  been  a  mem- 
ber  of  almost   everv   government 
within  the  memory  of  man),  greater 
skill  in  pointing  allusions    to    the 
political  errors   of  oppoaents,    and 
altogether  more  refinement  in  the 
management   of  his  parliamentary 
case.    In  eloquence,  both  of  concep- 
tion or  in  delivery,  Lord  Falmerston 
is,  of  course,  excelled  by  Mr.  Sheil 
or  ]^ir.  Macaulay,  and  even  by  men 
holding  a  far  inferior  rank  as  speakers. 
In  soundness  and  vigour  of  arfi^unent 
he  cannot  stand  a  momenta  com- 
parison with  Mr.  Cobden  or  with 
£arl  Grey  (when  that  nobleman  does 
justice  to  his  own  powers),  or  even 
with    Mr.  Charles   BuUer.      Each 
speaker  on  his  own  side,  in  fact,  is 
in  advance  of  him  in  some  particular 
quality  of  the  orator.    Yet  no  one 
would  for  a  moment  hesitate  to  place 
Lord  Falmerston  amongst  the  first 
speakers  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
or  would  deny  that  he  had  derived 
from  hearing  one  of  that  nobl^nan*s 
speeches  aa  much   pleasure,  of  its 
kmd,  as  if  he  had  listened  to  the 
most  brilliant  efforts  of  Macaulay,  the 
most  spirit-stirring  of  Shiel,  or  the 
most  skilful  and  satisfying  of  Lord 
John  Jlussell.    The  peculiarity  in 
Lord  Falmerston  wliich  gives  him 
this  singular  power  of  charming  with 
an  oration  as  a  whole,  the  several 
parts  of  which  are  not  calculated  to 
please,  if  critically  analysed,  is  the 
thorough  and  hearty  spirit  of  par- 
tisanship, not  malignant,  or  angr}% 
or  mean,  as  is  that  of  most  zealous 
advocates  of  embodie4  opinion  or 
interests,  but  frank,  mamy,  open- 
hearted,  and  undisguised,  so  much 
so  as  to  assume  almost  a  sportive 
character,   as  if  parliamentary  po- 
litics were  a  mere  pastime,  a  kmd  of 
relaxation  from  the  heavier  cares  or 
labours  of  administration  or  of  ordi- 
nary political  life,  in  which  all  men 
are  bound  hj  a  sort  of  mutual  com- 
pact, answerine  to  the  laws  of  a 
game,  to  exert  their  utmost  powers  to 
excel  or  to  overcome  each  other,  for 
the  sake  of  the  distinction  and  ap- 


i&46.] 


Lord  Palm§r$ion» 


319 


plaiue  wbich  are  tlie  rewand  of  rae- 
cess. 

This  peci4iarkv  must  always  be 
borne  in  mind  in  rorming  our  opiniim 
of  the  noble  lord.  He  takes  up  po* 
lidcal  questions  in  parliament  in  the 
true  forensic  ^irit,  but  also  vrith 
much  of  that  interest  which  an  adf 
voeate  feels,  not  ao  much  in  the  fate 
of  his  client  as  in  the  auoeess  of  his 
own  efforts.  Lord  Falmerston  9^ 
pears  to  fed  in  a  less  degree  the  im- 
portance of  "  Whig  principles  **  than 
the  advantage  of  a  triumph  for  the 
Whig  par^y  and  for  himself  as  a 
member  of  the  party.  In  this  he 
differa  from  Lord  Jolu  Eossel),  who 
ministers  to  party  feeling  onl^  so  iar 
as  it  is  identiiS^d  with  ihe  pnnciples 
which  he  considers  ought  to  regulate 
him.  XiOrd  Falmerston,  if  he  is  one 
of  the  most  ready,  facile,  clever, 
adroit,  among  the  leaders  of  the 
Whigs  in  either  House,  appears  also 
to  be  one  of  the  least  earnest.  His 
politics  are  as  a  ganaent,  w/>re  be- 
cause it  is  thou^  to  be  the  most 
becoming.  As  fax  as  it  is  possible  to 
divine  the  motives  of  public  men, 
hidden  as  they  sometimes  are  lor 
yea^B  under  ttcenmuiations  of  ajimost 
necessary  deceit,  this  am^ean  to  be 
the  rulmg  tendency  <»  Lord  Pal- 
mer8t(m's  public  character.  On  one 
subject  alooe  is  he  always  terribly, 
inconveniently  in  earnest — the  praiae 
of  Us  own  foreign  policy.  However 
artificial  may  be  nis  advocacy  on 
other  questions,  however  he  may, 
when  he  is  delerinined  to  make  k 
good  party  speech,  spur  hi^Oiself  out 
of  the  languor  which  seems  to  be  his 
habit  of  body  if  not  of  mind,  no  such 
aids  to  his  energy  are  inquired  when 
the  doings  of  Viscount  Palmerstoo, 
sometime  her  Majesty's  Secretary  of 
State  for  Fore^  Affiiiis,  aie  con- 
cerned.   But  of  this  more  herentL&c, 

JjQiri  Palmemlon,  in  a  Y«fy  good 
speech — ^a  sort  <tf  summary  of  the 
session,  d  la  Lord  Lyndhuiist,  which 
he  made  at  the  dose  of  the  parJia- 
njentary  campaign  of  1842 — said  of 
Lord  Stanley,  **  jNo  man  is  a  better 
off-hand  delx^r  thipi^  the  noble  lord, 
but  off-hand  debalbers  are  apt  to  say 
whatever  comes  in  their  heads  on  the 
spujT  of  the  moment,  vnthout  stepping 
to  consider  whether  it  is  strictly  the 
fact.'*  Ha4  the  noble  e«-seeretary 
been  engaged  in  painting  his  own 
portrait  mst&ui  of  Lord  mmky%  ho 


eould  not  mote  micceisfully  have  hit 
on  a  leading  trait.  It  is  ahie€y  011 
this  Ysry  account  that  Lord  i'al- 
meraton  is  so  useful  to  his  partv  as  a 
debalsr.  A  more  thoroughly  skicere 
politifiian  would  be  more  cautious. 
He  would  have  more  reverence  for 
truth,  more  respect  for  politieal  cha- 
racter. Resting  his  foith  on  princi- 
ples, he  would  be  more  chary  of 
trifling  with  the  £»ots  on  which  they 
are  founded.  But  Lord  Falmerston 
is  a  debater,  not  a  statesman.  He  is 
a  firsti-rate  gladiator  in  the  great 
political  arena,  and  usually  a  suc- 
cessful one;  but,  gladiator-like,  he 
inauires  little  wh^her  the  cause  he 
fignts  in  be  the  cause  of  truth,  being 
only  anxious  to  shew  his  own  skill 
and  overcome  his  rival.  The  dex- 
terity with  which  he  fenees  at  the 
case  o^osed  to  hini,  touching  its 
vulnerable  points  with  his  aarcastie 
venom,  ox  triumphing  in  the  power 
with  whkh  he  can  make  a  feint  of 
argument  answer  all  the  purposes  of 
^a  real  home-thrust,  is  only  equalled 
by  his  corresponding  watchfulness 
and  agility  in  parrying  the  thrusts  of 
an  opponent,  guarding  himself  from 
his  attack,  qt  slapping  about  to  avoid 
being  hit.  In  these  qualities,  Sir 
James  Crn^am  approaches  the  near- 
est to  him*  But  Lord  Falmerston, 
besides  all  theae  practised  arts,  has 
also  great  plausibility,  can  work  him- 
self up  admirably  to  a  sham  enthu- 
siasm for  liberal  principles  (just  as 
Sir  James  used,  m  former  days,  to 
give  a  high  colouring  to  his  Con- 
servatism), and  can  do  it  so  well  that 
it  really  requires  considerable  expe- 
rience and  observation  to  aiable  one 
to  detect  the  difference  between  his 
clever  imitation  and  the  reality.  He 
is  almost  unsurpassed  in  the  art  with 
vrbkh  he  can  manage  an  argument 
with  a  show  of  fairness  and  reason, 
while  only  carrying  it  and  his  ad- 
mmrs  far  enough  to  serve  the  pur- 
pose of  party  m  the  debate.  Ho 
seldom  awunits  himself  so  far  as  to 
be  laid  c^n  to  even  the  most  prac- 
tised debaters.  They  may  ridicule 
hhn  upon  his  excessive  official  vanity 
and  imperviousness  to  criticism  on 
that  score,  but  they  can  hardly  dis- 
cover a  flaw  in  the  particular  case 
which  it  suits  him  for  the  time  being 
to  make  out.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
possesses  himsieli'  considerable  pov* 
of  ridicule;  and  when  he  findr 


320 


Contemporary  Orators, 


[March, 


argument  of  an  opjtonent  either  un- 
answerable, or  that  it  could  only  be 
answered  by  alliance  with  some  prin- 
ciple that  might  be  turned  against 
hunself,  he  is  a  great  adept  at  getting 
rid  of  it  W  a  side-wind  of  absurd 
allusion.  He  very  well  understands 
the  temper  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  especially  of  his  own  party. 
He  knows  exactly  what  will  win  a 
cheer  and  what  ought  to  be  avoided 
as  calculated  to  provoke  laughter  in 
an  assembly  where  appreciation  of 
what  is  elevated  in  sentiment  is  by  no 
means  common.  He  is  good  at  par- 
liamentary clap-traj»,  and  an  in- 
valuable coadjutor  m  the  leadership 
of  a  party,  which,  for  want  of  some 
common  bond  of  cohesion,  and  dis- 
tracted as  the  Whig-Badical  party 
was  by  conflicting  opinion  and  in- 
terest, required  to  be  kept  in  good- 
humour  by  the  meaningless  yet  in- 
spiriting generalities  of  Liberalism. 
Of  the  sort  of  quasi-philosophical 
language — ^the  slang  of  undefined  but 
developing  democracy — ^which  pleases 
the  crude,  unformed  minds  of  those 
who  are  self-chosen  to  decide  on 
public  affairs,  and  on  tlie  conduct  of 
trained  statesmen  and  practised  poli- 
ticians, Lord  Palmerston  is  a  master. 
He  is  clever  at  setting  traps  for  such 
vain  and  voluntary  dupes.  Vague 
and  vapid  eeneralities  become,  under 
the  magical  influence  of  his  congenial 
intellect,  high-sounding  and  inspiring 
principles.  His  process  of  develope- 
ment,  unlike  that  ascribed  to  the 
material  world  by  a  recent  theorist, 
stops  short  at  the  nebulous  stage. 
To  resolve  these  seductive  immate- 
rialities into  their  elements,  so  that 
they  might  form  more  natural  com- 
binations— to  allow  the  misty  mass 
to  become  concrete — to  let  relaxed 
Whiggism  consolidate  itself  into 
Chartism,  or  even  into  more  con- 
genial and  more  despised  Kadicalism, 
would  be  most  inconvenient  and  dis- 
agreeable to  one  who,  like  Lord  Pal- 
merston, is  a  thorough  aristocrat  in 
all  his  real,  self-confessed  thoughts 
and  prejudices,  and  who  is  disposed  to 
treat  an  parvemies  in  politics  with  the 
genuine  heartfelt  contempt,  the  here- 
ditary hauteur,  of  a  "  pure  old  Whig." 
It  partly  follows  from  these  things 
that  Lord  Palmerston  is  a  good  poli- 
tical tactician.  He  scents  keenly  and 
quickly  the  chan^ng  wind.  He 
probably  thinks  little,  but  he  ob- 


serves much.  A  sup^cial  glance 
18  sufiBcient  to  decide  nim  on  his  line 
of  conduct,  because  the  popular  feel- 
ing of  the  hour  is  what  he  seeks  to 
captivate.  He  is  clever  in  the  arith- 
metic of  party.  He  counts  heads, 
and  with  the  increase  of  numben 
oorrcspond  his  swelUng  periods.  This 
sort  of  time-serving  policy  is  not 
usually  favourable  to  political  fore- 
sight, nor  would  any  one  be  disposed 
to  accord  that  quality  in  any  re- 
markable d^ree  to  Lord  Pabnerston. 

Yet  we  are  going  to  exhibit  the 
noble  lord  in  the  character  of  a  pro- 
phet. We  would  much  rather  at- 
tribute to  his  sagacity  what  we  are, 
however,  compeUed  to  ascribe  to 
some  unlucky  accident,  —  the  fact 
that  he  foretold  not  only  the  free- 
trade  policy  of  Sir  Robert  Peel,  but 
also  tne  period  of  its  adoption. 
Speaking  in  September  1841,  Lord 
Palmerston  said,  *'  The  right  honour- 
able baronet  had  said  that  he  was 
not  prepared  to  declare  that  he  would 
never  propose  a  change  in  the  Corn- 
laws  ;  but  he  certainly  should  not  do 
so  unless  at  the  head  of  an  united 
cabinet.  Why,  looking  at  the  per- 
sons who  form  his  administration,  he 
must  wait  something  near  Jive  years 
before  he  can  do  it."  It  is  a  re- 
markable coincidence,  that  in  four 
years  and  e^ht  months  from  the  date 
of  this  prediction.  Sir  Robert  Peel 
introduced  his  measure  for  the  repeal 
of  the  Corn-laws.  So  well  did  the 
Whigs  understand  their  man. 

To  securing  success  as  a  debater, 
Lord  Palmerston  sacrifices  the  hope 
of  becoming  a  first-rate  orator.  It 
is  the  province  of  the  orator,  while 
he  is  appealing  to  the  passions  or 
developing  the  policy  of  the  hour, 
also  to  shape  ana  polish  his  discourse 
and  to  interweave  in  it  what  will 
render  it  interesting  for  all  time. 
Such  qualities  and  such  objects  are 
not  to  be  distinguished  in  the  ex- 
cellent party  speeches  of  Lord  Pal- 
merston. They  are  made  for  the 
House  of  Commons,  not  for  posterity. 
Except  in  the  clap -traps  we  have 
mentioned,  there  is  no  ambitious 
language,  no  pretence  of  that  higher 
eloquence  which  will  stir  the  hearts 
of  men  after  the  particular  voice  is 
dumb  and  the  particular  man  dead. 
You  cannot  pick  extracts  out  of 
his  speeches  which  will  bear  reading, 
and  will  excite  interest,  apart  ih>m 


IS46.] 


Lord  Palmersian. 


321 


the  eoniext.    There  are  no  maxims 
or  aphorisms,  nor  any  poetical  illus- 
trations or  passages  of  declamatory 
Tehemence ;  but,  on  the  other  hana, 
the  language  is  choice,  the  style  pure 
and  simple,  the  construction  of  the 
sentences  correct,  even  elegant,  and 
the  ffenend  arrangement  of  the  topics 
BkilfaL  in  the  extreme.    The  speeches 
seem  not  to  be  prepared  with  art, 
yet  they  are  artful  m  the  extreme ; 
and  there  is  a  general  harmony  in 
the  effect,  such  as  might  be  expected 
from  the  spontaneous  outpouring  in 
argument   of  a  highly   cultivated 
and  well-r^ulated  mind.    And  al- 
though,  as   has  been   said,   he   is 
chargeable  with  inordinate   garru- 
lity on  the  subject  of  his   rordgn 
administration,  yet  you  will  some- 
times find  him  speudng  on  topics 
personal  to  himself  in  a  high  and 
gentlemanly  tone,  quite  untmected, 
and  which  is  extremely  impressive. 
It  is  because  his  party  speeches  are  a 
sort  of  serious  pastime  that  he  can 
at  will  throw  aside  all  party  feeling, 
and  speak  in  a  manly  and  elevated 
tone  on  great  public  questions.    One 
of  his  amusing  peculiarities  is   to 
identify  himseu  with  his  party  in 
all  their  great  proceedings.    "  We  " 
acceded  to  power;  "We"  brought 
in  such  a  measure;  "  We"  felt  tnis 
or  that ;  a  sort  of  "  I-and-my-kinff " 
style,  which,  in  the  somewhat  self- 
important  tones  of  the  noble  lord, 
and  associated  with  his  reputation 
for  dictatorship  in  his  own  official 
dewtment,  sometimes  borders  on  the 
ludicrous. 

However  much  Lord  Palmerston 
may  fall  into  the  sham-patriotic  vein 
in  his  usual  party  speeches,  there  is 
one  subject  on  which,  as  we  have 
said,  he  is  inconveniently  in  earnest. 
Touch  his  foreign  policy,  and  on  the 
instant  his  soul  is  in  arms.  Nay,  he 
does  not  wait  till  it  is  touched,  aspen- 
like though  his  vanity  be  on  that 
theme.    So  intimately  possessed  is 


he  of  the  absolute  excellence  of  his 
foreign  admmistration,  and  of  its  im- 
portance to  mankind,  that  he  is  un- 
ceasingly,  and  without  being  asked, 
expounding  and  explaining  it.  He 
defends  himself  spontaneously,  with- 
out having  been  attacked;  and  he 
never  defends  himself  without  gra- 
tuitously attacking  some  one  else. 
Sir  Robert  Feel  once  charged  him^ 
in  well-sugared  parliamentary  phrase, 


with  assurance.  The  imputation  was 
well  aimed ;  every  one  instantly  re- 
sponded to  it ;  for,  indeed,  the  noble 
lord  has  no  unnecessary  modest v  in 
speaking  of  himself  or  his  services. 
He  is  assiduous,  and  altogether  unre- 
strained by  dcUcacy,  in  trumpeting 
his  own  exploits  as  foreign  minister. 
All  the  wars  he  didn*t  and  all  the 
wars  he  did  bring  about;  all  his 
dexterous  manosuvres  by  which, 
while  proclaiming  peace,  he  was 
countenancing  a  kind  of  war  in  dis- 
guise ;  these  have  been  paraded  ses- 
sion after  session,  upon  all  imaffinable 
pretexts,  before  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, till  Lord  Palmerston's  perti- 
nacity has  become  proverbial.  His 
amour  proprei  in  fact,  on  the  subject 
of  his  loreign  policy  almost  takes  the 
shape  of  a  mania.  His  constant  re- 
ferences to  it,  and  the  extent  to  which 
he  has  trespassed  on  the  patience  of 
the  house,  have  detracted,  to  a  con- 
siderable extent,  from  the  influence 
which  his  undeniable  talents  as  a 
speaker,  and  even  his  admitted  abili- 
ties as  a  foreign  minister,  have  long 
since  entitled  him  to  and  secured  for 
him.  He  is  so  easily  excited  on  this 
topic,  that  whatever  subject  he  may 
be  talking  on,  however  much  his 
speech  may  necessarily  be  confined 
to  subjects  of  a  domestic  nature,  his 
mind  seems,  by  a  natural  affinity,  to 
glide  into  the  one  great  theme  which 
occupies  his  thoughts.  At  a  guess, 
it  might  be  hazarded  that,  taking  the 
average  of  his  speeches  during  the 
last  ten  or  twelve  years,  four-fifths 
of  them,  at  least,  have  consisted  of 
self-praise,  or  self-defence,  in  con- 
nexion with  his  foreign  policy. 

It  must  not,  however,  be  supposed 
that  Lord  Palmerston  is,  therefore, 
held  in  any  contempt  by  the  house. 
Quite  the  reverse.  They  may  think 
that  he  shews  a  want  of  taste  and 
tact  in  thus  yielding  so  constantly  to 
the  ruling  influence  of  his  mind ;  but 
they  are  not  the  less  prepared  to 
award  him  the  full  amount  of  praise, 
and,  what  he  more  values,  of  atten- 
tive listening,  to  which  his  position, 
whether  officially  or  legislatorially, 
entitles  him.  They  are  willing  to 
admit  that,  as  the  foreign  minister  of 
England,  he  has  shewn  himself  ani- 
mated by  something  of  the  spirit 
of  the  great  Earl  of  Chatham,  in  his 
magnanimous  determination  to  up- 
hold, at  all  hazards,  the   national 


322 


Contemjparary  Orators. 


[March, 


honour.  His  task  was  to  make  a 
peace-at-an7-|>rice  party,  pursue  a 
war-at-any-prioe  policy.  It  was  his 
duty,  as  well  as  his  ardent  desire,  to 
make  the  English  name  respected 
throughout  the  world.  He  took  a 
high  tone  with  foreign  nations ;  and 
they  felt  that,  while  Lord  Palmerston 
was  at  the  head  of  out  foreign  affairs, 
they  could  not  insult  us  with  im- 
punity. The  House  of  Commons 
were  fully  aware  of  these  things,  and 
were  disposed  to  respect  him  accord- 
ingly ;  hut  while  listening  to  his  per- 
petual explanations  and  justifications, 
they  could  not  help  feeling  that  a 
minister  who  was  thus  paltering  be- 
tween peace  and  war  was  very  likely 
to  illustrate  the  old  adage,  concerning 
the  ultimate  fkte  of  him  who  tries  to 
sit  on  two  stools.  They  saw  that  his 
manly  policy,  instead  of  shewing 
itself  in  quiet  dignity,  was  detracted 
from  by  a  restless  spirit  of  intermed- 
dling, a  habit  of  provoking  the  ir- 
ritability of  foreign  nations,  as  if  fbr 
the  mere  purpose  of  shewing  our 
strength  to  disregard  it.  An  opponent 
characterised  his  i>roceedin^  by  the 
terms,  ^^  restless  activity  and  incessant 
meddling."  Lord  Palmerston  seems 
conscious  that  such  is  the  opinion 
entertained  of  his  conduct ;  for  he  has 
himself  quoted  the  terms  and  depre- 
cated such  an  application  of  them. 
But  the  verdict  seems  to  have  been 
pronounced  by  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, that  the  foreign  policy  of  Lord 
Palmerston  has  been  more  spirited, 
vigorous,  expert,  than  politic,  dig- 
nined,  or  wise.  It  is  confessed  that 
he  has  enlarged  views,  which,  per- 
haps, he  has  scarcely  had  a  fair  op- 
portunity of  developing ;  but,  at  the 
same  time,  it  appears  to  be  felt  that 


the  steps  he  took  to  carry  out  those 
views  acted  as  so  mseay  obstructioiis. 
He  was  for  universal  peace  and 
fi^e  commercial  intercourse,  but  be 
thought  to  obtain  them  by  bel]io(»e 
demonstrations.  He  had  Peace  in 
his  moutb,  but  War  in  his  rigbt 
hand. 

Out-of-doors,  Lord  Palmerston  ie 
very  much  nrisunderstood.    The  po- 
pular itoi  of  him  represents  him  as 
an  antiquated  dandy.     He  is  really 
nothing  of  the  sort,  but  a  man  of 
unnsuid  vigour,  both  of  mind  and 
body,  upon  whom  time  has  made  les 
impression  than  usual.     He  is  not 
more  particular  in  his  dress  than  are 
most  men  of  his  station  in  society; 
and  if  he  be  charged  with  sacrificiMf 
to  the  Graces^  all  we  can  say  on  the 
subject  is,  that  we  could  point  out  a 
hundred  membert  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  of  all  ages,  who  are  more 
open  to  ridicule  on  this  score  van 
Lord  Pahnerston.     Any  pretension 
he  may  have  is,  hi  fiict,  not  personal 
but  mental.     His  bearing  is  emi- 
nently that  of  the  gentleman,  qinet 
and  unassuming,   but  manly.     As 
a  speaker,  his  physical  powers  i«J 
scarcely  ecfual  to    what    his  nniw 
prompts  him  to  achieve.     There  »  a 
kind  of  faded  air  which  you  cannot 
help  observing ;  but  this  impression 
may,  after  all,  only  arise  from  a  con- 
stitutional languor  of  ftiMiner,  and 
from  the  peculiar  intonation  ^'^^ 
voicej  which  has  a  hollow  and  fluty 
sound.    With  all  his  talents  as  a  de- 
bater, he  wants  that  special  combina- 
tion of  personal  dignity  vdth  pop'jlj^ 
qualitii^  which  alone  could  qualiiy 
him  to  be  the  sole  leader  of  his  party, 
should  any  cause  bring  about  the 
secession  of  Lord  John  Russell. 


1 846.] 


The  Village  ef  Lorette» 


323 


TUB  VILLAGB  OF  LOKETtE,  AND  THE  NEW  SBTTLEMEKT  OF 

VALE  CARTIER. 

THE  TUXAOE  OF  LOBBTTE. 


TiiB  Indian  village  of  Lorette,  in- 
habited by  the  remains  of  the  Iluron 
tribe  (one  of  the  "five  nations'*  so 
often  alluded  to  in  American  history), 
is  situated  on  the  little  river  St. 
Charles,  at  a  distance  of  ten  miles 
from  Quebec,  and  forms  a  sort  of 
border-post,  the  fertile  and  cultivated 
valley  of  the  St.  Charles  lying  in 
front,  while  the  black  pine-forest, 
covering  an  apparently  interminable 
tract  of  undulating  hills  (for  they 
scarcely  deserve  the  name  of  moun- 
tains, with  which  they  afe  often 
honoured)  stretches  ont  Jrom  its  back 
to  the  northward. 

The  entrance  to  Lofette  from 
Quebec  is  made  over  a  little  wooden 
bridge,  of  a  sufficient  width  to  admit 
of  a  narrow  Canadian  market-cart 
and  a  foot-passenger  passing  each 
other  in  safety.  To  the  right  of  the 
bridge  the  river  may  be  seen  broken 
into  rapids  by  the  rocks  which  pro- 
ject in  jagged  points  in  every  direc- 
tion, wnile  the  water  foams  and  bub- 
bles around  them;  on  the  left  it 
tumbles  in  a  beautiful  cascade,  to  ob- 
tain a  view  of  which  it  is  necessary 
to  pass  through  a  part  of  the  village, 
ana  descend  the  bank  of  the  river 
just  below  the  fall,  which  fushes  ob- 
liquely over  a  bed  of  rock,  the  water 
afterwards  passing  in  a  narrow  chan- 
nel between  steep  and  bushy  batiks, 
and  running  so  tumultuously  that  it 
appears  an  absolute  mass  of  foam. 

The  best  view  of  the  fall  is  to  be 
obtained  about  half  Way  down  the 
bank,  which  is  upwards  of  a  hundred 
yards  hish ;  but  the  spray,  rising  in 
a  cloud  from  the  cascade,  renders  the 
descent  so  slippery  ajs  to  r^uire  great 
caution  in  making  it,  and  is  quite 
sufficient  to  wet  the  spectator  to  the 
skin,  should  he  be  unprovided  with  a 
great-coat. 

To  return,  however,  to  the  en- 
trance of  the  village,  which  has  been 
alreadv  described. 

An  Indian  house,  formed  of  spruce- 
logs,  planed  and  roofed  by  rough 
slabs  of  deal,  something  like  a  large 
"shantv,"  or  Irish  cabin,  stands  to 
the  left  of  the  bridge,  and  conse- 
quently on  the  right  bank  of  the 
river.    It  was  at  tnis  hoWse  I  made 


my  first  inquiries,  and  here  that  I 
saw  the  first  Indian  I  ever  enconn- 
tefed.  He  was  a  young  hunter, 
scarcely  more,  I  should  fancy,  than 
sixteen  years  of  age,  finely  made,  and 
but  for  the  half  coppery  tinge  of  his 
dark  skin,  would  have  b«en  ac- 
knowledged handsome  in  any  coun- 
try. He  leaned  in  the  entrance  of 
his  log-hut  with  the  half-lazy,  half- 
graceful  ease  of  his  people ;  one  leg 
at  the  half  bend,  the  head  slightly 
inclined  forward,  as  he  listened  to 
and  answered  my  Questions,  whilst, 
with  the  rough  blanket  coat  hanging 
about  his  shoulders  in  all  the  ele- 
gance ascribed  to  the  loose  robe  of 
the  Asiatic,  he  might  have  stood  for 
the  picture  of  "  the  savage." 

Tne  house  I  found  him  at  I  have 
particularly  noticed  here  on  account 
of  its  romantic  situation ;  the  others 
are  not  worthy  of  mention,  being 
like  the  rougher  sort  of  Canadian 
ferm-houses,  having  attached  to  them 
small  patches  of  com  and  plots  of 
ground  containing  potatoes,  planted 
m  "  lazy  beds,"  which  are  broad  bar- 
rovrs  of  earth  thrown  up,  with 
trenches  between,  similar  to  those 
prepared  for  asparagus  in  England. 

The  chiefs  house  is  on  the  right 
hand  soon  after  entering  the  village. 
It  is  like  a  Canadian  farm-house  of 
the  better  sort  (that  is  to  say,  a 
wooden  building  of  commodious  size, 
variously  coloured,  w^ith  a  prof\ision 
of  long  glass-windows),  and  at  the 
time  I  saw  it  was  occupied  by  an  In- 
dian woman,  lively  and  communica- 
tive for  her  nation,  with,  not  to  say 
the  most  beautiful  "papouse"  (In^ 
dian  baby),  but  the  most  beautiful 
infant  I  ever  saw.  As  I  looked  on 
its  small  but  distinctly  marked  fea- 
tures (far  more  distinct  than  those 
of  a  European  child),  and  observed 
its  clear,  though  dark  skin,  and  rosy- 
colonred  little  cheeks,  I  could  not 
help  thinking  that  it  must  be  the 
child  of  some  white  man,  when 
just  as  the  mother  (looking  the  mo- 
del of  what  we  may  call  an  Indian 
matron)  stooped  over  the  child,  ap- 
parently delighted  with  the  stran- 
ger's notice  or  it  (for  no  women  "•" 
so  flattered   by  attention   t*" 


334 

childrenuthe  sqiian8),the  &tlieren- 
tered,  ind  lo  t  lie  vriu  one  of  the 
purest  Indians  in  the  villsffe. 

The  Indians  have  selaom  laroe 
foniilies.  The  conjugal  passjoos  (if 
we  may  so  speak},  such  as  lore  for 
their  wives,  &c^  are  by  no  means 
powerAil;  indeed,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  jealousy  and  an^r,  which  at 
moments  break  out  with  the  more 
violence  from  their  ordinary  state  of 
quiescence,  these  people  appear  al- 
most passionless,  and,  strange  as  the 
assertion  may  sound,  nature  appears 
to  have  pla^  barriers  a^unst  the 
increase  of  their  race,  as  if  she  m- 
tended  that  the  forest  should  fall  and 
the  Indian  with  it. 

An  anecdote  I  kuow  to  be  authen- 
tic occurs  to  my  recollection  as  I 
speak  of  these  traits  of  Indian  cha- 
racter. 

About  fifteen  years  ago,  Colonel 
"        -,  of  Montreal,  in  crossing  the 


The  Txllage  of  Lwette. 


[March, 


bridge  of  Lorette  was  attacked  by 
five  Indians,  who  (instigated  by  jea- 
lousies) had  lain  in  wait  for  him. 


They  rushed  at  once  upon  the  object 
of  their  revenge,  inteuuinK  to  throw 
him  over  the  bridge  and  into  the 
rapids  below ;  but,  being  an  extremely 
powerful  man,  he  succeeded  in  beat- 
ing them  off  bare-handed,  and  escaped 
alter  a  desperate  stru^le. 

The  circumstance  will  appear  less 
surprising  when  it  is  remembered 
that  the  Indians  are  so  little  an 
athletic  race  that  the  Canadians  them- 
aelves,  by  no  means  bo  robust  as  Eng- 
lishmen, are  ant  to  boast  that  one 
of  their  men  will  fight  three  Indians. 
The  latter,  indeed,  are  ecuerally  more 
the  size  and  make  of  the  Bengalees, 
and  though  capable  of  enduring  zrcat 
fotinie,  are  endowed  with  but  little 
bodily  strength,  and  appear  utterly 
-..n.hi.  t«  1.^,^...  jg  „gu  ag  indifl- 

women,  many  of 
f  pretty,  though 
taken  at  an  ad- 
t  in  their  Sunday 
ankets  by  way  of 
Joth  short  gowns, 
le  same  material, 
.w  silk,  mocassins 
beads,  and  last, 
li  their  jet-black 
ig  very  good,  they 
un)  neatly  parted 
:head.  llie  time, 
"  squaws"  in  their 


glory  is  just  after  mass  (for  they  are 
all  Roman  Catholics)  when  they  re- 
main assembled  for  a  short  time  in 
ftont  of  their  church,  previous  to 
dispersing  to  tbeir  different  habita- 
tions. They  are  small,  neatly  made 
women,  vnth  uncommonly  little 
bands  and  feet,  and  would  be  grace- 
f\i1  were  it  not  for  the  peculiar  fom 
of  the  latter,  which  turn  in  as  much 
as  those  of  a  soldier  on  drill  turn 
outward.  This  coufonnation  of  the 
foot  is  more  peculiar  because  no  de- 
fect can  be  observed  in  the  bone ;  on 
the  contrary,  the  ankle  is  small,  the 
joints  appear  well  set,  end  indeed  all 
the  parts  in  proportion  j  but  the 
muscles  of  the  1%  are  twisted  in  the 
direction  of  the  foot.  This  defect 
unfortunately  spoils  their  walk,  which 
would  otherwise  be  gracefhl,  as  their 
short  springy  step,  with  the  heel  just 
sufficiently  raised  not  to  expose  too 
much  of  the  sole  of  the  foot,  would 
be  considered  highly  becoming,  were 
the  feet  turned,  according  to  our  no- 
tions of  beauty. 

The  "  Indian  trot,"  which  has  so 
often  been  remarked  upon,  was,  as 
near  as  I  could  estimate,  a  pace  of 
about  six  miles  and  a  half  to  the 
hour.  In  this  trot  the  Indian  makes 
a  sort  of  half  lurch  from  the  hips, 
swinging  his  body  from  side  to  side, 
the  step  at  the  same  time  being  short 
and  quick.  I  have  observed  when  I 
have  been  in  the  north  of  France 
the  march  (for  it  can  hardly  be  called 
a  walk)  of  the  Norman  peasants,  a 
race  renowned  for  their  pedestrian 
powers;  but  in  them  the  step  is  long 
and  regular,  and  they  cany  ^eir 
bodies  firm  and  erect.  The  Indian 
trot,  however,  would  certainly  dis- 
tance them,  whilst  the  appearance  of 
a  party  of  Indians,  their  curious 
BwingiuK  walk,  the  mingling  of  straw 
and  felt  hats,  long  guns,  ligbt 
hatchets,  and  long  sheath  knives 
stuck  in  leather  belts,  bound  round 
red  shirts,  with  blanket  and  cloth 
coats,  and  their  blue  leggings  with 
yellow  mocassina,  is  certainly  very 
striking ;  and  their  slight,  nimble, 
well-proportioned  forms,  which  seem 
to  be  framed  by  nature  upon  the 
model  of  the  beasts  of  prey;  their 
dark,  half  copper-coloured  complex- 
ion, slightly  prominent  cheek-bones, 
and  strongly  marked  features,  are  no 
leas  picturesque  than  their  dress. 

TEq  Indians  are  seldom  tall ;  the 


1846.] 


The  New  Settlement  of  Vale  Cartier. 


326 


fbw  whom  I  obsenred  to  be  above  the 
usual  stature  of  ordinary  men  ap- 
peared thin  and  gaunt,  as  if  they  had 
outgrown  their  strength.  They  are 
all  Boman  Catholics,  and  have  a 
good  church  in  the  centre  of  their 
village.  They  speak  the  same  sort  of 
French,  or  rather  patois^  as  the  Ca- 
nadians, except  when  talking  to  each 
other,  and  then  they  make  use  of 
their  own  language,  which  in  the 
mouths  of  the  women  (who  have 
usually  pretty  voices)  soimds  soil 
and  musical.  The  men,  however, 
have  a  harsh,  growling  mode  of  speak- 
ing, which,  it  seems  to  me,  they  culti- 
vate from  a  notion  that  it  is  manly, 
though  they  are  generally  taciturn, 
seldom  speaking  but  in  monosylla- 
bles, and  then  only  when  spoken  to. 
'  For  the  honour  of  the  Indian,  I 
must  say  that  his  name  never  figures 
in  ihe  gaol  register  or  the  kalendar 
of  crime,  circumstances  like  that  of 

Colonel  G being  very  rare ;  nor 

is  he  ever  ashamed  of  his  race ;  un- 
like the  black,  who  detests  the  name 
of  negro  and  is  pleased  to  be  ad- 
dressed as  a  mulatto,  even  should  it 
cast  a  cdur  upon  his  parents.  The 
Indian,  on  the  contrary,  being  asked 
what  he  is,  will  growl  forth  the 
word  ^'Indien,**  as  if  indignant  at 
being  mistaken,  and  boasts  of  pure 
Indian  blood,  though  only  of  a  naif 
breed.  To  the  wnite  man  in  dis- 
tress, whether  poor  or  rich,  he  is  hos- 
pitable and  obliging.  And  now,  with 
one  parting  trait  of  the  Indian's 
loyalty,  I  leave  him  to  the  mercy  of 
the  "pale  faces,**  who  may  glance 
over  tnis  description  of  a  short  ac- 
quaintance with  him. 


During  the  rebellion  a  party  of 
Canadians,  being  denrous  of  seducing 
the  Delawares  to  their  cause,  crossed 
over  (armed  and  organised)  to  the 
Island  of  Cocknewaga,  belonging  to 
those  Indians  situated  between  the 
St.  Lawrence  and  the  Ottawa,  not 
far  from  Montreal ;  and  commenced 
their  operations  on  a  Sunday,  just 
after  mass,  when  the  Indians  (ac- 
cording to  the  custom  I  before  men- 
tioned) were  assembled  in  the  open 
space  in  front  of  their  church,  with 
tneir  women  and  children  about 
them,  and  of  course  without  arms. 
The  leader  of  the  rebels  explained 
the  intention  of  their  visit  in  a  long 
harangue,  to  which  the  Indian  chin 
gave  not  the  slightest  reply,  but  lis- 
tened, as  thev  are  in  tne  habit  of 
doing,  in  dead  silence.  As  the  ora- 
tion proceeded,  the  Delawares  kept 
mingling  in  closely  with  the  Cana- 
dians, until  each  man  had  an  Indian 
by  his  side ;  and  then  the  chief  wait- 
ing only  the  conclusion  of  the  rebel's 
speech,  quietly  tripped  up  his  heels, 
and  wrested  his  gun  from  his  hand, — 
his  example  being  instantly  followed 
by  his  people.  In  a  moment  of  time, 
tne  Canadians  lay  upon  the  ground 
disarmed  and  prisoners ;  for  so  com- 
pletely had  thev  been  surrounded, 
and  so  sudden  had  been  the  onset, 
that  not  a  man  could  move  an  arm 
to  his  musket,  or  get  an  instant  for 
defence.  A  few  hours  after  this  thev 
were  on  their  march  to  Montreal, 
where,  uninjured,  the  rebels  were 
delivered  up  to  the  authorities,  by 
an  escort  of  armed  Indians,  pointed, 
and  in  their  war- dress. 


THS  NEW  8ETTLBMSNT  OF  VALE  CABTIEB. 


The  Irish  out-settlement  of  Yale 
Cartier  is  situated  in  the  midst  of  the 
low,  wooded  mountains  to  the  north 
of  Quebec,  from  which  it  is  distant 
about  fifteen  miles, — ten  miles  of  the 
way  being  through  the  level  country 
near  Quebec,  called  the  Valley  of  the 
St.  Charles.  After  crossing  this  valley 
there  is  a  somewhat  abrupt  ascent, 
and  on  attaining  the  summit  of  the 
high  land  above  the  valley,  the  dis- 
tance to  the  settlement  is  about  five 
miles,  lying  entirely  through  a  dense 
pine -forest,  and  over  a  "corduroy 
road,"  which  is  a  path  made  through 


the  forest,  by  felling  a  line  of  trees, 
and  covering  the  trunks  with  earth. 
Yale  Cartier  is  the  farthest  settle- 
ment north  of  Quebec;  beyond  it, 
the  whole  country  (if  this  word  can 
be  used  to  descnbe  such  a  hideous 
waste)  is  a  mere  desert,  up  to  the 
posts  of  the  fur  company,  in  the  ex- 
treme north  of  America.  I  did  not 
reach  the  settlement  until  nearly  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  having  been 
accidentally  sent,  by  the  misrepre- 
sentations of  those  to  whom  I  xnade 
my  inouiries,  five  miles  out  of  my 
road,  which  had  also  the  disadvantf" 


326 


The  New  Settlement  of  Vale  Cartier. 


[March, 


of  compelling  me  to  turn  homeward 
before  1  had  taken  as  full  a  survey 
of  the  place  as  I  had  wished  to  have 
done.  Such  as  it  was,  however,  I 
found  much  in  it  that  was  new  to  an 
English  eye,  and  which  may  be  the 
same  to  others  as  to  myself. 

At  the  outskirts  of  the  Vale,  there 
was  still  left  standing  the  remnant 
of  a  "shanty,"  one  of  those  hastily 
raised  huts  the  emigrant  constructs 
on  his  first  arrival  at  a  new  settle- 
ment. It  was  the  only  one  remain- 
ing; the  others,  probably,  as  their 
place  became  better  supplied,  having 
been  used  for  firewood  or  other  pur- 
poses, to  save  the  time  required  for 
"  cutting  down."  That  in  question 
was  a  small  square  building,  formed 
of  rough  slabs  of  deal,  roofed  in  with 
the  same  material,  and  after  the  same 
manner.  It  was  divided  into  two 
compartments ;  in  one  of  which  was 
a  rude  fire-place,  consisting  of  a  large 
hearth-stone,  a  quantity  of  earth 
banked  up  by  way  of  a  back  to  the 
fire,  three  barrels  (with  their  tops 
and  bottoms  knocked  out)  lashed  to- 
gether, for  a  chimney,  and  a  hole  cut 
m  the  roofing  for  the  smoke  to 
escape  by. 

The  generality  of  the  houses  form- 
ing the  new  settlement,  were,  at  the 
time  I  saw  them,  large  and  comfort- 
able, well  built  of  wood,  and  equal 
to  almost  any  English  farm-house. 
Each  house  contamcd  a  good- sized 
room,  having  low  windows,  which 
was  commodious  and  neatly  Airnish- 
ed,  and  seemed  to  be  reserved  for 
the  "Granny"  of  the  family,  or  oc- 
casional state  visitor ;  as  I  invariably 
found  the  general  inhabitants  sitting 
about  the  nre  in  the  kitchen, — a  low- 
roofed  wooden  building  apart  from 
the  house. 

The  settlement  itself  was  formed 
on  either  side  of  the  road,  and  ex- 
tended to  a  considerable  distance, 
each  dwelling  having  its  own  allot- 
ment of  about  100  acres  of  ground 
attached  to  it. 

In  one  or  two  places  the  tree  was 
still  burning,  the  other  plots  having 
been  already  partially  cleared,  or  ra- 
ther fired,  ana  the  stumps  left  to  rot, 
whilst  the  bare  and  blackened  trunks 
of  trees  stood  out  of  the  ground  in 
all  directions;  some  of  them  rising 
*o  the  height  of  forty  or  fifty  feet, 
ad  so  burnt  throughout,  that  they 

ere  hollowed  like  a  trough ;  a  few 


of  these  having  still  their  topmost 
branches  adhenng  to  them,  but,  of 
course,  dead  or  withered. 

In  many  places  there  were  trunks 
of  fallen  trees,  so  completely  rotted, 
that  I  have  passed  my  walking-stick 
through  them  from  side  to  side ;  and 
these,   though  reduced  to  a    mere 
pulp,    retained   their   form,    owing 
their  early  decay,  I  conclude,  to  the 
sudden  cnange  that  takes  place  at 
the  melting  of  the  snow,  when  they 
become  saturated  throughout;    the 
efiect  of  this  being  so  powerful,  that 
pine,  f\ir,  and  spruce,  are  reduced  to 
powder  in  less  than  four  years ;  the 
other  species  of  wood,  such  as  maple, 
and  those  of  similar  nature,  resist 
this    destructive    power   a    longer 
period,  often  for  ten  or  twelve  years. 

As  the  evening  drew  in,  my  atten- 
tion became  fixeS.  to  another  part  of 
the  wood  of  Vale  Cartier — that  por- 
tion where  the  timber  was  still  blaz- 
ing ;  and  among  these  I  observed 
the  large  stump  of  a  tree  of  great 
size,  wnich  appeared  to  have  been 
previously  felled  by  the  axe  to  within 
two  feet  of  the  ground.  The  burn- 
ing of  the  surrounding  underwood 
had  fired  the  roots,  from  which  the 
earth  had  fallen  away  through  the 
intensity  of  the  heat;  so  that  the 
lower  part  of  the  stump  being  of  un- 
usual circumference,  was  seen  burn- 
ing, while  the  upper  part  continued 
whole  and  sound;  and  the  trunk, 
with  the  fire  issuing  from  among  its 
roots,  and  shewing  itself  to  be  creep- 
ing stealthily  about  its  different  cre- 
vices, glowed  in  the  dusk,  like  the 
lower  smouldering  coals  of  a  furnace ; 
whilst  the  sinking  of  the  sun,  whieh 
had  been  gradually  disappearing, 
gave  to  the  scene  an  air  at  once  so 
peculiar,  and  so  picturesque,  that, 
though  plainly  warned  to  depart,  I 
still  ungercd  about  the  spot. 

At  length,  with  my  back  to  Vale 
Cartier,  I  set  off  homewards,  walk- 
ing with  my  utmost  speed,  but  had 
hardly  proceeded  a  mue  and  a  half 
from  the  last  house  in  the  settle- 
ment, when  the  jingling  of  bells,  and 
the  sound  of  human  voices,  appeared 
to  be  coming  towards  me.  I  listened 
for  a  moment  uncertain  whether  to 
proceed,  or  stand  and  face  the  ap- 
proaching party;  for  the  darkness 
of  night,  and  with  no  weapon  but 
n^  walking- stick,  amongst  settlers 
cfnew  character  J  as  well  as  new  home^ 


— I 


1846.] 


The  New  Settlement  dfVah  Car  tier. 


327 


were  not  aflsiiring  circumstances, 
though  I  had  nothing  to  fear,  be- 
yond the  posBibility  of  being  taken 
for  an  "A^i^dStm"  (a  French  Cana- 
dian), between  whom  and  the  Irish 
settlers,  there  exists  a  running  ac- 
count of  incivilities,  which  often  ex- 
tends to  actual  and  unlawful  deeds 
of  revenge.  My  previous  fore- 
knowledge that  fire-arms  in  the 
hands  of  strangers  who  visit  the  set- 
tlement, was  a  thing  distasteful  to  the 
Irish  blood,  will  account  for  my  de- 
fenceless state. 

As  the  sound  advanced,  the  rat- 
tling of  dart- wheels,  many  and  loud, 
decided  my  movements — and  it  is 
well  they  dud  so — for  I  had  no  sooner 
scrambled  up  a  ridge  by  the  narrow 
road-side,  to  escape  being  run  down, 
when  four  carts  drawn  by  small 
horses,  and  filled  with  "  Vale  Cartier 
boys,"  five  or  six  in  each,  came  rat- 
tling over  the  "corduroy*'  at  full 
spe^,  shewing  a  noble  disregard  of 
the  pledge  every  soul  in  the  Yale 
had  taken,  by  proving  themselves  to 
be  what  seamen  call  "  three  sheets  in 
the  wind ;"  one  and  all  shouting  forth 
the  chorus  of  a  well-known  Irish 
song,  accompanying  the  perform- 
ance by  tattooing  each  with  his  fbet 
iixH)B  the  foot-board,  at  the  same 
time  flourishing  a  stick  with  the 
right  hand,  as  he  balanced  himself 
with  the  left. 

They  would  have  passed  me  with- 
out notice,  for  the  Safety  post  I  had 
chosen  served  me  for  two  purposes. 
But  I  have  a  lurking  fondness  for 
the  Irish,  meet  them  where  I  may ; 
and  so  I  bade  them  a  fellow-travel- 
ler's "good  night;"  to  which  they, 
one  and  all,  heartily  responded  by  a 
friendly  "good  nignt  tVe,  sir,  good 
ni^ht  t  ye,  as  they  rattled  forward, 
hemg  on  thebr  return  from  the  mar- 
ket at  Quebec. 

I  now  redoubled  my  pace;  for, 
noisy  and  undesired  as  the  interrup- 
tion had  been,  it  was  preferable  to 
the  deep,  dead  stillness  that  followed 
the  hubbub,  as  the  last  sound  of  the 
wheels  died  away  in  the  distance,  and 
left  me  to  grope  onwards  as  I  best 
could.  But  I  was  not  doomed  to 
travel  long  in  this  state  of  lonely 
quietude,  for  presently  the  roll  of 
tne  Quebec  nine  o'clock  gun  pealed 
through  the  air,  and  almost  in  the 
same  instant  an  animal  of  a  light 
eolour,  loDg-l^iged,  and  about  the 


height  of  a  calf,  hut  with  a  sort  of 
cat-like  form,  emerged  fWrni  the 
wood  upon  my  right  hand,  cleared 
the  roaa  at  a  bound,  and  springing 
into  some  thick  underwood  on  the 
opposite  side,  disappeared.  It  was 
now  a  bright  star-light  night,  so  that 
I  could  perceive  the  space  into  which 
the  animal  had  entered,  to  be  appa- 
rently a  niece  of  *•  cleared  ground," 
whicn  haa  been  abandoned,  and  was 
now  overgrown  with  low  bushes. 

I  had  been  warned,  by  a  previous 
rencontre  of  a  similar  nature  (and  of 
which  I  shall  speak  hereafter),  that 
to  be  in  such  company  unarmed  was 
not  a  situation  to  be  desired ;  so  ap- 

})rehensive  of  an  immediate  attack,  I 
umped  into  the  shade  of  the  trees  on 
my  right  hand,  and,  after  waiting  a 
due  length  of  time  without  moving 
or  scarcely  even  breathing,  I  ven- 
tured to  creep  cautiously  past  the 
spot,  and  then  darted  off  at  the  top 
of  my  speed,  which,  sooth  to  say,  a 
"  corduroy"  road  is  not  the  best  en- 
courager  of;  fbr  the  logs  of  wood 
beneath  the  earth,  and  by  which  the 
road  is  formed,  lie  often  in  ridges, 
compelling  the  pace  to  a  continual 
up-and-down  tread,  which  alike  tor- 
ments the  walker  and  the  runner, 
permitting  him  to  take  neither  at  his 
ease,  for  he  finds  his  walk  must  be  a 
slow  run,  and  his  would-be  nm  a 
slow  walk.  As  fast  as  the  road 
would  let  me,  however,  I  ran  on 
about  three-quarters  of  a  mile,  a 
glimmering  light  in  the  distance 
serving  me  for  a  direction,  which  by 
the  time  I  reached  I  found  to  pro- 
ceed from  the  hut  of  an  "habitan." 
I  knocked  for  admittance,  and,  the 
door  being  opened,  I  fbund  there  a 
dark-complexioned  man  of  about 
forty,  seated  upon  a  chair  by  the 
bedside  (the  log-house  eonsistmg  of 
but  a  single  room).  His  coat  and 
mocassins  were  off,  and  he  was  pre- 
paring, in  sea  phrase,  for  his  "tnm- 
m,"  whilst  the  only  other  inmate 
(the  wife)  busied  herself  in  putting 
the  place  in  ofder,  preparatory  to  the 
same  movement.  The  Canadian  rose 
from  his  seat  at  my  entrance,  and 
waited,  with  their  customary  air  of 
politeness,  for  my  explanation.  I 
told  him  at  once  of  the  wild  animal  I 
had  encountered,  and  inquired  if  he 
knew  where  I  could  obtain  a  cart 
and  horse  by  which  I  could  be  con-^ 
vcycd  to  the  end  of  my  journey. 


The  New  Settlement  of  Vale  Cartier. 


[March, 


had  addretsed  him  in  French,  and  in 
the  tttne  language,  plentifully  in- 
terlarded with  broken  English,  he 
gave  me  to  understand  that  for  the 
cart  and  horse  they  were  luxuries  I 
had  no  chance  of  procuring  j  that 
the  beast  I  had  met  was,  b^  my  de- 
acription,  the  "  loup  cervier,  but 
that  I  need  be  under  no  alarm  ao 
long  as  the  starliKht  remained  aa 
bri^t  as  it  was;  for  though  there 
were  aoch,  as  well  as  bears,  in  the 
immediate  neigh  bourhood,  they  would 
not  prowl  out  unleaa  the  aky  became 
obscured,  in  which  case  danger,  no 
doubt,  might  be  apprehended.  This 
was  poor  comfort,  but  I  bad  at 
all  events  the  pleasure  ot'listening  to 
hia  description  of  the  loup  cervier 
whilst  I  remained  in  his  hut,  and  it 
agreed  so  exactly  with  what  I  bad 
had  time  to  observe  of  the  animal 
that  had  just  passed  before  me,  that 
I  could  not  doubt  its  being  the  same. 
lie  particularly  described  the  size  as 
that  of  a  calf,  to  which  I  had  com- 
pared it  in  my  own  mind ;  and  from 
what  I  gleaned  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  loup  cervier, 
wbidi  is  often  confounded  with  the 
wolvereene,  is  altogether  a  distinct 
animal. 

The  loup  cervier  of  the  i'rench, 
by  its  Latin  name  "  lupus  cervarins," 
commonly  called   the   lynx,  is  de> 
scribed   by   naturalists   as   being   in 
Europe  the  siie  of  a  foi — in  Canada, 
that  of  a  wild  cat ;    the  Canadian 
animal  being  classed  by  them  as  the 
"felix  cervarius"  or  tmdl  species  of 
Ijmx,  whereas  it  in  reality  is  the 
larger  of  the  two,  standing  higher 
than  the  wolf  itself.    Its  legs,  more- 
long  in  proportion  to  its 
itraiy  to  the  usual  supposi- 
the  lynx  is  a  short-legged 
In  eveiy  other  description 
it  b^  Bufibn   and    other 
^  it  u  a  verv  active  crea- 
vea  by  bounds  and  leaps, 
bs  trees  in  pursuit  of  its 
rom  its  spotted  skin  and  its 
the  cat  genus,  it  is  often 
'  the  settlers  the  "  tiger- 
ch  has  given  rise  to  the 
e  that  there  is  a  new  species 
ui  niiu  KAt  exclusively  belonging  to 
this  part  of  America. 
The  wolvereene  and  loup  cervier 
~eoi^nconfounded  together,  though 
^y  are  of  a  totally  different  species, 
re,  perhaps,  from  the  sinularity 


in  the  first  syllable  of  their  names 
than  from  any  other  drcumstanee, 
for  the  wolvereene  ia  one  of  the 
most  formidable  animals  of  the  Ca- 
nadian portion  of  British  America, 
being  very  imperfectly  classed  and 
described  by  natiirelists  under  tbe 
name  of  the  "  gulo  arcticns." 

By  what  I  could  gather  concern- 
ing the  wolvereene  whilst  I  was  in 
the  province,  it  appeared  to  be  a 
creature  of  much  the  same  nature  as 
the  hyena,  prowling  by  nigbt  in  tbe 
neighbourhood  of  towns  and  villages 
for  the  purpose  of  carrjring  off  any 
stray  animal  it  mieht  be  able  to 
overpower,  or,  in  fault  of  better  prey, 
to  gorge  itself  upon  such  ofial  as  had 
been  thrown  out  by  the  infaabitanu 
to  rot. 

I  bad  tbe  good  fortune,  while  in 
Quebec,  to  have  a  close  rencontre 
with  this  animal  myself.  The  house 
at  which  I  was  staying  was  some 
distance  without  the  gates,  and  had  a 
garden  attached  to  it,  portioned  off 
from  some  fields  which  lay  between 
the  house  and  a  cemetery  or  grave- 
yard  without  the  town;  on  the  other 
side  of  the  dwelling-place  were  the 
residences  of  several  neighbours.  It 
had  been  many  times  oMeryed  that  a 
dog  or  some  other  animal  was  in  the 
habit  of  laying  at  night  in  the  gar- 
den, the  grass  being  pressed  down  by 
its  weight,  and  footmarks  traced  upon 
the  garden  path.  These  were  de- 
scribed by  a  man,  who  had  been  much 
in  the  woods,  as  the  trail  of  a  wild 
beast ;  and  the  animal  having  once 
or  twice  been  descried  in  the  dusk  of 
the  evening,  I  was  warned  not  to 
stay  out  afler  dark  as  I  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  doing. 

I  pud  little  attention,  however,  to 
the  matter,  thinking  it  probable  that 
the  animal  would,  after  all,  turn  out 
to  be  some  bitch  who,  on  a  former 
occasion,  might  have  been  deprived 
of  her  offspring,  and  now  sought  to 
litter  a  new  progeny  in  safety,  until, 
one  evening,  as  I  entered  the  garden, 
at  somethmg  afler  nine  o'clock,  a 
huge  black  animal  stole  past  me  in 
the  gateway,  leisurely  making  to- 
wards the  burying-ground.  I  turned 
and  followed  the  creature,  which  per- 
mitted me  to  run  almost  by  its  side 
the  distance  of  about  150  yards,  dur- 
ing which  I  had  ample  opportunities 
of  observing  my  companion,  the  first 
glance  conrincmg  me  that  it  was  no 


1 846.] 


The  New  Settlement  of  Vale  Cottier. 


3129 


Qog.      The  animal  was  of  a  dark 
colour,  and  something  bigger  than  a 
[Newfoundland   dog   of  the  largest 
size,  enormous  in  the  bulk  of  the 
body,  with  a  thick  tail,  resembling 
the  brush  of  a  fox ;  short  legs,  the 
fore  ones  much  shorter  than  the  hind, 
and  apparently  bandy,   whilst   the 
front  quarters  oore  the  appearance  of 
great  muscular  stren^h.     I  noted 
the  animal  well,  for  it  was  new  to 
me,  and  I  observed  that  its  hair  was 
short  and  furry,  and  its  pace  awk- 
ward and  shuffling  like  that  ascribed 
to    the   hyena,  while  with  a  sly, 
skulking  appearance  it  kept  its  head 
downwiu^  like  a  dog  on  the  scent, 
until  I  came  close   to  the  grave- 
yard, when  it  slackened  its  pace,  and 
and  shewed  a  decided  inclmation  to 
turn  and  attack  me ;  seeing  which  I 
had  recourse  to  my  switch  (apiece 
of  wh^ebone  with  a  ball  of  lead  at 
the  end,  technically  called  a  "  supple- 
jack ").    This  I  whirled  quickly  and 
repeatedly  round  my  head,  accom- 
panying   the   performance  with   a 
hurrah !  that  might  have  been  ex- 
pected to  awaken  the  neighbouring 
dead,  upon  which  my  friend,  arching 
up  his  back  like  a  cat  at  the  spring, 
bounded  off  with  the  speed  of  a  grey- 
hound, and,  crossing  some  swampy 
ground  in  the  direction  of  the  St. 
Louis  road,  disappeared.    I  returned 
home,  thinking  1  nad  lost  all  trace  of 
my  wild  companion,  but  not  so ;  in  a 
few  da3r8  I  found  him  figuring  in  all 
the  newspapers  of  the  province,  in  an 
adventure  with  a  Mr.  rhilips,  which 
occurred  not  many  hours  after  m^ 
own  rencontre.    It  stated  that  this 
gentleman  had  been  attacked,  within 
a  short  distance  of  Quebec,  by  a 
wolvereene,  which,  flying  from  the 
town,  met  him  coming  on  horseback 
in  a  contrary  direction.    The  brute 
turned  to  the  attack,  and  fl3dng  at 
the  rider  repeatedly  endeavoured  to 
seize  his  leg  and  dismount  him,  being 
each  time  driven  back  by  a  shout 
similar  to  the  one  by  which  I  had 
scared  the  creature   from   m^^self ; 
for  the  courage  of  most  wild  animals 
is  cowed  by  the  human  voice.    In 
this  manner,  pursued  by  the  wol- 
vereene, the  horseman  continued  at 
his  utmost  pace  for  upwards  of  a 
mUe,  till,  at  length,  he  reached  a 
house  and  obtamed  shelter ;  no  doubt 
owing  his  life  to  his  own  presence  of 
mind  and  the  speed  of  his  horse,  for 


he  was  without  jirms  of  any  descrip- 
tion. 

Such  adventures,  however,  are  ex- 
tremely rare  in  this  part  of  Canada ; 
but  wnat  rendered  the  case  in  ques- 
tion still  more  singular  was  the  cir- 
cumstance of  the  animal*s  directing 
its  attack  entirely  against  the  rider^ 
for  it  is  more  the  nature  of  beasts  of 
prey  to  fasten  upon  the  animal. 
However,  the  assailant  of  Mr.  Philips 
was  proved,  without  a  doubt,  to  be 
the  nightly  guest  that  had  mfested 
our  garden ;  and,  from  after  circum- 
stances, it  was  supposed  to  have  been 
a  she  wolvereene  with  young,  who, 
having  by  some  chance  been  driven 
fVomthe  woods  to  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  town,  had  become  confused  at 
the  novelty  of  her  situation,  and, 
being  afraid  to  move  during  the  day, 
had  nung  about  the  graveyard  and 
garden  (which,  as  I  before  said,  were 
close  to  each  other),  until,  being 
dislodged,  and  irritated  by  the  dis- 
lodgment,  she  galloped  straight  to 
the  woods  again,  and  then  meeting 
the  unfortunate  Mr.  Philips,  as  it 
were,  intersecting  her  pathway,  she 
took  him  for  an  opponent,  and,  ren- 
dered doubly  savage  by  her  situation 
and  previous  rencontre  with  myself, 

Sursued  him  in  the  unusual  manner 
escribed. 

Some  months  after  this  I  heard 
that  the  carcass  of  a  sheep  had  been 
discovered  partially  buried  in  a  hole 
on  the  top  of  a  high  bank,  not  far 
from  the  spot  where  I  first  met  the 
wolvereene ;  that  is,  about  100  yards 
from  our  house.  With  my  old  com- 
panion fresh  in  my  recollection,  I 
repaired  to  the  spot,  and  found  that 
the  bank,  thick  with  brushwood,  was 
full  eighty  feet  high,  so  steep  that  no 
sheep  could,  unassisted,  have  climbed 
its  height.  To  have  first  killed  and 
then  dragged  the  body  up  the  bank, 
was  a  feat  surpassing  the  strength  of 
a  dog ;  whilst  to  have  left  the  body 
exposed  to  public  view,  would  have 
been  as  little  the  act  of  a  rational 
being.  Moreover,  that  the  sheep 
when  killed  could  scarcely  have  been 
occupying  the  upper  ground,  which 
was  ploughed  land,  and  strongly  en- 
closed ;  whilst  a  day  or  two  previous 
to  the  discovery  of  the  carcass,  a 
small  flock  had  been  seen  feeding 
from  a  meadow  of  excellent  pasturage 
beneath.  Under  all  these  curcur 
stances,  I  was  much  disposed  to  th.' 


330 


The  New  Settlemtut  qf  Vale  Cartiar. 


[March, 


of  the  deed  as  tlie  work  of  the  re- 
doubtable wolverecne,  who  bod  gena- 
rally  been  suwoaed  since  the  rencon- 
tre with  Ur.Tliilips  to  have  lurked 
ia  a  wood  two  or  tnree  milea  dutaot 
fyom  the  town.  In  the  hope  that 
the  animal  would  return  at  dark  to 
devour  hie  prey,  I  repaured  with  A 
friend  to  the  spot  where  the  carcais 
lay,  and  watched  for  some  hours 
after  dark  (both  of  us  being  well 
anued),  but  to  no  purpoic,  bejond 
our  own  disappointment ;  for  the 
wolvereene  (if  such  it  were),  having 
probably  gorged  itself  during  the 
oay,  had  abandoned  the  carcass 
which  by  this  time  had  become  a 
mere  skeleton ;  for  though  when  it 
was  Grat  discovered  the  animal  was 
fresh  killed,  it  was  even  then  one 
half  devoured;  whilst  the  bank  on 
which  it  lay  being  go  thickly  covered 
with  bushes  and  extending  nearly  to 
the  small  wood  (the  reported  haunt 
of  the  nolvereenej,  it  was  very  pos- 
aible  for  that  creature  to  have  visited 
the  spot  unperceived,  even  during 
the  day,  and  to  have  hnished  at  his 
leiaure  what  he  had  previously  be- 
gun. Besides,  it  ia  a  well-known 
tact  that  the  wolvereene,  though  pos- 
sessed of  great  power  of  eaduring 
hunger,  is  capable  of  gorging  an 
animal  much  larger  than  itself  in 
two  or  three  days^  time ;  in  this  re- 
spect almost  surpassing  the  boa  con- 
Btrictw. 

It  is  singular  enough  that  though 
*  the  skin  of  this  animal  is  well-known 
in  the  furriers'  shops,  its  habiU  have 
never  been  fully  described  (  natural- 
ists seem  to  know  but  little  of  it 
beyond  its  name. 

But  1  must  regain  the  thread  of 


my  footsteps  were  be&rdncBr  the  door. 
At  one  of  these,  however,  I  knocked; 
and,  looking  through  the  law  glaie 
window  to  escertaio  if  those  withta 
were  sleeping  or  awake,  I  dbsceracd 
a  French  Canadian  farmer,  a|»pareutiy 
just  returned  from  a  day's  chaue,  it 
a  considerable  distance  from  his 
dwelling.  The  man  held  one  of  the 
long  gpoDish-looking  guns  (comaioii- 
ly  used  by  tiie  haiitaaj)  in  one  hand, 
uid  a  candle  in  the  othier ;  and  upon 
the  table  near  which  h«  stood,  there 
lay  a  powder-hom  and  a  pouj^.  He 
come  to  the  door  upon  m^  annmuHU, 
courteously  enough ;  upon  whicb, 
addressing  him  in  LVench  with  a  bait 
question  r^arding  my  route  (by  wsy 
of  introduction),  I  received  in  return 
an  answer  after  the  well -mannered 
tone  of  hie  race  ;  which,  tempting  me 
to  open  upi»i  him  my  real  business 
in  the  question,  "  Could  he  suwJy 
me  with  horse  and  cart  ?"  a  saddea 
change  in  the  tide  of  things  become 
perceptible.  He  who  had  been,  not 
to  say  couftecHiB,  but  polite,  falsely 
presuming  my  country,  other  b^  my 


abearance 


the    ac«eot   of  my 


VKoch,  turned  angrily  away,  sod 

muttering  between  Jiia  teeth,  "  Jr- 

londois,"  stalked,  gun  and  ail,  inta  aa 

inner  roosi,  shuttuig  to  the  door  wits 

an  evident  determiiiation  to  leave 

my  question  unanswered.    Somewh^ 

wearied,  but  not  altogether  daunted 

by  these  fruitless  effi>rte,  I  msde  stdi 

another  trial,  and  then  but  another. 

In  the  first  the  hght«  were  put  out, 

and  the  family  carefully  clo«ed  m. 

the  moment  I  knocked  at  the  doofi 

which  so  angered  jne,  that,  r^ipB  ' 

tr^nendous  din,  I  hanunered  wit''  **' 

my  might  against  the  door,  eipect- 

iud  a  bead  poppeo  O"' 

f  to  inquire  inM  tie 

disturbance  i  but  no. 

nained  as  before.'"^ 

,  fiuBi  the  contrast  w 

BummoDSj  BO  pmg 

it  of  an  awful  ft"**" 

the  same  time,  fan<7' 

imoatee  who  bad  f> 

leetiooed  mr  ng^'  ^ 

jht  tJte  it  m,  as  pjrt 

between  us,  to  «»  ' 

le  in  my  retr»t)'  ' 

laly  bcbmd  a  Iway 

L  frou  a  short  di«t»«* 

e  door  of  the  bo**- 

road-side,  sooie  tort? 

B  dwelUng-pla«<  >'^ 


um 


The  New  SeitUment  of  Vale  Cartier. 


331 


so  got  again  to  the  highway.  I  had 
determined  upon  but  one  more  trial, 
whkh  made  me  cftutioua  in  aelectuig 
it,  and,  presenting  myself  at  the  win- 
dow, by  way  of  reconnoitre,  I  dis- 
cerned within  a  young  man  and  two 
women,  evidently  keeping  later  hours 
than  the  generality  of  their  neigh- 
bours, for  they  were  seated  in  com- 
fortable enjoyment  by  their  fireside. 

Knocking  at  the  doors  having 
proved  ineffectual,  I  thought  I  woulu 
this  time  make  known  my  wants  by 
means  of  the  window ;  so  calling  to 
the  man  vrithin,  I  begged  he  would 
come  and  speak  to  me  at  either  one 
or  the  other.  A  muttered  ilcuial, 
however,  given  by  a  dosged  shake 
of  the  head,  and  the  churlish  mono- 
syllable, '^  Ko,  no !"  was  all  I  could 
gain  from  him;  until  the  women, 
probably  discerning  from  my  appear- 
ance that  I  was  much  fatigued,  looked 
wistfully  in  their  companion's  face; 
a  silent  appeal  in  my  favour,  but  a 
vain  one;  until  the  two,  tauntingly 
upbraiding  him  with  **  vous  avezpeur^ 
mms  avez  peur  r  the  man  rose  gin- 
gerly, and  with  slow,  cautious  step, 
approached  the  window. 

To  my  question  respecting  a  cart 
and  horse,  ne  informed  me  in  as  few 
words  as  possible  that  at  a  house  a 
little  farther  on,  there  was  a  cart  to 
be  had,  but,  alas !  there  was  ng  horse ; 
and  where  there  was  a  horse,  the 
owner  had  no  cart ;  the  fact  being, 
that  they  would  not  stir  out  of  their 
bed  to  assist  what  they  supposed  to 
be  an  "  Irlandois,"  were  )t  to  save 
his  life ;  so  seeing  that  all  efforts  to 
obtain  a  conveyance  were  ineffectual, 
I  gathered  up  the  little  strength  I 
had  left,  and  proceeded  the  rest  of  the 
way  (about  ten  miles)  still  on  foot. 

The  whole  valley  was  now  in  dark- 
ness, the  inhabitants  having  all  re- 
tired to  rest;  but  a  large  fire,  kindled 
by  the  Indians  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  wood,  which  I  understood  to  be 
at  that  minute  in  use  for  the  manu- 


fecture  of maplesngw.bnnitbriglidy, 
and  served  me  as  a  heaeon  on  my 
way.  I  had  not  proeeeded  fax  belbra 
I  was  met  by  a  cart,  losurel^  driving 
alon^,  with  two  Canadians  in  it.  1 
ran  j03r{ully  forward,  but  to  little 
purpose,  for  to  all  my  entreaties  to 
them  to  stop  and  take  me  in,  I  could 
get  no  answer ;  the  horse  was  put  to 
the  top  of  his  speed,  and,  with  them- 
selves, soon  out  of  siffht.  Thus  com- 
pelled, I  blundered  on  the  rest  of 
the  way  upon  foot,  reaching  my 
home  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  so  completelv  exhausted, 
that  I  believe  a  mile  uirther  would 
have  knocked  me  up,  or  rather 
woiUd  have  been  '^  imnosHble^''  for 
"  knocked  up'"  I  certainly  was  to  the 
full  extent  of  the  word,  having 
walked  nearly  forty  miles  without 
rest,  and  passed  seventeen  hours  un- 
able to  obtain  food ;  for,  relying  upon 
the  chance  of  getting  some  con- 
veyance by  means  of  which  I  might 
finish  my  expedition  with  ease,  I  had 
set  off  wholly  unprovided  with  a 
traveller  s  comforts,  save  and  except 
a  stout  heart  and  a  well-practised 
pair  of  legs. 

In  conclusion,  it  is  but  fair  to  say, 
that  want  of  hospitality  or  even  of 
politeness  is  not  a  general  trait  in 
the  character  of  the  French  Cana- 
dians, for  they  excel  in  both  these 
qualities.  Their  antipathy  and  fear 
of  the  Irish  (for  one  of  whom,  no 
doubt,  they  mistook  me)  will  account 
for  the  behaviour  I  have  observed 
upon  in  the  instance  before  us.  In 
broad  daylight  I  have  gone  amongst 
these  same  people,  experiencing  from 
them  nothing  out  the  utmost  kind- 
ness and  attention,  and  often  I  have 
been  surprised  and  delighted  to  find 
the  habUan  courteouslv  and  even 
gracefully  performing  tne  functions 
of  host,  guide,  or  ferryman,  as  might 
be  required,  without  claiming  or  ex- 
pecting the  slightest  compensation* 


332 


A  Brother  of  the  Press 


[March  9 


A    BROTH£R   OF  THE   PRESS   ON   THE   HISTORY   OF    A    LITERARY  MAK^ 
LAMAN  BLANCHARD,  AKD  THE  CHANCES  OF  THE 
LITERARY  PROFESSION. 


IN  A  LETTER  TO  THE  REVEREND  FRANCIS  SYLVESTER  AT  ROME, 
FROM  MICHAEL  ANGELO  TITMARSH,  ESQ. 


London,  Feb.  20, 1846. 

Mt  dear  Sir, — Our  good  friend  and 
patron,  the  publisher  of  this  Maga* 
zine,  has  brought  me  your  message 
from  Rome,  and  your  demand  to  hear 
news  from  the  other  great  city  of  the 
world.  As  the  forty  columns  of  the 
Times  cannot  satisfy  your  reverence*s 
craving,  and  the  details  of  the  real 
great  revolution  of  England  which 
IS  actually  going  on  do  not  suffi- 
ciently interest  you,  I  send  vou  a 
page  or  two  of  random  speculations 
upon  matters  connected  with  the  li- 
terary profession :  they  were  sug- 
fested  by  reading  the  works  and  the 
iography  of  a  literary  friend  of 
ours,  lately  deceased,  ana  for  whom 
every  person  who  knew  him  had  the 
warmest  and  sincerest  regard.  And 
no  wonder.  It  was  impossible  to 
help  trusting  a  man  so  thoroughly 
generous  and  honest,  and  loving  one 
who  was  so  perfectly  gay,  gentle, 
and  amiable. 

A  man  can*t  enjoy  every  thing  in 
the  world ;  but  what  delightful  mfta 
and  qualites  are  these  to  have !  Not 
having  known  Blanchard  as  inti- 
mately as  some  others  did,  yet,  I  take 
it,  he  had  in  his  life  as  much  plea- 
sure as  falls  to  most  men ;  the  kind- 
est friends,  the  most  affectionate  fa- 
mily, a  heart  to  enjoy  both ;  and  a 
career  not  undistinguished,  which  I 
hold  to  be  the  smallest  matter  of  all. 
But  we  have  a  cowardly  dislike,  or 
compassion  for,  the  fact  of  a  man 
dving  poor.  Such  a  one  is  rich, 
bilious,  and  a  curmudgeon,  without 
heart  or  stomach  to  enjoy  his  money, 
and  we  set  him  down  as  respectable : 
another  is  morose  or  passionate,  his 
whole  view  of  life  seen  blood-shot 
through  passion,  or  jaundiced  through 
moroseness :  or  he  is  a  fool  wno 
can't  see,  or  feel,  or  enjoy  any  thing 
at  all,  with  no  ear  for  music,  no  eye 
for  beauty,  no  heart  for  love,  with 
nothing  except  money:  we  meet 
such  people  every  day,  and  respect 
them  somehow.  Tnat  donkey  browses 
over  five  thousand  acres ;  that  mad- 


man's bankers  come  bowing  him  out 
to  his  carriage.  You  fern  secretly 
pleased  at  shooting  over  the  acres, 
or  driving  in  the  carriage.  At  any 
rate,  nobody  thinks  of  compassion- 
ating their  owners.  We  are  a  race 
of  nunkies,  and  keep  our  pity  for 
the  poor. 

I  don't  mean  to  affix  the  plush  per- 
sonally upon  the  kind  and  distin- 
fuished  gentleman  and  writer  who 
as  written  Blanchard's  Memoir ; 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  couched 
in  much  too  despondent  a  strain; 
that  the  lot  of  the  hero  of  the  little 
story  was  by  no  means  deplorable ; 
and  that  there  is  not  the  least  call  at 
present,  to  be  holding  up  litenuy 
men  as  martyrs.  Even  that  prevail- 
ing sentiment  which  r^rets  that 
means  should  not  be  provided  for 
giving  them  leisure,  for  enabling 
them  to  perfect  great  works  in  retire- 
ment, that  they  should  waste  away 
their  strength  with  fugitive  litera- 
ture, &c.,  I  nold  to  be  often  uncalled 
for  and  dangerous.  I  believe,  if  most 
men  of  letters  were  to  be  pensioned, 
I  am  sorry  to  say  I  believe  they 
wouldn't  work  at  all ;  and  of  others, 
that  the  labour  which  is  to  answer 
the  calls  of  the  day  is  the  one  quite 
best  suited  to  their  genius.  Suppose 
Sir  Robert  Peel  were  to  ivrite  to 
you,  and,  enclosing  a  cheque  for 
20,000/.,  instruct  you  to  pension  any 
fifty  deserving  authors,  so  that  they 
mi^ht  have  leisure  to  retire  and 
write  "  great"  works,  on  whom  would 
you  fix? 

People  in  the  big-book  interest, 
too,  cry  out  against  the  fashion  of 
fugitive  literature,  and  no  wonder. 
For  instance, — 

The  Times  gave  an  extract  the  other 
day  from  a  work  by  one  Doctor  Ca- 
ms, physician  to  the  Kins  of  Saxony, 
who  attended  his  royal  master  on 
his  recent  visit  to  England,  and  has 
written  a  book  concerning  the  jour- 
ney. Among  other  London  lions, 
the  illustrious  traveller  condescended 
to  visit  one  of  the  largest  and  most 


1846.] 


on  the  Hiiiary  of  a  Literary  Man,  ffc. 


333 


remarkable,  certainly,  of  metropolitaa 
roarers — the  Tme^  printmg-offioe ; 
of  which,  the  Doctor,  in  his  capacity 
of  a  man  of  science,  gives  an  exceecU 
ingly  bad,  stupid,  and  blundering  ac- 
count. 

Carus  was  struck  with  ^  disgust,** 
he  f&jSy  at  the  prodigious  size  of  the 
paper,  and  at  the  thought  which  sug- 
gested itself  to  his  mind  firom  this 
enormity.  There  was  as  much  printed 
every  day  as  would  fill  a  thick  vo- 
lume. It  required  ten  years  of  life 
to  aphilosopner  to  write  a  volume. 
The  issuing  of  these  daily  tomes  was 
unfair  upon  philosophers,  who  were 
put  out  of  the  market ;  and  unfair 
on  the  public,  who  were  made  to  re- 
ceive (and,  worse  still,  to  get  a  relish 
for)  crude  daily  speculations,  and 
frivolous  ephemeral  news,  where  they 
ought  to  be  fed  and  educated  upon 
stronger  and  simpler  diet. 

We  have  heaid  this  outcry  a  hun- 
dred times  from  the  big-wig  body. 
The  world  ^ves  up  a  lamentable  por- 
tion of  its  tune  to  fleeting  literature ; 
authors  who  mi^ht  be  occupied  upon 
^reat  works  fntter  away  their  hves 
in  produdng  endless  hasty  sketches. 
Kind,  wise^  and  good  Doctor  Arnold 
deplored  the  &tal  sympathy  which 
the  Pickwick  Ptmern  nad  created 
among  the  boys  of  hiflL school:  and  it 
is  a  fact  that  Pimeh  is  as  regularly 
read  among  the  boys  at  Eton  as  the 
Latin  Grammar. 

Arguing  for  liberty  of  conscience 
against  any  authority,  however  great 
— against  Doctor  Arnold  himself,  who 
seems  to  me  to  be  the  greatest,  wisest, 
and  best  of  men,  that  has  appeared 
for  eighteen  hundred  years;  let  us 
take  a  stand  at  once,  and  ask.  Why 
should  not  the  dinr  have  its  litera- 
ture? Whvshoula  not  authors  make 
light  sketches  ?  Why  should  not  the 

Eublic  be  amused  daily  or  frequently 
y  kindly  fictions  ?  It  is  well  and 
just  for  Arnold  to  object.  light 
stories  of  Jingle  and  Tupman,  and 
Sam  Weller  quips  and  cranks,  must 
have  come  with  but  a  bad  grace  before 
that  pure  and  lofty  soul.  The  trivial 
and  uimiliar  are  out  of  place  there ; 
the  harmless  joker  must  walk  away 
abashed  firom  such  a  presence,  as  he 
would  be  silent  and  hushed  in  a  ca- 
thedral. But  all  the  world  iis  not 
made  of  that  angelic  stuff.  From  his 
very  height  and  sublimity  of  virtue 
he  could  but  look  down  and  deplore 
VOL.  zxzm.  vo.  cxcv. 


the  ways  of  small  men  beneath  hi«i. 
I  mean,  seriously,  that  I  Uiink  the 
man  was  of  so  august  and  sublime  a 
nature,  that  he  was  not  a  fair  judge 
of  us,  or  of  the  ways  of  the  gene- 
rality of  mankind.  One  'has  seen  a 
delioite  person  sicken  and  faint  at 
the  smell  of  a  flower,  it  does  not  fol- 
low that  the  flower  was  not  sweet  and 
wholesome  in  consequence ;  and  I 
hold  that  lauffhing  and  honest  story- 
books are  good,  agunst  all  the  doctors. 

Laughing  is  not  the  highest  occu- 
pation of  a  man,  very  certainly ;  or 
the  power  of  creating  it  the  height  of 
0emu8.  I  am  not  going  to  arg[ue  for 
that.  No  more  is  the  blackmg  of 
boots  the  greatest  occupation.  But 
it  is  done,  and  well  and  honestly,  by 
persona  ordained  to  that  cdling  in 
me,  who  arroeate  to  themselves  (if 
they  are  straigntforward  and  worthy 
shoe-blacks)  no  especial  rank  or  pn- 
vilege  on  account  of  their  calling ; 
and  not  considering  boot-brushing 
the  greatest  effort  S[  earthly  genius, 
neverthdess  select  their  Day  and 
Martin,  or  Warren,  to  the  best  of 
their  judgment ;  polish  their  upper- 
leathers  as  well  as  they  can ;  satisfy 
their  patrons;  and  earn  their  fair 
wage* 

I  have  chosen  the  impolite  shoe-* 
black  comparison,  not  out  of  disre- 
spect to  the  trade  of  literature ;  but 
it  is  as  good  a  craft  as  any  other  to 
select.  In  some  way  or  other,  for 
daily  bread  and  hire,  almost  all  men 
are  labouring  daily.  Without  ne- 
cessity they  would  not  work  at  all» 
or  very  little,  probably.  In  some  in- 
stances you  reap  Beputation  along 
with  Profit  from  your  labour,  but 
Bread,  in  the  mam,  is  the  incentive. 
Do  not  let  us  trv  to  blink  this  fact, 
or  imagine  that  the  men  of  the  presa 
are  working  for  their  honour  and 
^lory,  or  go  onward  impelled  by  an 
irresistible  afflatus  of  genius.  If  only 
men  of  eenius  were  to  ¥rrite,  Lorn 
hdp  usf  how  many  books  would 
there  beP  How  manv  people  are 
there  even  capable  of  appreciating 

SiniusP  Is  Mr.  Wakley*8  or  Mr. 
ume*s  (minion  about  poetry  worth 
much  P  As  much  as  that  of  millions 
of  people  in  this  honest,  stupid  em<* 
pire ;  and  they  have  a  right  to  have 
books  supplied  for  them  as  well  aa 
the  most  polished  and  accomplished 
critics  have.  The  literary  man  ^|ets  h' 
bread  by  providing  g(X)ds  suited 


334 


A  Brother  of  the  Press 


[March, 


the  consumption  of  these.  This  man 
of  letters  contributes  a  police  report; 
that,  an  article  containing  somedown- 
mbt  information;  this  one,  as  aa 
emtor,  abuses  Sir  Robert  Peel,  or 
hiuds  Lord  John  Russell,  or  t^ 
versa  ;  writing  to  a  certain  class  who 
coincide  in  his  views,  or  are  inter- 
ested by  the  question  which  he  moots. 
The  lita:tury  character,  let  us  hope 
or  admit,  vrrites  quite  honestly ;  but 
no  man  supposes  ne  would  work  per- 
petually but  for  mone^^.  And  as  for 
mmiortality,  it  is  quite  beside  the 
bargain.  Is  it  reasonable  to  look  for 
it,  or  to  pretend  that  you  are  actuated 
by  a  desire  to  attain  it  f  Of  all  the 
Qtiill-drivers,  how  many  hare  ever 
orawn  that  prodi^ous  prise  f  Is  it 
Ikir  even  to  ask  tnat  many  should  f 
Out  of  a  regard  for  poor  dear  pos- 
terity and  men  of  letters  to  come,  let 
ns  be  glad  that  the  great  immor- 
tality number  comes  up  so  rarely. 
Mankind  would  hare  no  time  other- 
wise, and  would  be  so  gorged  with 
old  masterpieces,  that  they  could  not 
occupy  themselves  with  new,  and 
fhture  literary  men  would  have  no 
dianoe  of  a  livelihood. 

To  do  your  work  honestly,  to 
amuse  and  instruct  your  reader  of 
to-day,  to  die  when  your  time  comes, 
and  go  hence  witii  as  clean  a  breast 
as  may  be ;  may  these  be  all  youn 
and  ours,  by  6od*8  will.  Let  us  be 
content  with  our  skOw  as  literary 
craftsmen,  telling  the  truth  as  fiir  as 
may  be,  hitting  no  foul  blow,  con- 
descending to  no  servile  puffery,  fill- 
ing not  a  very  lofty,  but  a  manly 
and  honourable  part*  Nobody  says 
that  Dr.  Locock  is  wasting  his  time 
because  he  rolls  about  daily  in  his 
carriage,  and  passes  hours  with  the 
nobility  and  gentrjr,  his  patients,  in- 
stead of  being  in  his  study  wrapt  up 
in  transcendental  medical  meditation. 
Nobodv  accuses  Sir  Fitzroy  Kelly 
of  neglecting  his  senius  because  he 
will  take  any  body^  brief,  and  argue 
it  in  court  for  money,  when  he  might 
St  in  chambers  vrith  his  oak  ported, 
ind  give  up  his  soul  to  investij^- 
aons  of  the  nature,  history,  and  mi- 
^rovement  of  law.  Tfa!ere  is  no 
question  but  that  either  of  these  emi* 
nent  persons,  by  profound  studjr, 
might  increase  their  knowledge  m 
certain  branches  of  their  profession; 
but  in  the  meanwhile  the  practical 
part  must  go  oa-H»u8es  come  on  for 


hearing,  and  ladies  lie  in,  and  some 
one  must  be  there.  The  commodities 
in  whidi  the  lawyer  and  the  doctor 
deal  are  absolutely  required  by  the 

Sublie,  and  liberally  paid  for;  every 
ay,  too,  the  pubbc  requires  more 
literary  handicraft  done ;  the  pncti- 
tioner  in  that  trade  gets  a  betitt  pay 
and  place.  In  another  century,  rerj 
likel  V,  his  work  will  be  so  neceflwy 
to  the  peoj^le,  and  his  maiket  bo 
good,  that  his  prices  will  doable  ind 
treble ;  his  social  rai^  rise ;  he  will 
be  getting  what  they  call  "*  hoMNin,'' 
and  dying  in  the  bosom  of  the  gen- 
teel. Our  calling  is  only  sneered  it 
because  it  is  not  well  j^d.  The 
world  has  no  other  critenon  for  re- 
spectability. In  Heaven's  name,  what 
made  people  talk  of  setting  up  a 
stotue  to  Sir  WUliam  Follett  P  Whit 
hadhedonef  He  had  made  300,OOOL 
What  has  George  IV.  done  that  he, 
too,  is  to  have  a  braaen  image  ?  He 
was  an  exemplar  of  no  greatneBs,  no 
good  quality,  no  duty  in  life;  bnta 
type  of  magnificence,  of  beaotifnl 
coats,  carpets,  and  gigs,  turtie-aonpf 
chandeliers,  eream- coloured  hcvMi 
and  delicious  Maraschino,— all  these 
good  things  he  exptessed  and  repre- 
sented: and  the  world,  respectiiif 
them  beyond  all  others,  raised  stato^ 
to  *Hhe  first  gentleman  in  Europe. 
Directly  the  men  of  kttem  get  ncb^ 
they  wUl  come  m  fbr  their  share  of 
honour  too ;  and  a  ftiture  writer  m 
this  miscellany  may  be  gettinff  ten 
guineas  where  we  get  one,  and  danc* 
ing  at  Buckingham  lUace  wl"|^ 
aira  your  humble  servant,  dear  Pwre 
Fimncesoo,  are  glad  to  smoke  our 
pipes  in  quiet  over  the  sanded  floor 

of  the  little  D . 

But  the  happ3r  homme  de  Wfr«*» 
whom  I  imagine  in  futurity  kicking 
his  heels  w-a-w*  to  a  doch«B  m 
some  fimdango  at  the  court  ofhf' 
majesty's  grandchifalren,  will  be  in 
reality  no  better  or  honester,  * 
more  really  near  ftme,  than  tbeouui' 
driver  of  the  present  day,  vith  nw 
doubtiiil  position  and  small  gantf* 
Fame,  that  {rnerdon  of  hiffh  f^^ 
comes  quite  independent  of  Beik^ 
Square,  and  is  a  imiblieaa  in^j"; 
tion.  Look  around  to  our  ownoJJ 
among  the  holders  of  the  pen:  ^T 
(without  naming  names,  for  that 
odious)  and  count  on  your  m^ 
those  whom  you  will  back  in  *5ll!!*« 
for  immortality.    HowmaDyw^ 


1646.] 


on  the  History  of  a  LUerary  Man,  ^r. 


335 


hmye  you  that  are  left  untold  ?  It  ii 
an  invidious  question.    Alas  I  dear 

,  and  dear  *  *,  and  dear  f  t>  you 

tf ho  think  you  are  safe,  there  is  Pol-^ 
turity,  and  limbo,  and  blackness  fbr 
you,  beloved  intends!  Cras  ingens 
Uerabimus  (Bqwor :  there*s  no  use  de- 
nying it,  or  shirking  the  fact ;  in  we 
must  go,  and  disappear  for  ever  and 
ever. 

And  after  all,  what  is  this  Repu- 
tation, the  cant  of  our  trade^  the  ^oal 
that  every  scribbling  penny-a«lmer 
demurelypretends  tluit  lie  is  hunting 
after?  Wby  should  we  get  it?  Why 
can't  we  do  without  it  f  We  only 
ftncy  we  want  it.  When  people  say 
of  such  and  such  a  man  who  is  dead, 
**  He  neglected  his  talents ;  he  fKt- 
tered  away  in  fhgitive  publications 
time  and  genius,  which  might  have 
led  to  the  production  ofa  great  work  ;^' 
this  is  the  gist  of  Sir  Bulwer  Lyt^ 
ton's  kind  and  affecting  biographical 
notice  of  our  dear  fHend  andoomrade 
Laman  Blanchard,  who  passed  away 
so  melabcholily  last  year. 

I  don't  know  any  thing  more  dis<> 
Batisfiutory  and  absurd  than  that 
insane  test  of  firiendship  which  has 
bean  set  up  by  some  literary  men, 
vis.  admiration  of  their  works,  Bsky 
that  this  picture  is  bad,  or  that  poem 
poor,  or  tnat  article  stupid,  and  there 
are  ootaia  authors  and  artists  among 
us  who  set  you  down  as  an  enemy 
forthwith,  or  look  upon  you  as  a 
faux-'fr^e.  What  is  there  in  com- 
mon with  the  friend  and  his  work  of 
art  f  The  picture  or  article  once  done 
and  handed  over  to  the  public,  is  the 
latter's  property,  not  the  author's, 
and  to  be  esttnuited  according  to  its 
honest  value;  and  so,  and  without 
malice,  I  question  Sir  Bulwer  Lyt- 
ton's  statement  about  Blanchard,  vie. 
that  he  would  have  been  likely  to 
produce  with  leisure,  and  under  &- 
vourable  cireunistances,  a  work  of 
the  highest  class.  I  think  his  educa- 
tion and  habits,  his  quick,  eai|y  man- 
ner, his  snarkling,  hidden  fun,  con- 
stant tenoemess  and  brilliant  good 
homour,  were  best  ^n^oyed  as  they 
were.  At  anj  rate  he  liad  a  duty, 
much  mors  unperative  upon  him 
than  the  pr^aration  of  ouestionable 
mat  works, — ^to  get  his  mmily  their 
dinner.  A  man  must  be  a  very  Great 
man,  indeed,  before  he  can  n^lect 
this  precaution. 

His  three  volumes  of  essays^  plea- 


sant and  often  brilliant  as  they  are, 

S've  no  idea  of  the  powers  of  the  au- 
tor,  or  even  of  his  natural  manner, 
which,  as  I  think,  was  a  thevnand 
times  more  agreeable.  He  was  Kke 
the  good  little  child  in  the  fury  tale, 
his  mouth  dropped  out  all  sorts  of 
diamonds  and  ruoies.  His  wit,  whidi 
was  always  playing  and  frisking  about 
the  company,  had  the  wonderful 
knack  of  never  hurting  any  body. 
He  had  the  most  sin^lar  art  of  dis- 
ooveiia^  good  quahties  in  people; 
in  discoursing  of  which  the  kindly 
little  feUow  lued  to  glow  and  kindle 
up,  and  emphasise  with  the  most 
charming  energy.  Good-natured  ac- 
tions of  others,  good  jokes,  favourite 
verses  of  friends,  he  would  bring  out 
fondly,  whenever  they  met,  or  there 
was  question  of  them ;  and  he  used  to 
toss  and  dandle  their  sayings  or  doinss 
about,  and  hand  them  round  to  the 
company,  as  the  delightftil  Miss 
Slowboy  does  the  baby  in  the  last 
Christmas  Book.  What  was  better 
than  wit  in  his  talk  was,  that  it  was 
so  genial.  He  etgoifed  thoroughly, 
and  chirped  over  his  wine  with  a 

rl  humour,  that  could  not  fail  to 
infectious.  His  own  hospitality 
was  delightftd :  there  was  something 
about  it  charmingly  brisk,  simple, 
and  kindly.  Howne  used  to  laugh  I 
As  I  write  this,  what  a  number  of 
pleasant,  hearty  scenes  come  back! 
One  can  hear  his  jolly,  clear  lau^- 
ter ;  and  see  his  keen,  kind,  beaming 
Jew  face, — a  mixture  of  Mendelssohn 
and  Voltaire. 

Sir  Bulwer  Lytton*s  account  of 
him  will  be  read  by  all  his  friends 
with  pleasure,  and  by  the  world  as  a 
not  uncurious  specimen  of  the  bio- 
graphy of  a  literary  roan.  The  me- 
moir savours  a  little  too  much  of  the 
funeral  oration.  It  might  have  been 
a  little  more  particular  and  familiar, 
so  as  to  give  the  public  a  more  inti- 
mate acquaintance  with  one  of  the 
honestest  and  kindest  of  men  who 
ever  lived  by  pen ;  and  yet,  after  a 
long  and  friendly  intercourse  with 
Blanchard,  I  believe  the  praises  Sir 
LytUm  bestows  on  his  character  are 
by  no  means  exanerated :  it  is  only 
the  style  in  whien  they  are  given, 
which  is  a  little  too  funereally  en- 
comiastic. The  memoir  begins  in  this 
way,  a  pretty  and  touching  design  of 
Mr.  Kenny  Meadows  heading  the 
biography :— 


A  Brdther  of  the  Prett 


3^6 

"  To  tDMt  of  ihoM  wbo  biTC  auied 
geoanllf  with  tbs  msu,  who,  in  our  At,j, 
ban  ohouD  liMntarc  >i  their  profMitoo, 
Iho  Mine  of  Liitua  Bluichtrd  briogi  ra- 
ooIl«01iOD«  of  pecaliu  undeman  ■nd  re- 
gret. Amidit  »  career  which  the  k«eii< 
Deoa  of  inzioui  rivUry  renden  ■  ibvp 
piobalion  to  the  temper  lod  Ibe  tSec- 
tioni,  often  yet  mora  embittered  hj  that 
atrife  of  party,  of  which,  id  a  Repraaenta- 
tin  Conititation,  faw  meo  of  letten 
■acape  the  eager  paiaiona  and  the  angry 
prejudice — Ibay  recall  the  memorj  of  a 
competitor,  without  envy  ;  a  partisan, 
without  gall ;  fins  ai  iha  firmeat  in  the 
maintcnaace  of  big  own  opiaiooa ;  but 
gentle  aa  the  gentleat  inlhejudgminlha 
pMaad  on  othen. 

"  Who.  amoag  our  London  brother- 
hood of  lellan,  doin  notmiaa  that  (imple 
cheerful  neaa — that  inborn  and  exqniute 
urbanity — Ibat  cbild-lika  readiaeia  to  be 
plaaaed  wilb  ell — that  happy  tandaucy  to 
panegyiiae  every  merit,  and  to  be  lament 
to  orery  fault  1  Who  doeanot  recall  that 
acute  and  delicate  aeniibility — lo  eaaily 
wounded,  and  therefore  ao  careful  not  lo 
vouad— which  aeemed  to  iufuae  a  certain 
intellectaal  fine  hreediog,  of  forbearance 
and  aympatby,  into  evety  aociety  where 
It  iuainnated  ill  genlle  wayl  Who,  in 
conTiTial  meeting!,  doea  not  misa,  and 
will  not  miaa  lor  ater,  ihe  awaetneaa  of 

thoie  unpretending  lalcnif the  earneat- 

neia  of  that  honeity  which  Beamed  nn* 
conaeioua  it  wu  worn  ao  lightly — iha 
mild  influanca  of  that  aiuberaat  kind- 
neea,  vrbich  aofteoed  Iha  acrimony  of 
jonng  diiputanta,  and  reconciled  the  ae- 
«rel  aniinoaitiei  of  jealous  riTala)  Yet 
flaw  men  had  experienced  more  to  aour 
tbem  tban  Lamaa  Blancbard,  or  had  gone 
more  reaolutely  through  the  authot'a 
hardening  ordeal  of  narrow  circumalanea, 
of  daily  labour,  and  of  thai  Oiaappoint- 
mant  in  tha  higher  aima  of  ambitioii, 

_l.(.u .-, : ...L._u,f^m^ 

xoellenoe, 
d  leiaare, 

wa  for  the 

"rajgle."! 


ly  fipdy 
lui  irrila- 
eatbe  in- 

lependiag 
tellectuaf, 
baautifal 


[Marcti. 


thnaiaam  for  what  ii  great,  aod  oacaJcn- 
lating  faith  in  trhal  ia  good. 

"  It  i>,  regarded  thut,  that  the  ehvne- 
(ar  of  Laman  BUnchard  aiaumaa  aa  in- 
taieat  of  a  very  eleraled  order.  Ha  wai 
a  chnce  and  worthy  example  of  Ihe  pTO> 
feaaional  Engliah  men  of  lettera  in  oar 
day.  He  ia  not  lo  be  conaidered  in  the 
light  of  the  man  of  daring  and  turbulent 


umny  and  a. 
His  was  a  career  not  indeed  obacure,  but 
aufficieally  qniet  and  unnolioed  to  be 
aolaoed  with  little  of  the  pleaanra  with 
which,  in  aapiranl*  of  a  noiaiar  Jkae, 
gratified  and  not  ignoble  ranity  i«wardi 
the  labour  and  atimulatea  the  hope.  For 
mora  than  twaoly  yeari  be  toiled  m 
throQgh  tha  moat  fatiguing  palhi  of  lite. 
rary  compoiition,  tnoatlj  in  periodicata, 
often  anonymously  ;  pleaaing  and  lightly 
inatructing  thousanda,  but  gaining  none 
of  the  prizes,  whether  of  weighty  >«pntB. 
tion  or  popular  renown,  which  more  for- 
tunate onaDce>,orTnore  pretending  modes 
of  investing  talent,  haie  gircn  in  oar 
day  to  men  of  half  his  merits." 

Not  a  feature  in  thii  charming 
chancier  »  flattered,  as  fkr  aa  I  know. 
Did  the  ml^ject  of  the  memcHr  ftel 
ditappointiiinit  in  the  higlier  aims  <£ 
ambition  P  Was  his  career  not  solaced 
with  pleasure  f  Was  his  noble  m11- 
ine  a  thankless  one?  I  have  said 
betore,  hia  calling  was  not  tfaankleH; 
his  career,  in  the  main,  pleasant ;  hia 
disappointmeDt,  if  he  had  one  ofthe 
higher  aims  of  ambition,  one  that 
might  not  uneanlf  be  home.  If 
everj  man  ia  disappointed  beeanae 
he  cannot  reach  supretne  excellence, 
what  a  mad,  misanthropical  world 
onra  would  be  I  Why  sbonld  men 
of  letten  um  higher  than  they  can 
hit,  or  be  "disappointed"  with  the 
share  of  bruns  God  has  given  them  i 
Nor  can  you  say  a  man's  career  is 
unpleasant  who  was  so  heartily  liked 
and  appreciated  as  Blanchard  waa. 


He  had  to  bear  with  some,'  bat  not 
unbearable  poverty.  At  home  he 
had  every  thing  to  satisfy  his  affec- 
tion: abroad,  every  sympathy  and 
consideration  met  this  nnivermllj- 
esteemed,  good  man.  Such  a  calling 
as  hia  is  not  thankless,  snrely.  Away 
with  this  discontent  and  morbid  crav- 
ing for  renown  I  A  man  who  writes 
(Tennyson's)  Ulj/uei,  or  Conuu,  may 
put  in  his  clum  for  &me  if  you  will, 
and  demand  and  deserve  it :  but  it 


1846.]  on  the  History  qfa  Literary  Uan^  ^-c, 


337 


requires  no  vast  power  of  intellect  to 
write  most  sets  of  words,  and  have 
them  printed  in  a  book : — To  write 
this  article  for  instance,  or  the  Uist 
novel,  pamphlet,  book  of  travels. 
Most  men  with  a  decent  education 
and  practice  of  the  pen,  could  eo  and 
do  the  like,  were  they  so  pro^ssion- 
ally  urged.  Let  such  fall  into  the 
rank  and  file,  and  shoulder  their 
weapons,  and  load,  and  fire  cheer- 
fully. An  every-dav  writer  has  no 
more  right  to  repine  because  he  loses 
the  great  prizes,  and  can*t  write  like 
ShaEspeare,  than  he  has  to  be  en- 
vious of  Sir  Robert  Feel,  or  Wel« 
lington^  or  King  Hudson,  or  Tag- 
lioni.  Because  the  sun  shines  above, 
is  a  man  to  warm  himself  and  ad- 
mire ;  or  to  despond  because  he  can*t 
in  his  person  nare  uplike  the  sun  ? 
I  don't  believe  that  JBlanchard  was 
by  any  means  an  amateur-martyr,  but 
was,  generally  speaking,  very  de- 
cently satisfied  with  his  condition. 

Here  is  the  account  of  his  early 
history — a  curious  and  interesting 
one: — 

^*  Samuel  LamaD  Blanchard  was  bom 
of  respectable  parents  in  the  middle  class 
at  Great  Yarmoath,  on  the  loth  of  May» 
1803.  His  mother's  maiden  came  was 
Mary  Laman.  She  married  first  Mr. 
Cowell,  at  St.  John*8  Church,  Bermond- 
sey,  about  the  year  1796  ;  he  died  in  the 
folJowing  year.  In  1799,  she  was  mar- 
ried again,  to  Samuel  Blaochard,  by  whom 
she  had  seven  children,  hut  only  one  son, 
the  third  child,  christened  Samuel  Laman. 

*'  In  1805,  Mr.  Blanchard  (the  father) 
appears  to  have  removed  to  the  metropo* 
lis,  and  to  have  settled  in  Southwark  as  a 
painter  and  glazier.  He  was  enabled  to 
give  his  boy  a  good  education — an  edu- 
cation, indeed,  of  that  kind  which  could 
not  but  unfit  young  Laman  for  the  calling 
of  his  father  ;  for  it  developed  the  abilities 
and  bestowed  the  learning,  which  may  be 
said  to  lift  a  youth  morally  out  of  trade, 
and  to  refine  him  at  once  into  a  gentleman. 
At  six  years  old  he  was  entered  a  scholar 
of  St.  Olave's  school,  then  under  the 
direction  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Blenkorm.  Ua 
became  the  bead  Latin  scholar,  and  gained 
the  chief  prize  in  each  of  the  last  three 
years  he  remained  at  the  academy .  W  hen 
be  left,  it  was  the  wish  of  the  master  and 
trustees  that  he  should  be  sent  to  college, 


one  boy  being  annnaUy  selected  from  the 
pupils,  to  be  maintained  at  the  Dnirersity, 
for  the  freshman's  year,  free  of  eipense ; 
for  the  charges  of  the  two  remaining 
years  the  parents  were  to  povide.  So 
strong,  however,  were  the  hopes  of  the 
master  for  his  promising  pupil,  that  the 
trustees  of  the  school  consented  to  depart 
from  their  ordinary  practice,  and  offered 
to  defray  the  collegiate  expenses  for  two 
years.  Unfortunately,  the  offer  was  not 
accepted.  No  wonder  that  poor  Lamaa 
regretted  in  after  life  &e  loss  of  this 
golden  opportunity.  The  adTantagea  of 
an  university  career  to  a  young  man  ia 
his  position,  with  talents  and  application, 
but  without  interest,  birth,  and  fortune, 
are  incalculable.  The  pecuniary  inde« 
pen()ence  afforded  by  the  scholarship  and 
the  fellowship  is  in  itself  no  despicable 
prospect ;  but  the  benefiU  which  distinc 
tion,  fairly  won  at  those  noble  and  un- 
rivalled institutions,  confers,  are  the 
greatest  where  least  obvious :  they  tend 
usually  to  bind  the  vagueness  of  youth« 
ful  ambition  to  the  secure  reliance  oa 
some  professional  career,  in  which  they 
smootn  the  difliculties  and  abridge  the 
novitiate.  Even  in  literature  a  college 
education  not  only  tends  to  refine  the 
taste,  but  to  propitiate  the  public.  And 
in  all  the  many  walks  of  practical  and 
public  life,  the  honours  gained  at  the 
University  never  fail  to  find  well-wishers 
amongst  powerful  contemporaries,  and 
to  create  generous  interest  in  the  for* 
tunes  of  the  aspirant. 

"  But  my  poor  friend  was  not  destined 
to  have  one  obstacle  amoothed  away 
from  bis  weanr  path.*  With  the  natural 
refinement  of  his  disposition,  and  the 
fiital  cultivation  of  his  intellectual  sua* 
ceptibilities,  he  was  placed  at  once  in 
a  situation  which  it  was  impossible 
that  he  could  fill  with  steadiness  and 
seal.  Fresh  from  classical  studies,  and 
his  emulation  warmed  by  early  praise  and 
school-boy  triumph,  he  was  transferred 
to  the  drudgerv  of  a  desk  in  the  office  of 
Mr.  Charles  Pearson,  a  proctor  in  Doc- 
tora'  Commons.  The  result  was  ineWU 
able ;  bis  mind,  by  a  natural  reaction, 
betook  itself  to  the  pursuits  most  hostile 
to  such  a  career*  Before  this,  eren  from 
the  age  of  thirteen,  he  had  trifled  with 
the  Muses;  be  now  conceived  in  good 
earnest  the  more  perilous  passion  for  the 
stage. 

"Barry  Comwairs  VTamatic  Scenes 
were  published  about  this  time, — they 
exercised  considerable  influence  orer  the 


9  <iTbe  elder  Blsnchard  is  not  to  be  blamed  for  voluntarily  depriTinghis  son  of  the 
advantages  proffered  by  the  liberal  trustees  of  St.  Olave's ;  it  appears  from  a  eommuni- 
cation  by  Mr.  Keymer  (brother-in-law  to  Laman  Blanchard)— that  the  ciroumstanoee 
of  the  family  at  that  time  were  not  such  as  to  meet  the  necessary  expenses  of  a  stu- 
dent—even  for  the  laU  year  of  his  residence  at  the  university ." 


M.'ttil 


A  Brotktr  Of  the  freu 


(^JHVCD, 


r 


(ula  vnA  ui^titiona  of  jouagc  BlaMbinl 
—  Milt  RtRnr  dnmarie  iketchM  of  Uil- 
linnlpnimitr,  b(«r>nf  bii  jnlli*)*, S. L.  B. 
■p|>»iiml  in  >  prnodicil  wark  uiilinp 
M  lh*(  ptrioJ.  nlltd  Tlf  Drmma.  In 
ihnin.  Ihoujth  lb*  cnorrplion  tnd  gancnl 
l»«lm*nl  ir*  bnirowMl  Vnxn  Binr  Con- 
whII,  tb*  *vjH  uid  rfavthm  ira  ntber 
mniltllfit  on  tk*  pMuliiritm  of  Bjftod. 
Iliilr  pnim)M  1«  not  th*  I«m  for  tb« 
iMiilMtiMl  (lirr  bMraj.  11n  Torjelwnc. 
Uriilic  <>r|/ntu«  ia'io  b*  jaiuiiTc— fint 
ofiulboro.  iWn  oFntturc.  Dooklleadua 


K>|wrli-i>n>  in  nM 

whii-h  riUoiir  ou 

Iho  alvlv  onir  bcronra  oHginil  in  pro- 

imilliiii  ■■  tliB  tBntiurnt  it  ■ipranei  ia 

■limnt.     Mnn>  imirhiof  >  Ihvnrerc,  than 

1h«»    llmMHtir  Skttttin,  wu  *  l^rioal 

finiiilon  nn  ili*  dMih  of  Sidiwjr  Iratind, 


K  iiRuivil  liti  bIiIhI  laa  aftar  thil  ttriy 
irlniul.  At  iMa  iMtiod.  Mr.  UougUi 
.IrrniM  li*(l  wrltlan  >hn«  Tolnme*  of  Mo- 
mI  l'lillMo|>l>y,  and  Mr.  Huckdone.  ibe 
rolcliralnl  pimiadlitn.  rolualnrKl  to  copy 
lh«  work  liir  lh*Jur>iiJl*  monliat.  Oa 
•trUliii  M  iMj  jMiMy*  tliii  itniok  hia 
hncvi  Mr.  llurVaion*  ronimuaioated  his 
lUllljIil  lu  Ilia  ttiBnd  Hlunohard,  and  Iha 
•mulalliin  lliua  uxciihI  tpnd*il  oiora  and 
ninrv  In  atiariiaii  llin  pnrt'a  dialula  10 
all  iivnmilniia  ln«>mjiatiMi>  with  litsra- 
liiin.  Aiiiliiiii,  liitfi*  Aral  inalanee,  to 
■■riii|ia  tvma   <l<i|>nnil»noD  un  hii  Talhar, 

Iwti»  naa  niiw  uriiinl  llial  ha  abouM 
■a>«  tliB  |.rnel..r'a>rr>k  for  lh«  alJl!  more 
Uiifliiiilal  niai  iianlini  oF  Ih*  pttanial 
Iraila).  )ia  mtillluloil  Ilia  baat  of  all  pra- 


Hm  Iniliad  am  Ihaj'  Jii  Ihia  oouatty  wlio 
!■  arat  aiidnaadait  amfnanlly  in  (hs 
■raluia  v1  iha  iliKa,  who  LiTa  not 
•llhar  UI.A  lia  liDnnit.or  ilvod  habitnalljr 
In  III  atmoapbaia.     tllnnclianl  obtainad 


H« 


-hla  f 


\Bf  •xquiil 
aun  waa  dallrhlad  with  bia  powert,  bat 
ba  lind  aiparlanoa  and  iriKlom  lo  cool 
bia  proraaaionnl  aathuaiiam,  aod  be  aar- 
naatly  adriaad  ilia  niiiiraDt  not  to  Uiink 
of  tbe  aUra.  Ho  drow  auoh  a  pjoturo  of 
tba  baiaidaofauccaaa— (boebalaclea  la  ■ 
poailion — (ha  preeariouanoH  evaa  of  a 
■nfaaialaoca,  that  ttis  poor  boy'a  twart 
wink  within  bin.  Ha  waa  aboat  to  ra. 
miga  Liioaalf  lo  obacurilyuid  tnda,  wbui 
Ima  auddanlv  fdl^  in  with  tba  nunagar  of 
thaatre ;    tbit 


propoaed  to  eatoll  \iwL  in  kia  ewm  troop. 
and  ihe  propowl  iraa  aagcrlj  aocafHail, 
inapite  of  (ha  wmnaga  of  Ur.  Hcaij 
Jobnatoo.  '  A  weak,'  aBys  Hr.  Back- 
Klose  (to  Rbon  I  am  iaiiiMiA  tot  ihaaa 
purlicuUis,  wai  wboaa  voi^  I  bow 
qoMe},  '  waa  laSdwnt  lo  dkgost  kim 
with  th«  h  -    .      .  »  ... 

countrf  plajar'a 

gate  to  London  Bridge  at  that  dar. 

f___  _j  .  . »^-  ■-  -n  iMt,baT. 

bnl  hii  kit 

varitaU*  Uat  aliil- 


e  heggarr  anil  drndgny  of  iba 
plajaTa  life  ;   and  a»  there  wm 


ffreat  excilcmaot ;  inibrmed  me  that  hii 
tathet  had  turned  Mm  out  of  doora ;  Uul 
be  was  utterly  hopeleaa  and  wrelcbeil, 
■ad  via  raaolred  lo  daatro;  biiiueK_  f 
tiled  my  boat  endeaionra  to  ooniole  hna. 
to  lead  his  thoagbia  lo  the  faluiR,  u' 
hope  in  what  ehaoee  aul  pecaairamM 
miEkt  affeot  (or  btia.  Oar  diMoatH 
l«Dk  a  liralior  turn ;  aad  aftor  noakiac  op 
a  bed  on  a  aofa  in  my  owo  rw»a,  J  i«- 
tiied  to  reat.  1  aoou  alept  aonndly,  bat 
wai  awakened  hy  hearintr  a  footatep  de- 
Bcanding  the  ttairs.  I  looked  loinrili 
the  aofk,  and  diaooTored  be  bad  left  i'; 
I  heard  the  atrmt  door  cloae  ;  I  initantly 
hurried  on  my  clothaa,  and  followed  bin); 
1  called  to  him,  but  reoeived  no  aoawat ; 


;  Ii« 


jwer  me.  Slill  continaing  bis  pace,  I 
became  ahnned,  and  doobled  niy  apea^ 
I  came  up  with  him  near  lo  Weatminslcr 
Uridge  ;  ha  waa  harrying  to  the  atepa 
leading  to  the  rirer;  I  leiied  Lim ;  b» 
tbreatcned  to  atrike  me  if  I  did  not  rv- 
teaae  him ;  1  called  for  the  watch  ;  I 
entreated  bim  to  return ;  he  becaina 
mote  pacified,  but  still  aeemedmxiogilo 
cac^  A'om  me.  BjeBtreatiea;  by  erery 
meana  of  perauaaion  I  could  think  ot;  hj 
Ihraata  to  call  for  help;  I  ancceeded  in 
taking  him  back.  Tbe  neit  day  be  wi> 
mors  eompoaed,  hot  I  beltere  rarely  rS' 
aided  with  hia  hther  after  that  time.  Ne- 
eeaaitr  compelled  bIm  to  do  aometbiDE 
for  a  liTelibood,  and  in  time  he  became 
a  reader  in  the  office  of  tbe  Meaan- 
Bayliaa,  ia  Float  Street.  By  tbat  am- 
ploy.  joined  to  frequent  eoDtribntioos  to 
tbe  Mmlhtii  MagaMint,  at  that  lime  pub- 
liabad  by  lb«m,  he  obtained  >  tolerable 
eompeleaoc. 

"  -  Blaucbard  and  Jarrold  had  Hrioui 
tboughta  of  jaiaiDg  Lord  Byron  iu 
Creace;  they  were  to  baoimia  wsrnun, 


It^ 


laoo.    Maay 


in  tbe  libaratioa  of 


■i,i«i, . 


1846.] 


on  the  Huioty  €fa  L%terar%^  Man,  Sfc. 


339 


4»iag  found  theuk  diseasaing  Ui«ir  pro- 
ject Jn  tbe  midat  of  one  of  these  die- 
cueeione  thej  were  caught  ie  a  shower 
of  rain,  and  aoagbt  shelter  under  a  gate- 
way. The  rain  contiuued ;  when  their 
liatience  becoming  exhausted.  Blanehanl, 
buttoning  up  his  coat,  exclaimed,  '  Come 
on,  Jerrold !  what  ase  shall  we  be  to  the 
Greeks  if  we  stand  up  for  a  shower  of 
rainl*  So  they  walked  home  and  were 
heroically-  wet  through.' '' 

It  would  have  been  worth  while 
to  tell  this  tale  more  fiilly ;  not  to 
envelope  the  chief  personage  in  fine 
words,  as  statuaries  do  their  sitters  in 
Koman  to^as,  and,  making  them 
assume  the  heroic-conventional  look, 
take  away  from  them  that  infinitely 
more  interesting;  one  which  Nature 
^ve  them,  u  would  have  been 
well  if  we  could  have  had  this  stirring 
little  story  in  detail.  The  young 
fellow,  forced  to  the  proctor's  d^, 
quite  angry  with  tne  drudgery, 
tneatre  «  stneken,  poetry  -  stricken, 
'Vfriting  dramatic  sKetclies  in  Bany 
ComwalFs  manner,  spouting  Leomdas 
before  a  manager,  dnven  away  starv- 
ing from  home,  and,  penniless  and  Aill 
of  romance,  courting  his  beautiful 
young  wife.  "  Come  an^  Jerrold! 
what  use  shall  we  Jfe  to  the  Greeks 
if  we  stand  up  for  a  shower  of  rain  .*" 
Ilow  the  native  humour  breaks  out 
of  the  man !  Those  who  knew  them 
can  fancy  the  efiect  of  such  a  pair  of 
warriors  steering  the  Greek  fire-^ips, 
or  manning  the  breach  at  Missolongni. 
Then  there  comes  that  pathetic  little 
outbreak  of  despair,  when  the  poor 
young  fellow  is  nearly  giving  up; 
his  father  banishes  him,  no  one  will 
buy  his  poetry,  he  has  no  chance  on 
his  darling  theatre,  no  chance  of  the 
wife  that  he  is  longing  for.  Why 
not  finish  with  life  at  once  ?  He  has 
read  Werter^  and  can  understand 
suicide.  "  None,"  he  says,  in  a  son- 
net,— 

"  None,  not  tbe  hoariest  sage,  may  tell 

of  all 
The  strong  heart  struggles  with  before 

it  fell." 

If  Respectability  wanted  to  point  a 
moral,  isn't  there  one  here  P  Eschew 
poetry,  avoid  the  theatre,  stick  to 
your  business,  do  not  read  German 
novels,  do  not  marry  at  twenty. 
Ail  these  injunctions  seem  to  hang 
naturally  on  the  story. 

And  yet  the  young  poet  marries 


at  twenty,  in  the  teeth  of  poverty  and 
experience;  labours  away,  not  un« 
sttcoeesfully;,  puts  Pegasus  into  har- 
nessi,  rises  in  social  nmk  and  public 
estiraaliQii,  brings  up  happily  round 
him  an  affeetionate  fanmy,  gets  lor 
himself  a  circle  of  the  wannest  friends, 
and  thus  carries  on,  for  twenty  yean, 
when  a  providential  calamity  visits 
him  and  the  poor  wife  almost  to- 
gether, and  removes  them  b^. 

In  the  b^^inning  of  1844,  Mrs. 
Blanchard,  his  affectionate  We  and 
the  excellent  mother  of  his  children, 
was  attacked  with  paralysis,  which 
impaired  her  mind  and  terminated 
fatally  at  the  end  of  the  year.  Her 
husband  was  constantly  with  her, 
occupied  by  her  side,  wliilst  watching 
her  distressing  malady,  in  his  daily 
task  of  literary  business.  Her  illness 
had  the  severest  effect  upon  1dm. 
He,  too,  was  attacked  witn  partial 
paralysis  and  congestion  of  the  brain, 
during  which  fint  seizure  his  wife 
died.  The  rest  of  the  story  was  told 
in  all  the  newsnapers  of  the  beginning 
of  last  year.  Itallying  partially  from 
his  fever  at  times,  a  su£len  catastrophe 
overwhelmed  him.  On  the  night  of 
the  14th  February,  in  a  eust  of  de- 
lirium, having  his  little  boy  in  bed 
by  his  side,  and  having  said  the 
Lord's  Prayer  but  a  short  time  be- 
fore, he  sprang  out  of  bed  in  the 
absence  of  his  nurse  ^whom  he  had 
besought  not  to  leave  him),  and  made 
away  with  himself  with  a  razor.  He 
was  no  more  guilty  in  his  death 
than  a  man  who  is  murdered  by  a 
madman,  or  who  dies  of  the  rup- 
ture of  a  blood-vessel.  In  his  last 
prayer  he  asked  to  be  forgiven,  as  he 
in  his  whole  heart  forgave  others; 
and  not  to  be  led  into  that  irresistible 
temptation  under  which  it  pleased 
Heaven  that  the  poor  wandering 
spirit  should  succumb. 

At  the  very  moment  of  his  death 
his  friends  were  making  the  kindest 
and  most  generous  exertions  in  his 
behalf.  Such  a  noble,  loving,  and 
generous  creature,  is  never  without 
such.  The  world,  it  is  pleasant  to 
think,  is  always  a  good  and  ffentle 
world  to  the  gentle  and  ^ooo,  and 
reflects  the  benevolence  with  which 
they  regard  it.  This  memoir  con- 
tains an  affecting  letter  from  the 
poor  fellow  himself,  which  indicates 
Sir  Edward  Bulwer*s  admirable  and 
delicate  generosity  towards  him. 


340 


A  Brother  of  the  Press 


[Match, 


bless  and  thank  yon  always,**  writes 
the  kindly  and  affectionate  sonl,  to 
another  excdlent  friend,  Mr.Fonter. 
There  were  other  friends,  such  as 
Air.  Fonblanque,  Mr.  .Ainsworth,' 
with  whom  he  was  connected  in 
literary  labour,  who  were  not  less 
eager  to  serve  and  befriend  him. 

As  soon  as  he  was  dead,  a  number 
of  other  persons  came  forward  to 
provide  means  for  the  maintenance 
of  his  orphan  family.  Messrs.  Cha]^ 
man  ana  Hall  took  one  son  into  their 
publishing-house,  another  was  pro- 
vided in  a  merchant's  house  in  the 
Ci^,  the  oUier  is  of  an  age  and  has 
the  talents  to  follow  and  succeed  in 
his  faUier*s  profession.  Mr.  Col- 
bum  and  Mr.  Ainsworth  gave  up 
their  copyrights  of  his  Essays,  whicn 
are  now  prmted  in  three  handsome 
volumes^  for  the  benefit  of  his  chil- 
dren. 

The  following  is  Sir  Edward  Bul- 
wer*8  just  estimate  of  the  writer : — 

"  It  rematni  now  to  speak  (and  I  will 
endeavour  to  do  ao  not  too  partially)  of 
the  talents  which  Laman  Bkuachard  dis- 
played,  and  of  the  writings  he  has  left 
behind. 

*'  His  habits,  as  we  have  seen,  neces- 
sarilv  forbade  the  cultivation   of  deep 
scholarship,  and   the  careful  develo^e- 
ment  of  serious  thought*    But  his  in- 
formation upon  all  that  interested  the 
day  was,  for  the  same  reason,  various 
and  extending  over  a  wide  surface.    His 
observation  was  quick  and  lively.    He 
looked  abroad  with  an  inquiring  eye,  and 
noticed  the  follies  and  humoups  of  men 
with  a  light  and  pleasant  gaiety,  which 
wanted  but  the  necessary  bitterness  (that 
was  not  in  him)  to  take  the  dignity  of 
Hire.    His  style  and  his   conceptions 
ere  not  marked  by  the  vi^ur  which 
mes  partly  from  concentration  of  intel- 
ct,  and  partly  from  heat  of  passion  ; 
It  they  evince,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
irity  of  taste,  and  a  propriety  of  feeling, 
hion  preserve  him  from  the  caricature 
ad  exaggeration  that  deface  many  com- 
jiosttionB  obtaining  the  praise  ot  broad 
humour  or  intense  purpose.    His  fancy 
did  not  soar  high,  but   its   play    was 
sportive,  and  it  sought  its  aliment  witli 
the  graceful  instincts  of  the  poet.    He 
certainly  never  fulfilled  the  great  promise 
which  nis  Lyrie  Offfrimgs  held  forth. 
He  never  wrote  up  to  the  full  mark  of 
his  powers;  the  fountain  never  rose  to 
the  level  of  its  source.    But  in  our  day 
'he  professional  man  of  letters  is  com. 
^lled  to  draw  too  frequently,  and  by  too 
'11  disbursements,  upon  his  capital,  to 
V  large  and  profitable  investments  of 


the  stock  of  mind  and  idea,  with  which 
he  commences  his  career.  The  number 
and  variety  of  our  periodicals  hare  teoded 
to  results  which  benefit  the  pecuniery 
interests  of  the  author,  to  the  prejudice 
of  his  substantial  feme.  A  writer  like 
Otway  could  not  now-a-days  atarre  ;  a 
writer  like  Goldsmith  might'Uve  in  May. 
fair  and  lounge  in  his  carriage ;  bat  it 
may  be  doubted  whether  the  one  would 
now.a-days  have  composed  a  Fenioe  Pnr* 
tervtd,  or  the  other  have  given  ns  a 
Daerted  VHU^$  and  a  Vicar  rf  Wahef^UL 
There  is  a  fatal  facility  in  supplying^  the 
wants  of  week  by  the  rapid  strikini^  off 
a  pleasant  article,  which  interferes  with 
the  steady  progress,  ev^n  with  the  mature 
conception,  of  an  elaborate  work. 

"  Bom  at  an  earlier  day,  Lamaa 
Blanchard  would  probably  have  known 
sharper  trials  of  pecuniary  circumstance ; 
and  instead  of  the  sufficient,  though  r  e- 
carious  income,  which  his  reputation  as 
a  periodical  writer  afforded  him,  he  might 
have  often  slept  in  the  garret,  and  beea 
fortunate  if  he  had  dined  often  in  the 
cellar.  But  then  he  would  have  been 
compelled  to  put  forth  all  that  was  in 
him  of  mind  and  genius ;  to  have  writ- 
ten books,  not  papers ;  and  books  not  in- 
tended for  the  week  or  the  month,  but 
for  permanent  effect  upon  the  public 

**  In  such  circumstances,  I  firmly  be- 
lieve that  his  powers  would  have  sufficed 
to  enrich  our  poetry  and  our  stage  with 
no  inconsiderable  acquisitions.  All  thst 
he  wanted  for  the  soil  of  his  mind  was 
time  to  wait  the  seasons,  and  to  sow 
upon  the  more  patient  system.  But  too 
much  activity  and  too  little  preparation 
were  his  natural  doom.  To  borrow  a 
homely  illustration  from  the  farm,  he  ex- 
hausted the  land  by  a  suceession  of 
white  crops. 

"  On  the  other  hand,  had  he  been 
born  a  German,  and  exhibited,  at  Jeoa 
or  Bonn,  the  some  abilities  and  zeal  for 
knowledge  which  distinguished  him  in 
the  school  of  Southwark,  he  would, 
doubtless,  have  early  attained  to  some 
moderate  competence,  which  would  hsTe 
allowed  fair  play  and  full  leisure  for  a 
character  of  genius  which,  naturally  ra- 
ther elegant  than  strong,  required  every 
advantage  of  forethought  and  prepara- 
tion. 

"  But  when  all  is  said — when  all  the 
drawbacks  upon  what  he  actually  wu 
are  made  and  allowed— enough  remains 
to  justify  warm  eulogy,  and  to  warnrnt 
the  rational  hope  that  he  will  occupy  an 
honourable  place  among  the  writers  of 
his  age.  Putting  aside  his  poetical  pre- 
tensions,  and  regarding  solely  what  he 
performed,  not  what  he  promised,  he  un- 
questionably stands  high  amongst  a  class 
of  vritersi  m  which  for  the  laat  centory 


1846.] 


on  the  HUtory  of  a  Literary  Man,  j-c. 


341 


we  ba^e  not  been  rioh-^tba  Esnyistt, 
whose  themes  are  drawn  from  social  sab« 
jecU,  sporting  ligbtlj  between  literature 
aod  manners.  And  this  kind  of  compo- 
sition is  extremely  difficult  in  itself,  re- 
quiring intellectual  combinations  rarely 
round.  The  Tolumes  prefaced  by  this 
slight  memoir  deseive  a  place  in  ererj 
collection  of  belles  lettra,  and  form  most 
agreeable  and  characteristic  illustrations 
of  our  manners  and  our  age.  They  pos- 
sess what  is  seldom  found  in  light  read- 
ing, the  charm  that  comes  from  bequeath* 
ing  plBomrabU  impressions.  They  are 
suffused  in  the  sweetness  of  the  author's 
disposition  ;  they  shun  sll  painful  views 
of  life,  all  acerbity  in  observation,  all 
gall  in  their  gentle  sarcasms.  Added  to 
this,  they  contain  not  a  thought,  not  a 
line,  from  which  the  most  anxious  pa- 
rent would  guard  his  child*  They  may 
be  read  with  safety  by  the  most  simple, 
and  yet  they  contain  enough  of  truth 
and  character  to  interest  the  most  reflec* 


tire." 

Such  an  authority  will  serve  to 
recommend  these  Sketches  from  Life^ 
"we  hope,  to  loany  a  library.  Of  the 
essays  themselves,  it  is  hardly  neces- 
sary to  select  specimens.  There  is 
not  one  that  can  t  be  read  with  plea- 
sure ;  they  are  often  wise,  and  always 
witty  and  kindly.  Let  us  dip  into 
the  volume,  and  select  one  at  random. 
Here  is  one  which  relates  to  that 
class,  which  is  ranked  somehow  as 
last  in  the  literary  profession,  and  is 
known  under  the  fiimous  name  of— 


«< 


The  Ptnny»a»Liner, 


"  The  penny-a-liuer,  like  Pope,  is 
'  known  by  his  style.'  His  fine  Roman 
hand  once  seen,  may  be  sworn  to  by  the 
most  cursory  observer.  But  though  in 
this  one  respect  of  identity  resembling 
Pope,  he  bears  not  in  any  other  the  least 
likeness  to  author  dead  or  living.  .  He 
has  no  brother,  and  is  like  no  brother,  in 
literature.  Such  as  he  was,  he  is.  He 
disdains  to  accommodate  his  manner  to 
the  ever-alterine  taste  of  the  times.  ^  He 
refuses  to  bow  down  to  the  popular  idol, 
innof  ation.  He  has  a  style,  and  he  sticks 
to  it.  He  scorns  to  depart  from  it,  to 
gratify  the  thirst  for  novelty.  He  even 
thinks  that  it  improves  with  use,  and  that 
his  pet  phrases  acquire  a  finer  point  and 
additional  emphasis  upon  every  fresh  ap- 
plication. Thus,  in  relating  the  last 
fashionable  occurrence,  how  a  noble  fa- 
mily has  been  plunged  into  consternation 
and  sorrow  by  the  elopement  of  Lady 
Prudentia  a  month  after  marriage,  he 
informs  you,  as  though  the  phrase  itself 
carried  coDviction  to  the  heart,  th«^t  the 


'  feelings  of  the  iajored  husband  mav  b# 
more  easily  conceived  than  described/ 
If  he  requires  that  phrase  twice  in  the 
same  narrative,  he  consents  to  vary  it  by 
saying,  that '  that  thev  may  be  imagineo, 
but  cannot  be  depicted. '  In  reportmg  an 
bcident  illustrative  of  the  fintal  effects  of 
taking  prossic  acid,  he  states  that  the 
*  vital  spark  is  extinct,'  and  that  not  the 
smallest  hopes  are  entertained  of  the 
unfortunate  gentleman's  recovery.  A 
lady's  bag  is  borbaroualy  atolen  from  her 
arm  by  '  a  monster  in  the  human  form*' 
A  thunder-storm  is  described  as  having 
'  visited '  the  metropolis,  and  the  memory 
of  the  oldest  inhabitant  furnishes  no  pa. 
rallel  to  the  ravages  of  the '  electric  fluid.' 
A  new  actress  *  surpasses  the  most  san- 
guine expectations'  of  the  public,  and 
exhibits  talents  'that  have  seldom  been 
equalled,  never  excelled.'  A  new  book 
is  not  simply  published,  it  'emanates 
from  the  press.'  On  the  demise  of  a 
person  of  eminence,  it  is  confidently 
averred  that  he  had  a  hand  '  open  as  day 
to  melting  charity,'  and  that, '  take  him 
for  all  in  all,  we  ne'er  ahall  look  upon  his 
like  again.'  Two  objects  not  immediately 
connected  are  sure  to  be  *  far  as  the  poles 
ssunder  /  although  they  are  very  eaaily 
brought  together  and  reconciled  in  the 
reader's  mind  by  the  convenience  of  the 
phrase  '  as  it  were,'  which  is  an  especial 
favourite,  and  constantly  in  request.  He 
is  a  great  admirer  of  amplitude  of  title, 
for  pfupable  reasons ;  as  wnen  he  reports, 
that  'Yesterday  the  Right  Honourable 
Lord  John  Russell,  M.P.,  his  Majesty's 
Secretary  of  State  for  the  Home  Depart- 
ment, dined  with,'  &c.  He  is  wonder, 
fully  expert  in  the  measurement  of  hail- 
stones, and  in  the  calculation  of  the 
number  of  panes  of  glass  which  they  de- 
molish in  their  descenL  He  is  acquainted 
with  the  exact  circumference  of  every 
gooseberry  that  emulates  the  plenitude  of 
a  pumpkin ;  and  can  at  all  times  detect  a 
phenomenon  in  every  private  family,  by 
simply  reckoning  up  Uie  united  ages  of 
its  various  members.  But  in  the  dis- 
charge of  these  useful  duties,  for  the 
edification  and  amusement  of  the  public, 
he  employs,  in  the  general  course  of 
things,  but  one  set  of  phrases.  If  a  fire 
can  be  rendered  more  picturesque  by 
designating  it  the  *  devouring  element,' 
the  devouring  element  raffes  in  the  de- 
scription to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  Once 
a  hit  always  a  hit ;  a  good  thing  rematna 
good  for  ever;  a  happy  epitbet  is  feli- 
citous to  the  last.  The  only  variation  of 
style  that  he  can  be  prevailed  upon  to 
attempt,  he  introduces  in  his  quotations. 
To  these  he  often  gives  an  entirely  new 
aspect,  and  occasionally,  by  accident,  he 
improves  upon  the  originals.  Of  thiSf 
the  following  may  stand  as  a  specimen :— - 


342 


7Ae  Cimman  Lod^nff^Hou$e* 


[Match, 


*  TU  BOt  ia  mortaU  to  dctcrtw  Bveoeea ; 
But  we'll  do  more,  Sempromus,  we'll 

The  good-natured  satirist  seldom 
hits  harder  than  this,  and  makes  fiin 
so  ffenerously,  that  it  is  a  pleasure  to 
be  laughed  at  by  him.  How  amus^ 
ingly  the  secret  of  the  penny-a-liner*8 
eraft  is  unveiled  here!  vVell,  he, 
too>  is  a  member  of  the  great  rising 
fmtemitj  of  the  press,  which,  weak 
and  despised  yesterday,  is  powerful 
and  in  repute  to-day,  and  ^ws  daily 
in  strength  and  good  opimon. 

Out  of  Blanchard*s  life  (except 
from  the  melancholy  end,  which  is 
quite  apart  from  it),  diere  is  surely  no 
ground  for  drawing  charges  against 
tne  public  of  neglecting  literature. 
His  career,  untimdy  concluded,  is  in 
the  main  a  auooessful  one.  In  truth, 
I  don't  see  how  the  aid  or  interposi- 
tion of  goyemment  could  in  any  way 
haye  greatly  benefited  him,  or  how 
it  was  eyen  called  upon  to  do  so.  It 
does  not  follow  that  a  man  would 
produce  a  great  work  even  if  he  had 
leisure.  I^uire  Shakspeare  of  Strat- 
ford, with  his  lands  and  rents,  and 
his  arms  over  his  porch,  was  not  the 
working  Shakspeare ;  and  indolence 
(or  oontemplation,  if  you  like)  is  no 


umttual  quality  in  the  litenury  maun. 
Of  all  the  smiirea  who  hay«  lukd  aci^es 
and  rents,  all  the  holders  of  lucky, 
easy,  government  places,  hoipr  nuanj 
have  written  books,    and    of  what 
worth  are  they?    There  are  some 
persons  whom  goyemment,  having  a 
want  of,  employs  andpays — ^barziatera, 
diplomatists,  soldiers,  and  the  like ; 
but  it  doesn't  want  poetry,  and  can 
do  without  tragedies.    Let  men  of 
letters  stand  for  tbemselyea.     £yefy 
day  enlar^  their  market,  and  nml- 
tiplies  their  clients.    The  most  skilful 
and  successful  among  the  cnltiTators 
of  light  literature  have  such  a  hold 
upon  the  public  feelings,  and  awaken 
such  a  sympathy,  as  men  of  the  class 
never  enjoyed  untU  now:    men  of 
science  and  learning,  who  aim.  at  other 
distinction,  get  it ;   and,  in  8{iite  of 
Doctor   Carus's   disgust,   I    believe 
there  was  never  a  time  when  so  much 
of  the  practically  useful  was  wriftteo 
and  read,  and  every  branch  of  book- 
making  pursued,  with  an  interest  so 
eager. 

But  I  must  conclude.  My  letter 
has  swelled  beyond  the  proper  size 
of  letters,  and  you  are  craving  for 
news :  have  you  not  to-day*8  Time^ 
battle  of  Ferozeshah  ?    Farewell. 

M.  A.  T. 


THE  COMMON  LODGING-HOUSE. 


The  common  lodging-house,  as  the 
reader  is  no  doubt  aware,  is  a  house 
of  accommodation  for  all  classes,  no 
matter  what  may  be  their  appearance 
or  character,  provided  they  can  pro- 
duce when  required  the  necessary 
Quantity  of  corns.  In  every  consi- 
aerable  village  in  the  kingdom  there 
is  a  domicile  called  the  B^^gara' 
House;  and  in  every  town,  fewer 
such  houses  or  more,  according  to  its 
size  or  population.  In  London  there 
are  hunoreds  of  such,  from  that 
which  suits  the  poor  tenant  of  a  room 
or  cellar,  with  its  two  or  three  shaike- 
down-beds  upon  the  floor,  to  the 
more  substantwl  holding  of  the  land- 
lord, with  his  ten  or  twenty  up  to 
two  or  three  hundred  beds.  In  one 
or  other  of  theae  the  houseless  wan- 
derer may  find  shelter,  provided  be 
pay  frmn  a  penn^  to  sixpence  a-night ; 
flleeping,  according  to  tne  rate  of  his 
payments,  on  iron,  or  wood,  or  straw, 


or  in  a  hammock.      If  he  be  the 
penny-a-night  lodger,  he  will  have 
no  softer  resting-place  than  the  floor. 
This  common  lodging-house  business 
is  a  thriving  trade ;  veiy  little  capi- 
tal is  required  to  carry  it  on.    An 
old  house  will  do  in  anv  bock  alreec 
or  filthy  lane;    indeed,   the  moR 
wretched  the  neighbourhood  the  bet- 
ter.   Old  bedsteads  and  bed-clotbe$ 
of  the  coarsest  description,  ¥rith  a  i^w 
fbrms  and  a  table  for  the  kitchen,  are 
nearly  all  that  is  required  for  the 
concern.    The  front  room,  or  what 
is  usually  termed  the  parlour,  ia  ge- 
nerally fitted  up  into  a  shcm;  or, 
when  this  is  not  the  case,  there  i» 
always  some  accommodating  neigh- 
bour at   hand    who   has   for  sale 
baeon,    butter,    cheese,    bread,  tea, 
coffee,  sugar,  tobacco,  potatoes,  red 
and  salt  herrings,  smuggled  liquors, 
and   table  -  beer.     Some   add  the 
sayouiy  profession  of  the  cook  to 


1846.] 


The  C&mmaH  Loiffin^^Bimie. 


343 


thftt  of  the  huckster,  and  dish  up  a 
little  roast  and  boiled  beef,  mutton, 
pork,  T^etables,  &e.  The  whole  of 
these  yiiuids,  the  reader  may  be  as- 
sured, are  of  yery  moderate  quality. 
Th^  are  retailed  to  the  lodgers  at 
profitable  priees  and  in  the  smallest 
saleable  quantities,  so  that  for  the 
trifling  sum  of  one  penny  the  poor 
epieure  may  gratify  his  palate  with 
a  taste  of  beef,  mutton,  and  other 
bizunes.  Very  little  credit  is  fflTen 
in  those  places,  and  that  only  to 
those  who  are  well  known;  th^ 
who  do  not  happen  to  possess  this  ad- 
vantage are  onen  ecnnpelled  to  take 
the  handkerchief  from  their  neeks, 
the  coats  and  even  tiie  shirts  off  thehr 
hades,  and  to  give  them  to  the  cau- 
tions housekeeper,  before  they  can 
procure  a  nieht  s  lodging  or  a  morsel 
of  food.  Indeed,  in  the  country  it  is 
a  common  thing,  when  a  traveller 
(which  is  the  appellation  by  which 
the  alms-seeking  gentry  des^nate 
themselves)  seeks  for  a  night*s  lodg* 
in^,  for  the  landlord  to  refuse  ad* 
zmttance  unless  the  applicant  carry 
a  bundle,  which  is  looked  upon  as  a 
kind  of  guarantee  that  he  may  be 
trusted  should  he  not  have  the  ^'de- 
sirable **  in  his  pocket. 

It  may  natundly  be  supposed,  that 
ivhere  tiiere  are  such  small  outlays 
and  such  large  returns  good  round 
sums  must  be  produced ;  indeed,  there 
are  few  who  commence  this  kind  of 
business  but  earn  for  themselves  a 
speedy  independency.  Many  whom  I 
could  mention  have  accumulated  such 
enormous  fortunes  by  the  encou- 
ragement of  vagrancy,  that  they  are 
now  the  proprietors  of  valuable 
houses,  in  one  or  other  of  which  they 
reside,  while  they  continue  to  con- 
duct their  original  establishments 
in  the  rest.  The  servants  that  are 
kept  in  such  houses  are  generally 
muet  men  being  consider^  better 
adapted  to  preserve  peace  and  quiet- 
ness than  women,  it  is  customary 
with  lodgers  who  have  any  thing  of 
value  to  deposit  it  with  the  landlord, 
and,  in  most  cases,  it  is  returned  with 
safety.  There  are  some  whose  cha- 
racter stands  so  high  for  honesty, 
that  twenty  pounds  and  upwards  may 
be  intrusted  to  them;  while  with 
others  it  would  be  best  to  trust  no- 
thing, for  they  are  thieves  and  rob- 
bers, and  often  join  with  ruffians  to 
get  up  a  row  cturing  the  night  in 


order  to  plunder  their  lodgan.  It  m 
not  to  be  supposed  tiiat  in  such  eita« 
blishments  the  laws  of  deecai^,  as 
th^  ooneem  the  sexes,  are  much 
observed;  and  tiiiey  are  umversally 
filthy.  But  enough  of  this.  Let  us 
rather  enter  at  once  amongst  those 
strange  scenes,  and  endeavour  to  give 
the  reader  a  correct  view  of  one  of 
them. 

It  was  on  a  Saturday  afternoon 
that  I  put  myself  in  order,  and 
had  just  readied  St.  Qeane's, 
in  tiie  Borough,  as  the  &6k 
Btntk  five.  Opposite  to  that  sacred 
edifice,  and  at  the  end  of  a  nar» 
row,  dirty  street  leadmg  into  the 
main  one,  were  standing  some  half- 
dosen  fellows  in  fiaand-jackets  and 
other  vestments,  indicating  that  the 
class  to  which  they  bdooged  was 
that  of  labourers.  On  one  aide  of 
tins  group  sat  an  old  woman  with 
fruit,  and  on  the  other  a  middle-ajrod 
female,  with  that  true  Hibernian  &- 
ture— the  scowl,  and  retailing  com- 
modities of  a  similar  description.  As 
I  looked  for  the  name  I  could  just 
discern  on  the  wall,  in  small  letters, 
The  Mnrr.  Proceeding  along  the 
street,  oysters,  green-groceries,  and 
huckstery  goods,  lined  the  doors  and 
¥nndows  of  a  few  dark,  low-roofed 
shops  on  each  side  of  the  way,  set 
off  by  that  very  necessary  conve* 
nience,  a  gutter,  which  contributed  to 
carr^  off  the  superabundant  moisture 
as  It  crept  between  oyster-sheUs, 
turnip-tops,  and  various  other  mat- 
ters. Women  and  children  might  be 
seen  sitting  or  gossiping  on  the  sills, 
— a  sure  tim  of  a  low  neighbourhood. 
The  open  aoor  of  a  licensed  victualler 
was  not  long  in  making  its  appear- 
ance; nor  was  it  without  a  neigh- 
bour, another  retailer  of  mah ; — both 
pret^  well  filled  with  comen-in  and 
goers-out.  The  bustle,  such  as  it 
was,  BOW  ceased,  and  the  street 
widened  a  little,  presenting  a  number 
of  old  Aurniture  and  petty  chandkrs*- 
shops.    Here  all  was  dull,  dirty,  and 

S[\ak.  A  stout,  bucanier-like  fd- 
0 w,  in  a  tight,  light*coloured  worsted- 
shirt  and  canvass-tronsers,  was  com- 
ing crouching  along  with  his  bare 
feet,  followed  by  a  man  upon  crotches, 
both  walking  steadily  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Barc&y  and  Perkins.  A  dn- 
gular-lookinff  nouse  next  arrested  o" 
attention,  which  was  painted  r 
with  a  large  bowd  ndsea  to  the  ' 


344 


The  Common  Lodging^House* 


[Marc^» 


tre,  and  daubed  with  the  same  oolour, 
upon  which  were  written,  in  large 
white  letters,  *'  The  Travellers*  Kest, 
No.  18.  Stephenson.  The  Bed  House. 
Grood  accommodations  for  Travel- 
lers.** The  parlour,  or  low  front 
room,  looked  as  if  it  had  been  a  shop, 
having  two  large  bow-windows,  one 
of  which  was  nearlv  closed  with 
shutters,  and  the  other  partly  so. 
Three  or  four  half-naked,  squalid- 
looking  wretches  were  leaning  against 
the  entrance.  I  gave  an  involuntary 
shudder,  for  the  place  smeUed  of 
bones  and  rags,  and  all  about  the 
door  had  the  stench  of  rottenness. 

''  Does  Mrs.  Belch  live  here?**  I 
inquired. 

"  No,  higher  up,**  was  the  answer. 

«« Thank  Godl**  I  mentallv  eja- 
culated, and  moved  on ;  and  nigner 
up,  sure  enough,  stood  another  group 
or  ragg^  gentry,  whiling  away  their 
time  with  the  sweets  of  Virgima,  and 
quietly  inhaling  the  evening  air. 

On  one  side  of  these  men  ¥ras  a 
•hop,  to  which  I  was  directed  by  a 
nod.  There  was  nothing  pecumr 
that  I  could  perceive  about  this  place. 
It  was  a  small  chandler*s  shop,  with 
two  windows.  In  the  one  were  placed 
a  few  eatables  for  show,  and  the  other 
was  screened  off  by  a  scanty  curtain. 
On  entering,  the  shop  assumed  a  more 
marked-like  character.  One  half  was 
partitioned,  apparently  for  private 
use;  and  the  other  left  open  for 
business,  as  if  the  owner  had  already 
accumulated  so  much  as  to  be  quite 
indifferent  to  trade,  and  only  kept  a 
few  articles  to  pass  away  the  time,  or 
accommodate  some  old,  particular 
customers.  That  which  was  set  apart 
for  traffic  exhibited  the  cadging-snop 
to  perfection.  Quartern  loaves  cut 
into  pennyworths  poverty  being  a 
keen  baigainer),  and  piled  one  upon 
the  other;  penny  and  halfpenny- 
worths of  tea,  coffee,  sugar,  and  to- 
bflwDOO,  were  aU  packed  in  paper,  and 
Iving  in  sepan^  heaps;  a  lar^ 
cush  filled  with  the  cuttings  of  rancid 
liaoon,  another  with  pieces  of  cheese, 
and  a  third  with  the  scrapings  of 
butter^  were  placed  upon  the  counter ; 
and  in  a  comer  on  the  floor  were 
standing  some  half-dozen  bottles  of 
that  deucious  wash  called  table-beer, 
their  sides  all  laving  again  with  the 
ibaming  liquid.  But,  notwithstand- 
ing those  preparations  for  the  starve- 
lii^itetit  not  be  suppoaed  that  there 


was  any  lack  of  eatables  that  w&ne 
worth  eating.    On  a  shelf  or  two  in 
the  centre  of  the  shop  were  a  few 
choice  pieces  of  ham,  a  half-side  of 
bacon,  rolls  of  butter  that  might  have 
graced  the  Mansion  House  for  break- 
nut,  with  half  and  quarter  cheeses 
from  the  best  cheese  counties  ia  the 
kingdom,  not  foigetting  that  rery 
necessary  relish  for  a  camper's  breaks- 
fast,  a  red  herring.    And  all  were 
temptingly  arranged  for  those  who 
might  be  pleased  to  term  themadves 
lucky  (namely,  gents  who  depend 
upon  chance,  and  find  a  purse  or  a 
flat  thrown  unexpectedly  in    their 
way).    By  this  tmie  the  landlady 
had  made  her  appearance,  and  was 
favouring  me  with  so  penetrating  a 
glance  thai  it  convinced  me  dbte  was 
a  practical  reader  of  that  index  of  the 
mind,  the  face.    After  the  usual  in* 
quiries  and  answers,  an  elderly  female 
was  desired  to  shew  me  down  stainL 
I  was  accordingly  ushered  throne^ 
the  parlour,  a  small  room  behind  the 
shop,  most  curiously  furnished.    The 
walls  were  literally  lined  with  pic- 
tures, for  the  most  part  small  oil 
paintings.     Two,  however,  were  ex- 
ceptions, being  full-sized  portraitL 
One  represent^  the  late  John  Belch, 
arrayea  in  a  fashion  which  Nature 
certainly  never  intended  him  to  pat 
on,  for  he  looked  as  if  he  had  just 
bludgeoned  a  gentleman  and  then 
dressed  himself  in  his  clothes ;   the 
other  was,  of  course,  designed  for  his 
spouse,  and  a  real  dowdy  it  was,  nei- 
ther true  nor  flattering.    Hie  man- 
telpiece was  loaded  with  superb  shells 
ana  other  marine  specimens.    Two 
old-fashioned  comer  cupboards,  with 
their  doors  thrown  open,  fronted  ou^ 
other  by  the  fire,  oisplayine  a  rich 
store  of  china.    A  conuortalue  carpet 
was  spread  upon  the  floor ;  the  hearth, 
too,  had  its  rug.    Chairs  and  tables 
were  crowded  together,  evincing  that 
the  owner  was  more  soUdtoua  for  a 
show  of  abundance  than  good  taste. 
*<  Now  here,**  thought  I,  "*  must  be 
the  room  where  the  artist,  half  gen- 
tleman and  whole  vagabond,  cre^ 
in  of  a  morning  to  bluney  the  good 
hostess  about  gentility  and  all  tut ; 
where  poor  Jack,  after  squandcriiy 
away  his  all,  offers  his   last  relic 
from    the    South    Seas  to   be  al* 
lowed  to  stay  till  he  gets  another 
ship ;  where  the  honest  trader  firam 
Bordeaux,  with  his  red  wghtcap  and 


1646.1 


The  ComiROfi  Lodging^Himse. 


345 


loDff  boots,  sannten  in  of  an  evening, 
well  knowing  that  Mother  Belch  is  a 
woman  who  blabs  no  tales;  where 
she  receives  all  the  tittle-tattle  of  the 
place, — ^in  shorty  the  ganchun  sancto^ 
rum  of  the  lady  of  the  den.** 

Through  this  room  I  was  led 
into  another,  in  the  side  of  which 
was  a  door,  into  which  I  was  desired 
to  enter,  and  to  take  care,  for  there 
was  a  flight  of  stairs, — a  cantion 
that  was  absolutely  necessary,  as  I 
found  after  I  had  descended  with  a 
slide.  Then  opened  a  scene  out  be- 
fore  me  that  certainly  had  something 
of  the  appearance  of  a  den,  namely, 
a  long,  low,  narrow,  under-ground 
kitchen.  At  one  end  were  two  small 
windows,  each  defended  by  a  wire 
grate,  the  tops  of  which,  just  peeping 
upon  the  nayement  of  the  ftont  street 
allowed  tne  light  to  struggle  in  be- 
tween walls  of  immense  thickness. 
The  apertures,  or  window-seats,  were 
deep  or  wide,  and  underneath  was 
fiz^  to  the  wall  a  seat  The  whole 
had  much  the  appearance  of  the  in- 
side of  the  cabin-window  of  a  ship. 
At  the  other  end  was  a  lar^  trap- 
door, which  was  raised  durmg  the 
day  for  the  benefit  of  light  and  air, 
and  which  served  as  an  exeeUent 
retreat  from  the  police  when  occasion 
required,  access  being  had  up  and 
down  by  a  broad  brick  staircase  edged 
with  wood.  On  one  side  of  this  pro- 
fessional oonvenienoe  were  two  large, 
flat-bellied  water-butts,  their  tops 
reaching  to  the  very  roof;  whilst 
the  drop-dropping  l)elow  kept  the 
dust  in  a  pretty  moist  state.  Close 
to  these  capacious  reservoirs  was  a 
plate-rack,  with  a  tolerable  display 
of  broken  dishes.  Next  to  this  was 
a  leaden  sink,  serving  the  double 
purpose  of  scullery  and  washhand- 
stand;  and  above,  opening  by  a  door, 
was  the  dusthole,  a  place  extremely 
handy  for  slops  and  ctirt  A  seat 
here  ran  along  the  wall,  joining  the 
one  below  the  window^  and  from 
which  nearly  to  the  roof  the  wall 
was  wainscoted,  the  top  forming  a 
kind  of  ledge,  on  part  of  which  was 
ranged  a  row  of  common  tin  teapots ; 
on  the  other  were  wooden  lockers, 
the  repositories  of  the  lodgers*  broken 
victuals.  Opposite  was  a  door  near  the 
window  leaiding  into  another  room, 
which  was  usually  denominated  the 
parlour.  On  this  side  blazed  two  large 
Sres,  each  having  a  complete  kitchen* 


range,  with  a  boiler  full  of  water 
that  turned  by  a  cock  for  the  lodgers* 
use ;  and  in  the  comer  belUed  out  a 
huge  copper,  surrounded  by  firying- 
pans,  saucepans,  and  iron  pots  of 
various  sizes.  A  table,  reaching  well- 
nigh  from  one  end  of  the  kitdien  to 
the  other,  was  supported  by  five 
wooden  posts  risiog  through  the  cen- 
tre to  the  roo(  9M  plaora  at  equal 
distances  ftom  each  other,  and  upon 
these  were  hung  common  tin  lamps, 
the  whole  being  flanked  by  forms. 
At  this  board  the  street  solicitor 
might  sit  imd  feast  without  any  fear 
of  dir^^ing  the  floor  with  the  cnunbe 
that  might  fall  from  the  table ;  for 
that,  I  remember,  was  of  a  good  ser- 
viceable colour,  the  materiiDs  being 
of  brick. 

I  glided  in  as  undbtmsively  as  pos- 
sible, and  when  I  state  that  there  were 
108  iodffers  in  the  house,  it  may  be 
supposed  there  were  a  few  singular 
characters  amongst  them.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  table,  opponte  to 
each  other,  sat  two  seamen,  one 
in  his  shirt  •  sleeves  and  woollen 
nightcap,  mending  a  pair  of  old 
canvass  trousers,  and  stitching  away 
with  his  long  nautical  needle.  The 
other  a  snnmimt,  lounnng-lookiuff 
fellow,  in  a  red  flannd  snirt  and 
trousers,  was  resting  on  his  elbows, 
drawlingr  out  a  sea  tale ;  and,  as  I 
moved  oy,  I  could  distinctly  hear 
the  words,  **  Philadelphia  and  New 
York.'*  At  the  fire  near  the  window 
stood  a  tall,  athletic  young  man,  in 
a  velvet  jacket  with  large  white 
ivory  buttons,  a  red  velvet  waistcoat 
with  two  rows  of  small  buttons  of  the 
same  kind,  short,  wide  trousers,  and 
ankle -boots.  His  waistcoat  was 
loosely  buttoned,  so  as  to  display 
part  of  his  shirt,  and  his  black  silk 
handkerchief  was  slung  about  his 
neck  in  the  nautical  style.  His  black 
hair  hung  on  each  side  of  his  fkce  in 
ringlets,  and  on  his  head  was  slouched 
on  one  side  most  conspicuously  a 
broad-brimmed  hat.  He  was  evi- 
dently a  buck  in  his  way,  and  some- 
what of  a  gallant,  too,  as,  with  his 
elbow  on  the  mantelpiece  and  one  leg 
lounging  over  the  other,  he  kept 
pufl^,  pufling  away  at  a  short,  black 
pipe,  ^  having  a  word,*'  as  he  termed 
it,  with  a  woman  who  was  fryinir 
sausages.  Close  beside  this  sped*" 
of  low  dandyism  sat  a  giffantic,  r 
looking  ruffian  about  ferty,  t 


346 


The  Common  Lodging' Hotise. 


[March, 


red  ni^tteap  on,  Imt  otherwise  dress* 
ed  MB  he  was,  only  not  so  gaudily. 
He  sal  soowting  before  the  fire,  his 
1^  stretched  out,  and  cnt  ivuamA 
over  the  other,  squiftiiig  evvry  now 
and  then  a  tmnreat  of  tobaeoo-juke 
below  the  ban ;  the  ^uid  in  his  cheek 
by  BO  means  diminishing  the  grim* 
om  of  his  smile,  as  he  east  up  his 
e^es  at  his  neighbour  with  a  look 
that  savoured  strongly  of  the  green- 
eyed  monster.  They  w«re  bow  na* 
Tigators,  and  of  the  true  Lancashire 
breed. 

Round  that  comer  of  the  table 
which  stood  below  the  window  were 
gathered  together  a  very  characteristic 
group, — a  moe  varietv  of  thief,  cadger^ 
and  poacher.  The  nrst  was  a  slight- 
made  man,  with  flat,  thoueh  Jewish 
features  and  complexion.  He  had  on 
an  old  great  brown  coat,  that  was  by  far 
too  large.  It  was  left  open  in  front,  dis- 
plaving  neither  shirt  nor  neckerchief; 
and  an  old  hat,  beaten  in  at  the  front, 
was  drawn,  in  the  thieves*  fitshion, 
over  his  brow.  He  had  a  smile  on 
his  features — I  have  seen  just  such 
another  on  that  droopine  machine 
which  is,  at  times,  seen  beside  St 
Stephen's.  The  next  was  a  very 
sinister-looking  fellow  in  a  flannel- 
jacket — ^he  was  by  far  too  dvil-look- 
mg;  and,  as  I  approached,  gave  me 
such  a  look  that  i  insttnctively  put 
my  hands  to  my  pockets,  although 
tfa^re  was  nothing  in  them.  At  the 
comer  of  the  tabte  sat  a  large  sinewy 
man,  with  hiffh  cheek-bones,  and  a 
nose  big  and  naid  enough  to  split  a 
mill  on.  He  was  very  well  dressed 
according  to  his  trade  —  a  tattered 
shirt,  an  old  waistcoat,  and  canvass 
trousers.  Ho  was  thumping  on  the 
table  about  his  merits  as  a  patterer 
(a  caller),  with  a  fist  by  &r  too  for- 
midable to  admit  of  any  dilute.  On 
the  other  side,  stretched  on  a  form 
against  the  wall,  was  a  very  pretty 
specimen  of  our  bold  peasantry — 
our  country's  pride  —  m  a  smock- 
frock  and  a  wnite  kind  of  skull- 
cap. He  was  lying  on  his  side, 
resting  his  head  on  nis  hand,  vrith 
hJB  ci^  covering  part  of  his  head  and 
face;  one  eye,  nowever,  was  left 
to  twinkle  beneath,  and  leer  about 
with  a  very  knowing  look ;  and  tH- 
tflttether  he  looked  ver^  like  a  vokell, 
who  understood  sometmng  else  besides 
whisOing '*  Ge-ho  r  By  his  side  sat 
another  bcoliier  of  the.  dod,  his  aims 


foMed  on  the  tabie,  and  Us  head 
buried  between  tfacm,  givmg  evident 
iodioatioDS  that  he  was  in  the  anni 
of  the  sleepy  god. 

Turning  nmnd  I  stepped  into  tbe 
parlour,   where  just   such  another 
scene  presented  itself.      The  room 
was  of  equal  breadth,  and   nesrlv 
the  same  length  as  the  kitchen;  and, 
being  more  scanty  of  fhmiture,  had 
the  appearance  of  being  wider.    It 
was  now  dull  and  gloomy,  lighted 
up  with  only  three  small  lights.    At 
a  table  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room 
stood  two  slightly-nuide,  half-starved- 
looking  young  men,  in  dark  tattered 
clothes  and  old  torn  hats ;  on  which, 
in  the  front  of  each,  was  stuck  a 
placard,  with  "  Murder,'*  printed  in 
Urge  letters,  as  the  head-line.    They 
were  silently  arranging  a  heap  <« 
catch-penny  papers,  by  the  dim  light 
of  a  halfpenny  candle.    At  the  other 
end  of  tiie  room  sat  a  short  but  rather 
respectably  dressed  man  in  black.    A 
small  ink-bottle  was  on  the  table, 
with  three  or  four  pens  stuck  in  it, 
and  his  hat  was  so  drawn  on  as  to 
screen  his  eyes  from  an  old  dall- 
buming  japanned  lamp,  that  was  on 
the  table  before  him.     There  was 
some  character  about  this  man.    His 
noee  was  aquiline,  or,  to  speak  more 
correctly,  if  less  elegantly,  hooked. 
His  eyes,  which  were  small,  twinkled 
on  each  side,  as  if  they  were  more 
accustomed  to  look  to  the  right  and 
to    the    left   than   straightforward. 
He  looked  as  if  he  had  been  a  law- 
yer's clerk,  who  had  been  by  far  too 
cunning  to  be  honest.    Opposite  to 
this  studious  flentleman  sat  a  large 
bald-headed  oM  man,  coughing  aiKi 
spitting,     and     apparently     much 
troubled  with  a  shortness  of  breath. 
He  was  tying  matches  up  into  bundles 
from   an  inunense   heap   that  was 
lying  before  him,  with  a  candle  stuck 
in  the  centre.    He  was  assisted  by  an 
individual  who    certainly  had  the 
appearance  of  beins  brought  up  to 
that  trade,  or  something  very  lilpe  it> 
He  was  a  stout  young  fellow,  ^^^^^ 
shock  head  of  red  hair,  so  matted 
together  by  time  and  sloth  as  to  bid 
defiance  to  any  thing  like  a  comb. 
His  forehead  was  low  and  reoedingj 
and  he  had  small  grey  ejes,  whii^ 
had  the  sleepy,  sulky,  thievish  look 
of  a  tinker's  dag.    His  nose  ^as  bro^ 
and  snubby,  the  upper  part  of  ^^ 
was  beatra  flat  to  the  6oe;  Aad, 


J 


1846.] 


The  Common  Lodging^ House. 


347 


fhom  the  dent-like  mark  on  the  left 
side,  it  appeared  as  if  it  had  been 
done  by  a  right-hander.  His  chin 
of  late  had  certainly  not  been  mach 
troubled  with  the  raaor,  and  his  skin 
was  smoked  and  dried  as  if  he  had 
soldered  pots  and  pans  night  and 
day  fiK*  a  month.  His  hat,  which 
was  beaten  into  idl  and  every  shape, 
was  drawn  a  little  over  his  brow,  and 
the  rest  of  his  garments  of  a  cnt  Uiai 
wonM  not  have  been  exhibited  by 
the  scientific  Walker.  In  short,  he 
WIS  an  individual  that  would  have 
appeared  to  great  advantage  looking 
over  a  hedge  on  Finchley,  Hounslow, 
or  any  otl^r  breesy  heath  or  com- 
mon with  a  bit  of  a  thorn,  alma 
bludgeon,  in  his  hand ;  or  saunterii^ 
about  a  village  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  town,  peering  itato  a  farm-yard, 
just  within  the  scent  of  a  hen-rooat, 
with  a  four -footed  follower,  half 
terrier  and  half  fox,  cowering  know- 
ingly at  his  heeb;  a  wooden  budget 
slung  at  his  back,  with  a  choice  as- 
sortment of  old  naik,  old  files,  and 
old  hammers;  a  bellowB  in  one  hand 
without  a  pine,  and  in  the  other  a 
piece  of  crooiced  iron,  at  the  end  of 
which  might  dangle  a  portable  fire, 
puffing,  and  reeking,  and  sending 
rorth  a  column  of  smoke  that  diould 
curl  and  whirl  about  his  fkoe,  and 
hannonise  delightfully  to  the  Cry  of 
^  Kettles  to  mend — pots  and  pans  !** 

Lodger  aflker  lodger  now  eame 
dropping  in ;  and  every  one  who  had 
the  means  was  not  long  in  satisfying 
his  appetite.  They  hastened  to  make 
their  tea  or  oofifee,  frying  their  baoon, 
or  broiling  their  herring ;  and  wli^n 
done,  they  would  move  each  to  his 
seat,  placing  a  tea  or  C(riB^-pot  on 
the  table,  —  a  cup  and  saucer  with 
the  niceties  on  one  side  and  the 
bread  on  the  other;  then  sit  down, 
and,  without  doffing  their  castors, 
fidl-to  with  an  appetite  that  required 
no  farther  relish. 

There  were  some  heavy  complaints 
about  the  loss  of  property ;  some  had 
lost  one  thing,  and  some  another. 
One  surly,  carter-lookinff  fellow,  wlu) 
was  frying  sausages,  dedared  ^  That 
this  house  beat  all  the  houses  he  had 
ever  been  in  for  prigging.  There 
was  no  farther  back  than  this  very 
morning,  he  had  hung  up  his  shirt 
to  dry,  and  had  not  turned  his  back 
five  minutes  before  it  was  gone,  and 
aot  a  soul  knew  any  thing  about  it: 


but  he  had  a  good  guess  who  took  it. 

But  by "  (and  here  he  used  some 

strong  language),    *^the   man   had 
better  keep  out  of  my  way  P 

The  kitchen  was  by  this  time  get* 
tin^  crowded,  and  the  lodgen,  as&ef 
satisfied  their  wants,  would  light  dieir 
pipes  and  saunter  up  and  £wn  the 
rooms,  out  of  one  into  the  Qtlmr<» 
jmning  the  various  groups,  and  ob* 
serving  or  listening  to  what  was  going 
en.    With  <me  TM^  it  was, — 

••  Where  is  old  Tliomas  now?" 

'*0h,  he *s  at  Brixton!'* 

"  What  r  at  Kixton  yet?** 

'^Yes,  he's  had  ux  months  this 
time!" 

"  Six  months !  that's  a  long  time 
for  an  old  man  to  be  on  the  mOl !  ** 

Another  party  were  talking  about 
Birmingham  and  Manchester. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  at  Welling- 
borough in  Leioestershiie?**  asked 
one. 

"  In  Northamptonshire,  you  mean,** 
was  the  reply.  "  Yes,  and  a  ^rethr 
little  town  it  is,  but  nothing  doing. 

"  I  *vc  just  been  down  &e  Liver- 
pool road  there,**  cries  another ;  **  but 
Yorkshire's  the  place  fbr  me.  1*11 
be  bound  if  a  man's  beat  he'll  get  a 
lift  better  thero  than  in  any  county 
in  the  kingdom." 

I  entered  into  c(«versation  with 
two  or  three,  inquiring  as  delicately 
as  I  could  what  they  were  and  what 
they  had  been ;  and,  of  course,  giving 
them  such  information  about  myself 
in  return  as  I  pleased.  The  first  was 
a  thin  middle-siaed  man,  about  fifty, 
curiously  robed  in  tatters.  He  had 
served  in  the  army  in  the  East  and 
West  Indies;  had  been  with  Wd- 
lington  in  Spain,  and  in  America  in 
the  late  war,  and  was  afterwards  d»- 
charged  in  Ireland  with  a  pension. 
He  had  given  up  his  pension  for  four 
years'  pay,  and  had  gone  over  to 
Canada  to  settle;  bu^  feeling  the 
curse  of  Cain  still  upon  him,  had 
returned  to  his  own  country,  and 
narrowly  escaped  shipwreck  on  the 
Goodwin.  He  was  now  supporting 
himself  by  going  about  the  streets 
gathering  pence,  and  was  in  the  daily 
expectation  of  getting  his  pension 
renewed.  The  other  was  a  short, 
square-built  man,  of  the  same  age^ 
with  an  apron  wrapped  about  him. 
He  was  a  joiner,  but  had  served  * 
the  navy;  had  been  with  Cochr 
m  South  Ammca,  afid  was  dtaeha 


348 


The  Common  Lodging^Honse. 


[Maxch^ 


fVom  his  aervice  ivith  200/.  or  300/. ; 
and,  like  a  true  ne*er-do-weel,  had 
•pent  every  farthing,  and  being  on 
the  *pree^  as  he  termed  it,  had  sold 
his  tools  into  the  bargain.  He  had 
been  tramping  the  country  for  two 
or  three  years,  could  get  plenty  of 
work,  but  hid  no  tools  to  work  ¥rith 
Journeymen  joiners  have  to  find 
their  own  tools),  and  was  now  sub- 
sisting upon  what  he  could  get  fcom 
the  tntde  and  firom  other  people,  as  a 
distressed  tradesman.  The  third  was 
a  cripple,  though  a  young  man.  He 
had  apparently  done  good  service  for 
the  Queen  of  Spain,  having  left  both 
his  logs  and  knees  at  St.  Sebastian, 
and  for  which  he  was  now  in  the 
All!  emoyment  of  sixpence  a-day. 
He  had,  however,  a  gjood  passport 
fVom  door  to  door,  provided  fie  could 
only  get  so  flur. 

With  these,  then,  I  contrived  to 
while  away  the  evening  till  past 
eleven.  I  found  them  all  very  frank, 
tolerably  civil,  and  more  intelligent 
than  is  generally  supposed,  but  by 
no  means  inclined  to  talk  of  hair- 
breadth escapes.  The  storv  of  their 
lives  was  not  given  with  the  garru- 
lity of  veterans  who  like  to  shoul- 
der their  crutches  and  shew  how 
fields  are  won,  but  drawn  from  them 
by  questionscautiously,  or  rather  art- 
fully put.  These  houses,  in  fact,  are 
not  the  places  for  a  man  to  take  up 
the  trade  of  Othello ;  he  mixes  with 
too  many  who  have  seen  and  expe- 
rienced as  much  and,  perhaps,  more 
than  himself.  Here  are  no  Desde- 
monas  to  listen  to  tales  by  flood  and 
field,  unless  he  could  supply  his 
hearers  well  with  gin  and  plenty  of 
half-and-half.  Indeed  they  have 
been  Uuffht,  and  that  pretty  dearly, 
that  the  nonours  awaraed  to  ^  neck- 
or-nothing  doings"  are  not  intended 
for  them,  and  that  of  the  more  solid 
rewards,  as  beef  and  pudding,  very 
little  comes  to  their  share.  They 
look  upon  themselves  as  having  been 
used  like  brute  bei^sts,  as  they  term  it, 
where  their  strength  and  courue 
had  been  brought  to  the  field, 
and  that  now  in  tlieir  old  age  they 
find  they  are  left  with  lit^  more 
than  wounds  and  putrefying  sores, 
matters  not  whetoer  their  misfor- 
3  have  arisen  from  their  own  mis- 
ict,  or  the  interested  motives  of 
s;  these  are  their  thoughts,  and 
is  their  situation,    worn  out 


with  poverty  and  want,  wnakkd  even 
bv  the  buoyancy  of  youth  or  the 
cheering  rays  of  hope,  they  dr^g 
themselves  on  from  day  to  day,  with- 
out beingable  toraiseone  thought  be- 
yond to-morrow.  Th^  appear  sick; 
and,  if  we  may  be  allowed  to  use  such 
an  expression,  '*  almost  surfeited  with 
Ufe."  It  is,  therefore,  no  wonder  that 
they  turn  a  dull  ear  to  that  which 
most  men  delight  to  hear, — the  his- 
tory of  themsdlves ;  or  when  Luck 
has  thrown  a  few  pence  in  their  way, 
that  they  are  led  as  it  were  instinct- 
ively to  the  gin-shop,  there  to  raise 
their  fiagged  spirits  to  their  proper 
level ;  or,  as  is  their  wonted  custom, 
to  deaden  their  feelings  with  their 
almost  constant  but  pemicions  com- 
panion, the  pipe. 

The  only  thing  worth  noticing 
during  the  remainder  of  the  evening 
was  a  subscription  raised  for  an  old 
man,  who  lay  on  his  death-bed  up 
stairs.     The   proposer  was  a  tall, 

Sowerful  young  man,  of  the  name  of 
ack  Barter,  a  regular  cadger.  He 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and 
made  a  bit  of  a  speech  on  the  occasion. 
He  said  that  they  all  knew  poor  old 
Walker,  and  that  he  had  been  con- 
fined to  his  bed  for  nearly  six  wedcs. 
He  had  seen  him  the  other  day,  and 
had  carried  him  up  a  basin  of  broth. 
The  poor  fellow,  ne  said,  had  pined 
away  to  a  skeleton.  His  arms  (here 
he  attempted  to  describe  the  arm  by 
his  own  vrrist,  but  that  comparison 
not  answering),  he  said,  were  actually 
like  a  little  cmld^s.  In  fact  the  poor 
fellow  was  dyinff,  and  would  never 
rise  out  of  his  bed  more.  He  re- 
minded them  that  poor  old  Harry 
had  always  been  a  trump,  and  that 
it  was  a  sore  thing  for  a  man  to  be 
on  his  death-bed  in  a  lodging-house 
without  any  money  or  a  soul  to  look 
nigh  to  comfort  or  assist  him,  and 
what  was  his  case  now  might  be  theirs 
some  time;  he,  therefore,  proposed 
that  a  subscription  be  raised,  and 
that  every  one  give  lust  what  he 
could  am>rd.  (Applause.)  The 
landlady  stepping  in  at  this  moment, 
the  orator  exclauned,  ^  Here  conies 
Mrs.  Belch,  and  I*m  sure  she^U 
give  something.**  The  landlady  as- 
sented, but  at  we  same  time  informed 
them  that  she  had  allowed  the  old 
man  to  remain  with  her  these  last 
three  weeks  without  paying  a  farthing 
of  rent  This  was  admitted  by  se  vend 


1846.] 


The  Common  Lodying^House. 


349 


to  be  very  true,  and  a  mnnniir  of 
af^lause  was  awarded  her.  The 
orator  then  went  round  with  his  hat, 
and  fathered  as  much  ashalf-a-crown, 
mucn  to  the  gratification  of  all  pre- 
sent, and  no  doubt  equally  so  to  the 
poor  sufferer. 

The  bawlers  of  ^pers  were  now 
coming  in  by  pairs,  ior  they  generally 
do  business  m  partnership.  Before 
taking  any  refreshment,  they  usually 
settle  the  proceeds  of  the  day.  One 
would  examine  the  papers,  while  the 
other  counted  over  the  pence.  One 
poor  fellow,  who  apparently  did  busi- 
ness for  himself,  came  towards  the 
fire  smiling  and  rubbing  his  hands, 
as  if  Luck  and  he  had  lately  met. 

*'  Hare  yon  so^^d  all  out  ?**  inquired 
a  man. 

"  All  r  was  the  reply,  —  "  clean 
out ;  the  one  in  my  hat,  too  !**  Then 
stooping  down  and  lighting  his  cutty, 
went  pufiing  away  to  where  the  firy- 
ingpans  hung,  took  down  one,  ex- 
aimned  it,  then  popped  in  two  nice 
slices  of  ham,  cut  down  half-a-dozen 
slices  of  bread,  and  placed  them  dong- 
(ride  of  the  ham,  all  the  while  puffing 
away  with  the  self-satisfied  air  of  a 
man  who  had  done  well. 

It  was  now  nearly  twelye,  the  fires 
were  almost  out,  and  most  of  the 
lodgers  gone  to  bed.  The  under- 
deputy  was  washii^  and  scrubbing 
the  kitchen-table.  The  landlady  was 
going  about  first  to  one  and  then  sn* 
other,  checking  those  who  wereooming 
in  rather  bounceable  from  having 
made  too  many  calls  on  the  road,  and 
adyisingotherstogotobed.  As  there 
appeeured  to  be  nothing  more  worthy 
of  observation,  I  likewise  intimated  a 
desire  to  so  up  stairs,  when  a  low 
blackguard-looking  fellow,  whom  I 
found  afterwards  to  be  the  under- 
deputy,  with  his  shirt-sleeves  tucked 
up  and  his  hat  slouched  over  his 
eyes,  requested  a  stranger  and  I  to 
come  on.  In  a  back  room  behind 
the  shop,  this  paragon  of  a  bed-groom 
selected  firom  a  bowl  filled  with  pieces 
of  fiurthing  candles  the  fag-end  of 
one  of  those  illuminators,  placed  it 
in  a  candlestick,  or  rather  a  candle- 
holder,  a  piece  of  tin  about  the  size 
of  a  half-crown,  with  a  bit  of  the 
same  metal  in  the  centre,  of  the  form 
of  a  tube,  and  of  just  sufiicient  size 
to  hold  so  respectable  a  piece  of 
tallow.  With  tnis  magnificent  taper 
we  were  ushered  up  a  winding  stair- 
vox-  xxxin.  HO.  cxcv. 


case;  which,  from  the  breadth  of  the 
banister  and  a  certain  creak  the  stairs 
made  at  every  step,  spoke  both  of 
age  and  debility.  Fix>m  one  landing 
we  were  led  to  another,  until  the 
roof  gave  notice  that  we  could  go  no 
farther.  A  door  that  him^  upon  its 
hinges  was  pushed  open — ^it  had  no 
other  fiutenmg,  bolts  and  bars  being 
of  no  use  here.  The  room,  or  rather 
attic,  was  low,  and,  though  of  a  mo- 
derate length  and  breadu,  contained 
no  fewer  than  five  stump -bedsteads, 
with  clothes  of  a  dean  but  coarse 
description,  two  on  one  side  and  three 
on  the  other,  so  crowded  together  as 
just  to  leave  room  for  a  man  to 
squeeze  himself  up  between  them. 
Tnere  was  no  fire-place,  and  the 
room  having  apparently  been  newly 
whitewashed,  it  felt  to  us  both  cold 
and  damp.  The  windows  did  not 
add  much  to  the  comfort  of  the  place, 
being  composed  of  square  leaden- 
framed  panes  of  a  diminutive  size, 
with  others  of  more  modem  dimen- 
sions, cased  in  wood,  so  patched  and 
mixed  together  as  to  leave  it  almost 
impossible  to  say  which  had  been  the 
original.  Yet,  notwithstanding  the 
pains  which  had  been  taken  by  the 
mender,  there  was  yet  room  enough 
left  for  the  wind  and  rain  to  find 
their  way  through.  The  person  as- 
signed to  be  my  fellow-iodger  for 
the  night  was  a  little  man,  past  the 
middle  life,  and  meanly  chid,  but 
who  bore  the  air  of  decency  as  well 
as  poverty.  He  was  exceedingly 
civil  and  communicative.  Misror- 
tune  beats  out  all  reserve,  and,  when 
we  have  had  proofs  that  we  are 
in  her  power,  renders  us  at  once 
humble  and  docile. 

^*  This  lodging-house  keeping,"  I 
observed,  "  must  be  a  good  tnuk.** 

**  Oh,  yes,  sir !"  he  said ;  "  they 
must  make  a  vast  deal  of  money." 

"  Have  you  been  long  here?"  I 
asked. 

"  No,  sir,  this  is  my  first  night ;  I 
was  all  last  week  in  a  sailors*  house 
in  Ratdiffe  Highway,  and  have  this 
week  been  for  the  most  part  in  Went- 
worth  Street  and  the  Commercial 
Road.  One  gets  knocked  about,  you 
see,  sir;  first  to  one  place  and  tnen 
to  another.  Ah,  sir,  1  was  very  dif- 
ferently situated  once!  My  father, 
sir,  was  an  anchor  -  smith,  and  in 
a  very  large  way  to  do.  I  little 
thought  then  that  I  would  hare  tc 

A  A 


3^0 


Tke  Common  Lodgmg^ttouse. 


[March, 


come  to  audi  a  place  as  this ;  but  he 
died.  He  left  4000/.  tboogh,  aad 
we  ought  to  have  done  better; 
but  I  do  not  know  how  it  was,  every 
thing  seemed  to  go  wroo^,— one  loss 
came  upon  another.  My  mother 
died,  too.  She  was  a  very  clever 
woman;  and  since  then  I  think  I 
have  never  known  a  home." 

Here  he  had  slipped  of  his  clothes 
as  unobserved  as  possible,  and  laid 
them  on  the  bed  with  some  attention 
to  their  defects ;  then  creeping  in, 
said,  ^^That  it  was  very  cold,  and  that 
really  a  man  now  at  mght  needed  all 
the  covering  he  could  get." 

I  resumed  the  conversation  by  ob- 
serving, '^he  would  be  some  trade — 
lus  father's,  perhaps  ?" 

"  No,  sir,**  he  said.  "  My  father 
was  a  big,  strong  man ;  but  you  may 
see  that  I  was  never  fit  for  such 
heavy  work." 

'^  Well,  but  could  you  not  have 
got  a  clerk's  situation  ? ' 

"  Why,  I  do  not  know,  sir.  I  was 
promised  something  of  that  sort,  and 
was  sent  from  place  to  place  until 
my  clothes  were  almost  worn  out; 
and  you  know  people  do  not  like 
you  to  call  upon  them  when  you  are 
shabby.  It  won't  do,  sir.  For  my 
part,  1  was  content  to  do  any  thing 
to  earn  a  bit  of  bread;  but  really 
there  is  no  getting  work  now-a-davs. 
I  have  just  had  one  day's  work  tois 
week,  and  that  was  to-day,  at  the 
Docks.  I  had  to  hang  about  till 
half- past  ten  before  I  got  my  money ; 
and  what  was  it  when  1  did  get 
it? — two  shillinfis  I  Bless  you,  I 
had  had  nothing,  f  might  say,  all  day. 
I  then  got  a  pennyworth  of  bread,  a 
pennyworth  of  cneese,  and  a  half- 
pint  of  beer  at  the  house  over  the 
way;  and  there  was  threepence  to 
lay  down  for  my  bed.  Now,  I  will 
just  leave  you  to  judge  what  there 
IS  left,  and  to-morrow  to  get  over, 
too;  and  Grod  knows  when  I'll  get 
another  job." 

^*  Ay,"  observed  a  coal-heaver,  who 
was  getting  into  the  next  bed,  *^  it 
is  a  small  matter,  and  a  hard  look- 
out for  a  poor  man." 

"Yes,"  said  the  little  man,  '*it  is 
a  small  matter;  yet,  small  as  it  is, 
how  thankful  one  feels  for  it!  I 
have  seen  the  time  when  it  would 
have  token  a  week  to  unload  one  of 
oar  West  India  ships,  and  now  it  t^es 
littk  more  than  a  di^I   I  tell  you 


what  it  is,  it  ii  all  this  machinery. 
Machinery  is  the  ruin  of  thw  ooun* 
try." 

"  You  say  very  right."  These  were 
the  words  of  a  man  coming  in  «t  the 
door  with  another.  "For  by  and 
by,  I  think,  there  will  be  wcwk  ibr 
neither  horse  nor  man." 

A  fact  that  appeared  ao  lament- 
ably true,  that  they  all  consented  to  it 
with  a  feeling  that  was  truly  pr^ 
ful  to  hear. 

The  two  lodgers  who  came  in 
now  prepared  to  go  to  bed.  One, 
whose  head  and  shoulders  iicciiied 
more  bent  with  labour  and  weakness 
than  old  age,  occupied  himself  with 
tucking  in  his  bed,  and  making  it  as 
comfortable  as  suclx  a  bed  eonld  be 
made  beneath  such  a  window :  while 
the  other,  a  tall  old  man,  whom  I 
have  seen  giving  away  bills  in  Tot* 
tenham  Court  Koad,  but  whose  ap- 
pearance now  strongly  reminded  me 
of  Shakspeare's  "Last  Age" — **thc 
slippered  pantaloon,"  busied  hwiwrlf 
in  a  similar  way. 

They  were  now  all  in  bed,  and 
nothing  was  heard  save  a  shower  of 
rain,  Uiat  ever  and  anon  pattered 
against  the  window,  when  the  door 
was  once  more  pushed  open,  and  an- 
other wanderer  of  the  night  made 
his  appearance.  He  sat  down  npoo 
the  bed,  and  for  awhile  appesved 
to  be  absorbed  in  thought.  1  ob- 
served to  him  that  it  was  a  wet 
night,— 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "he  knew  that 
He  had  just  caught  the  shower  in 
coming  from  Marylebone." 

"  Marylebone  I  why,  that  is  surely 
a  long  way  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  was  a  long 
way;  but  he  would  mind  the  way 
very  little  if  he  had  only  got  any 
thing  to  do  for  going." 

He  then  began  to  put  off  his  clothes, 
exhibiting  as  he  laid  them  aside  sad 
signs  of  want.  He  was  a  man  past 
the  middle  life ;  and,  if  I  may  use 
the  expression,  had  a  solitary  look. 
After  disposiiig  of  his  wretched  gar- 
ments he  quiddy  crept  into  bed.  A 
little  while  after  I  heard  him  breath- 
ing very  hard,  or,  what  I  strongly 
suspected,  blowing  his  breath  upon 
his  fingers,  gathenng  warmth  by  all 
the  means  that  Poverty  had  left  him 
to  employ. 

What  a  oold  and  an  inhospitable 
place  was  here  !*»8ix  mr  seven  anautt 


1846.1 


The  Common  Lodging- House. 


351 


beiBgs  collected  by  cbance ;  all 
strangers,  and  all  in  want,  and  each 
too  mneh  absorbed  -with  bis  own 
cares  to  be  able  to  assist,  or  even  to 
sympathise,  with  his  neighbour.  They 
were  all  past  the  meridian  of  lifb, 
and  each,  no  donbt,  conld  tell  his 
own  tale ;  but  what  conld  they  get  by 
that,  save  contempt?  Poor  wretches ! 
Ibr  if  to  be  poor  and  miserable  con- 
stitntes  a  wretch,  they  certainly  de* 
served  that  name.  They  slept  on, 
one  snoring  after  another;  not  the 
noisy,  distorted  snore  cd  dmnken* 
ness,  but  the  quiet  and  sober  breath- 
ing of  misery.  None  moved  save 
one — the  man  who  last  came  in ;  he 
raised  his  head  and  looked  towards 
the  window,  and  seeing  no  li^ht, 
crept  down  again,  and  huddled  hun- 
self  over,  as  if  to  thank  God  it  was 
not  yet  morning,  and  that  he  could 
yet  enjoy  a  few  more  hours'  oblivion 
before  he  should  awaken  to  hunger 
and  to  wretchedness. 

On  going  down  in  the  morning, 
the  kitchen  presented  as  fine  a  pic- 
ture of  a  breakiast-scene  on  a  Sun- 
day morning  in  a  cadffing-house  as 
oould  well  be  imagined.  The  trap- 
door was  lifted  up,  which  left  that 
part  of  the  kitcnen  almost  open, 
while  the  steam  from  the  copper 
(which  was  all  in  readiness  for  the 
Sunday  dinner)  was  8tru||gling  in 
clouds  with  the  wind  commg  in  at 
the  door,  and  was  now  and  then 
borne  back  with  the  small  drizzling 
rain  of  a  raw,  foggy,  Felnrtiary  morn- 
ing ;  causing  the  water-butts,  plate- 
racks,  sink,  and  the  dust-hole  filled 
with  bones  and  whitened  sheep's 
skulls,  to  have,  if  possible,  a  damper 
and  more  uncomfortable  appearance 
than  usual.  Below  the  trap -door 
stood  the  very  gentleman-like  waiter 
who  conducted  us  to  our  bed  last  niffht, 
in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  hat  slouched 
over  his  ears,  looking  as  low  and  as 
blackguard  as  ever.  He  was  stirring 
the  contents  of  the  copner  with  a 
lone  wooden-haadled  fonc,  sending 
fortn  cloud  upon  cloud  of  steam, 
which  waved  to  and  fro  about  the 
stairs.  At  this  end  of  the  form  sat  a 
younff  woman,  rockinj^  and  hushing 
a  child,  who  was  squallmg  and  shiver- 
ing with  cold.  Close  to  her  were 
two  men  in  dark,  tattered  clothes, 
their  hats  cooked  a  little,  and  their 
aprons  hanging  over  their  sides ;  be- 
fore each  was  a  coffee  pot,  a  cup  and 


saucer,  with  a  pennyworth  of  bread, 
a  little  butter,  and  a  little  sugar,  in 
se|»arate  papers.  Beside  these  stood 
a  sickly  ^oung  man,  with  a  tin  tea- 
pot in  his  hand,  and  a  bundle  of 
I^enny  Satirists  under  his  arm.  He 
was  miserably  clad,  with  an  old  red 
comforter  about  his  neck;  he  was 
standing  before  the  fire,  which  was 
covered  with  kettles,  boilers,  and 
pans,  waiting  for  his  turn  at  the  tap, 
and  looking  like  penurv  itself.  It 
was  not  so,  however,  witn  his  neigh- 
bour, a  well-set,  well-fed  man,  with 
his  hat  set  smartly  on  his  head,  and 
a  large  wrapper  of  Weekly  Chroni' 
dee  under  his  arm,  that  indicated  he 
was  a  man  of  capital  as  well  as  busi« 
ness.  He  was  stooping,  or  rather 
squatted  before  the  fire,  holding  a 
large  slice  of  ham  at  the  end  of  a 
long  fork,  and  toasting  it  with  the 
air  of  one  who  had  had  full  as 
much  custom  that  morning  as  he  had 
expected.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
table  stood  a  youn^  woman,  clean 
and  smart,  but  witli  much  of  the 
street -raking  look  of  a  night-walker. 
She  was  the  wife  of  an  old  fellow,  a 
brush  and  broom  hawker,  who, 
whatever  he  might  be  considered 
out  of  doors,  was  looked  upon  as  a 
man  of  substance  here, — one  well  to 
do  in  the  world.  He  had  Just  asked 
a  friend  to  have  a  bit  of  dmner  with 
him ;  and  his  wife  was  now  prepar- 
ing a  large  dish  of  meat  and  potatoes 
fbr  the  oven, — a  task  which  seemed 
to  ffive  her  no  small  importance, 
both  in  her  own  eves  and  those  of 
the  lookers-on.  Behind  her  splashed 
and  clattered  amonest  the  disnes  the 
imder-deputy,  with  a  brass  chain 
around  his  neck,  and  key  suspended 
to  it, — the  emblem  of  his  office  as 
locker-up.  On  one  side  of  the  wo- 
man was  a  man  washing  his  shirt, 
and  another  giving  himself  what  he 
termed  a  good  wash,  ah !  ah  !-ing  in 
that  hoarse  voice  so  affected  by  tap- 
room puppies,  and  having  a  word 
with  a  small  man  with  large,  dark 
whiskers,  sitting  with  his  back  to  the 
table,  his  hat  on  one  side,  and  a  pipe 
in  his  mouth,  mending  an  old  boot. 
At  every  time  he  waxwl  his  end  you 
might  read  in  his  looks  the  clever 
fellow,  as  well  as  tramp  and  snob. 
Fronting  each  other  not  fkr  off  stood 
two  mtn,  the  one  an  old  sailor,  tvin'' 
potatoes  and  pork  in  a  net-bag,  and  t' 
other  a  fair -haired,    round   fa« 


352 


Thf  Common  Lod^ng^House. 


[March, 


Cheshire -like  man, — a  hawker  of 
small  wares, — ^mixing  suet  and  flour 
for  a  pudding ;  next  to  them  sat  the 
two  gigantic  navigators,  breakfasting 
on  conee  out  of  a  pan  on  the  table, 
and  cutting  huge  mouthfuls  of  cold 
pork  and  bread  placed  together.  Op- 
posite the  fire  was  an  oM  man,  the 
very  protot3rpe  of  the  tinker  I  saw 
last  night — m  fact,  he  was  his  sire, 
sulking  and  glooming  as  if  he  had 
just  got  his  breakfast,  or,  which  was 
more  likely,  had  none  to  get.  A  little 
fiirther  on  was  the  model  of  a  cadger 
partaking  a  sociable  meal  of  bread, 
nerring,  and  tea,  with  the  over-civil- 
looking  fellow  in  the  flannel  jacket ; 
and  by  them  stood  a  surly  carter, 
slicing  onions  and  potatoes  into  a 
laree  iron  pan  on  the  table,  and  now 
and  then  putting  in  scraps  of  beef 
and  mutton.  At  this  end  of  the  table 
was  the  Yankee  sailor  talking  to  one 
of  the  rifle  briffade  of  the  L^^on, 
who  was  thou^tfull^  whiffing  out 
of  a  cutty.  On  one  side  of  the  win- 
dow sat  a  man  reading  a  newspaper, 
and  beside  him  stood  a  barber,  shav- 
ing for  a  halfpenny  a  shave ;  at  the 
other  end,  perched  cross-legged  on 
he  window-ledge,  sat  an  old  tailor, 
ith  spectacles  on  his  nose,  stitching 
^  a  nether  garment ;  and  between 
lese,  before  a  bit  of  looking-glass 
iuck  in  the  wall,  stood  another  un- 
ibrtunate  being  tormenting  himself 
with  a  razor, — these  sharp -edged 
tools  beinff  lent  at  a  halfpenny  a-piece. 
Bound  the  fire  at  this  end  of  the 
room  were  gathered  a  very  ragged 
group,  toasting  and  frying;  these, 
with  some  half-dozen  more  on  the 
forms  and  underneath  the  window, 
their  hats  on  and  pipes  in  their 
mouths,  completed  the  scene  in  the 
kitchen. 

On  entering  the  parlour,  I  found 
that  room  simdarly  occupied.  Both 
tables  were  crowded ;  every  man  and 
woman  eating  his  own.  In  the 
middle  of  the  room  was  a  man  cut- 
ting hair,  and  apparently  doing  con- 
siderable business.  The  seat  asainst 
the  wall  was  pretty  well  filled,  and 
about  a  dozen  or  so  promenaded  up 
and  down  the  room,  almost  every 
one  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.  There 
was  one  thmg  that  particularly  at- 
tracted my  notice,  and  that  was,  that 
the  lodgers  who  preferred  the  parlour 
to  enjoy  their  m^ds  in  were  in  general 
of  a  grade  higher  than  thoee  in  the 


kitchen,  they  being  for  the  most 
part  of  the  lowest  order  of  mechanics, 
or  the  better  sort  of  vagrants ;  ap- 
pearances here,  as  well  as  elsewhere, 
claiming  a  kind  of  a  tacit  right  to 
the  best  accommodation.  Amoncst 
the  topics  that  were  canvassed  bv  the 
various  groups,  politics  were  seldom 
introduced.  Although  there  were 
several  in  the  room  who  had  been  in 
the  service  of  the  Queen  of  Spain, 
Dom  Miguel,  and  in  our  own  army 
and  navy,  yet  they  neither  spoke  of 
naval  nor  military  affairs;  and  when 
any  news  of  the  day  was  brought 
forward,  all  listened  to  it  with  apathy, 
and  rareljr  ofiered  a  remark.  Eating 
and  drinking,  and  the  daily  struggles 
ofHfe,  seemed  principally  to  occupv 
their  attention.  In  fact,  though 
apparently  idle,  they  were  too 
much  individually  employed  to  give 
themselves  any  concern  about  the 
public. 

The  morning  was  got  over  with 
breakfiisting,  preparing  dinners,  saun- 
tering up  and  down,  out  of  one 
room  into  the  other,  and  standing  in 
poups  at  the  door.  As  I  was  amus- 
ing myself  by  observing  what  was 
going  on,  I  noticed  a  ooard  huns; 
underneath  one  of  the  windows,  with 
the  word  '*  Rules**  as  the  head- 
line. On  going  up  I  read  the  fol- 
lowing : — 

"  RlfLEB. 

"  Mn.  Belcb,  wisbiog  to  promote  the 
comfort  of  her  lodgerSp  hopes  tbey  will 
study  the  following  rulei : — First,  To  be 
out,  and  tbe  kitchen  to  be  cleaned,  at 
eleveo.  and  closed  at  twelve  at  nigfaU 
Secondly,  No  washing  after  twelve  in 
tbe  day.  No  smoking  up  stairs ;  nor  no 
gambling  suffered.  Mrs.  Belcb  wishes 
to  conduct  ber  house  orderly,  and  hopes 
there  will  no  quarrels  take  place  to  dis« 
turb  ber  lodgers. 

"  Divine  service  is  beld  here  every 
Sunday  afWmoon  at  three  o'clock ;  and 
those  who  feel  disposed  are  destf«d  to 
attend. 

"N.B.  Mrs.  Belch  will  not  be  an- 
swerable for  any  thing,  unless  previously 
given  into  ber  own  charge.'* 

To  note  this  on  paper  without  at- 
tracting notice,  I  found  would  be 
impossible ;  I  was,  therefore,  oblmd 
to  walk  about,  occasionally  steafing 
a  glance,  that  I  might  be  able  to  com- 
mit it  to  memory. 

Two  indiyiduals,  a  man  and  a  wo- 


184&] 


The  Common  Lod^ng^Home, 


353 


xnaiif  afforded  considerable  amuse- 
meat  this  morning  by  the  siDgnlar- 
ity  of  their  behaviour.  The  woman, 
a  perfect  sUttem,  and,  to  complete 
all,  half-drunk,  or  as  the  phrase  is, 
^*  just  getting  round,**  with  her  hair 
partly  hanging  down  her  face ;  the 
man,  a  well-known  character  at  this 
house,  Joe  Stott  the  Newcastle  sailor, 
and  in  appearance  not  a  whit  the 
better.  He  was  arrayed  in  a  loose 
great  coat,  rakishly  out  at  the  elbows, 
and  his  nether  garment  buely  co- 
vered his  nakedn^ ;  his  shoes,  too, 
were  exceedingly  accommodating, 
displaying  the  toe  as  well  as  heel ; 
ana,  as  he  said,  **  could  let  in  tiie 
water  as  well  as  out**  In  this  ele- 
^nt  dishabille  the  couple  marched 
m;  the  woman  first,  and  the  man 
after,  dose  at  her  heels,  with  down- 
cast eyes.  The  coy  damsel  seated 
herself  on  a  form,  Joe  did  the  same 
close  behind  her.  She  turned  her 
back;  Joe  only  steered  his  face  in 
the  same  direction,  but  with  a  look 
much  like  a  shipwrecked  mariner. 
The  fair  one  rose  and  went  to  an- 
other form;  the  tar  followed  steadily 
in  her  wake.  She  again  turned  her 
back;  Joe  humbly  seated  himself 
behind  her.  The  swain  at  last  softly 
placed  his  hand  on  her  arm,  she  pet- 
tishly dashed  it  aside.  Joe  felt  sore, 
but  by  no  means  despaired;  for, 
taking  the  cutty  (which  was  till  then 
stuck  in  his  cheek),  and  gently 
handing  it  round,  placed  it  before 
her  face.  I  had  often  heard  of  the 
Indian  pipe  of  peace,  but  never  be- 
fore of  me  cadger*s  pipe  of  love. 
The  power  of  tobacco,  nowever,  was 
too  much.  She  took  the  pipe,  blew 
a  doud  or  two,  and  then  nanded  it 
back  over  her  shoulder  without  ever 
turning  her  head,  or  even  deigning 
a  word.  It  was  all  right.  The  lady 
rose  and  went  to  the  door,  and  Joe, 
as  if  on  the  wings  of  Mercury,  fol- 
lowed. 

'*Ay,**  then  whispered  several, 
"Joe*stii/or*t.*' 

"  Ay,  ay,*'  said  the  old  deputy,  '*  I 
see  how  it  is,  poor  Joe  is  clean  gone. 
It*s  all  over  with  him.  There*s  that 
man  now,  the  soberest  man  in  the 
house,  and  1*11  bet  any  money  he*ll 
not  be  himself  this  month  to  come.'* 
And  out  he  went,  mumbling  and 
grumbling  about  fools  and  women. 

AmOBffit  the  many  eccentrics,  I 
Qbeerred  there  was  one  whose  peca« 


liaiity  of  appearance  particuhirly  at- 
tracted my  attention.  A  journey- 
man shaver — I  suppose  he  had  not 
been  able  to  get  a  Sunday  morning's 
job :  in  appearance,  he  was  as  tall 
and  as  upright  as  a  barber's  pole; 
and  had  on  a  black  surtont,  thrad- 
bare,  and  rather  out  at  the  elbows. 
The  covering  of  his  nether  parte 
was  miserably  deficient,  but  that  he 
never  saw,  ne  carried  his  head  so 
erect.  A  laxve  blue  stock  was  dasped 
round  a  neck  as  lean  and  as  scraggy 
as  Billy  Pitt*s,  with  foppish  features, 
and  an  immense  mop  of  sandy  hair 
arranged  in  the  very  acme  of  the 
fashion.  In  short,  he  was  a  B^^ent 
Street  man  in  caricature.  His  dia- 
lect, for  he  articulated  certain  sounds, 
was  of  the  pure  sister  kingdom; 
and  his  person  smdtmost  villanoudy 
of  soap,  dl,  and  suds,  with  a  strong 
breathing  of  gin  difTused  round  the 
whole.  This  im^nj^  partook  of  tea, 
and  toast,  and  cheese ;  and,  shocking ! 
— ^ho  w  could  he  approach  the  ladies  ? 
—actually  ate  an  onion  when  done ; 
and,  by  way  of  givine  a  finish  to  the 
degant  refection,  he  drew  forth  frmn 
his  pocket,  not  a  dgar,  but  a  cutty 
pipe! 

At  twdve  o*dGck  the  deputy,  or 
cook,  announced  that  dinner  waa 
ready,  and  was  poking  in  the  copper 
with  a  long  wooden-handled  fork, 
and  calling  to  the  oumers  ofihe  mtst^ 
as  ^  Harry  Walker,  your  pork  and 
tatoes."  ^^  Joe  Scott,  your  bacon 
and  tatoes.**  "Tom  Smith,  here*s 
your  pudding.**  "Ay,  that's  all 
right.  I  wish  it  was  only  a  beef- 
steak one."  "  I  dare  say.'  "  Mur- 
ey,  your  murphies,  my  b^.  What 
ve  vou  ffot  to-day.  Murphy? 
Bacon r"  "No,  by  my  sowlf  no- 
thinff  but  apoor  sodger  '  (a  red  her- 
ring). "  Where's  the  old  man,  Ply- 
mouth Jack  P  Tell  him  his  sea-pie  'a 
ready.  Here,  mate,  where  are 
you?  Your  sea-pie."  "Ay,  ay; 
coming." 

Some   were   now  untyinff   their 

Suddinff*doths  or  net- bags,  slapping 
own  tne  scalding  ends  on  the  table, 
and  then  emptying  the  smoking  con- 
tents in  their  plates.  Anon  a  fry- 
ingpan  was  nzzing,  with  "Mind 
your  eye  !'*  as  the  collops  and  gravy 
would  be  poured,  sparkling  and 
sprinkling,  before  your  face.  Ifowa 
gpreat  gourmand  of  a  fellow  woul^' 
come  running  along  with  an  ire 


Thi  Common  LodgingSoiue. 


[MtKh, 


when  BciJdiiigB  were  in  the  way, 
then  iplaah  would  go  into  •  diih 
broth,  meftt,  pot*toea,  and  «11. 

"  I  ssv.  Bill,  iuBt  lend  me  your 
fork  ;  wdl  YOU  ?"  "  Wh«t  ih»ll  1 
do  for  a  fork  t"  criea  another.  "  Ask 
the  deputy."  "  Tom — Tom  Smith, 
will  j'ou  tend  me  your  knife  aad 
fork  when  you're  done  ?"  "  Ay, 
when  I  un  ilone."  "HanT,«tickyonr 
fork  in  my  bacon;  I  cannot  ^  it 
out,  it  dips  about  like  an  eel."  "  L^y 
hold  with  your  hand."  "  I  cannot, 
man;  it'i  as  hotaa " 

Opposite  to  me  wai  a  man  wi^  a 
ouddini 


a  genuine   Norf<dk— yet  he 
cut  it  down  with  as  mneh  relish  ai  if 
it  bad  been  the  beet  plum.    He  had 
not  a  drop  of  sauce,  yet  not  a  bit 
seemed  to  chdce  bim,  but  (leKended 
as  if  it  did  all  the  way.    On  one 
side  sat  a  carter-like  fellow  in  a 
dirty  smock-frock,  large  dark  whis- 
kers that  met  under  bis  chin,  and  a 
broad- brimmed    hat    on.      Ue  had 
before  him  a  huge  brown  basin  of 
broth,  and  a  disb  piled  with  scnqw  of 
meat  and  potatoes.    He  sat  veiy  de- 
liberately supping  hia    broth,  sow 
and  then  stopping  to  put  in  a  potato, 
crushing  it  up  to  thicken  his  mesa ; 
ooeasiiinally  taking  a  bit  of  the  meat, 
merely  as  a  foretaste  of  the  feast  that 
was  to  come;  plied  sgain  at  the  broth, 
and,  when  done,  carefully  ate  up  all 
the  potatoea  with  little   pickings  of 
tfaa  meat,  then  piled  the  meat  up, 
tocA  it  down  again,  taated  another 
little  bit  or  two,   piled  it  up  once 
more,  handed  it  to  the  deputy,  fol- 
lowed it  carefully  with  his  eye  until 
ider  lock  and  key,  then  atole 
ig  glance  right  and  left  to  see 
le  was  looking.     The  table 
pded  on  both    Hdea,  aome 
and  others  beginning  th«ir 
On  one  part  of  the  table 
ap   of  potato-skins,  at  an- 
iroD  pan  juat  emptied ;  and 
;ht  be  Men  a  wet  pudding- 
^ped  down,  the  water  stall 
ID  a  ttreaoi  on  the  floor, 
ach   lire  were   gathered  a 
oastin^,   frying,  or  waiting 
1 ;  while  on  the  seat  under- 
le  window   were   lying  or 
Hne   half-doien    dinnerloi 
among    wbwn    were    the 
ailor  in  the  red  flantwl -shirt 


and  two  of  tbe  Legion,  dmring  or 
nnoking,  and  gsaing  on  the  teene. 
The  uiuler-deputy  wm  wending  hii 
way  from  (Hte  roota  to  tfaeother,cfy- 
ing  "  Forks  1  forka  I  forks  I"  the 
landlady  wm  busUiiw  about  tVom  fire 
to  fire  to  see  that  aITwh  right;  the 
cook  was  still  forking  dinnow  out  <^ 
the  copper,  Mid  all  was  life,  bustle, 
plenty,  misery,  and  want;  with  ■ 
clattering  of  kitives  and  platet,  * 
Suing  of  fryingpftos,  splaahiug  of 
Iffoth  SB  it  waa  poured  into  the 
dishes,  and  the  wfiole  place  stidii^ 
with  smells  and  ste«m. 

Just  as  I  wma  gtang  into  the  pat- 
lour  (for  parlour  people  are  always 
late  diners)  a  young  nian  was  hur- 
rying in  with  a  la^e  brown  dish 
fVom  the  area,  cimtainiDg  a  aboolder 
of  mutton,  a  pudding,  and  potatoes, 
lie  nUced  his  load  upon  the  table  st 
the  lower  end  of  the  room,  and  seat- 
ing himself  beftde  it,  prepared  for 
business.    He  Arst  cat  a  noble  slice 


off  the  joint  and  then  peifwmed  i 
--""-       - '    "^ce  to  lie  puddi" 
:  of  the  potatoes  «r 


simitar  good  service  to  t 


the  gnvy,  and  then  fell  to  work  Ukt 


this,  be  cut  again  and  again,  his  eyes 
all  the  time  wandering  over  every 


Btonuwh.  Several  came  to  the  same 
table  with  their  dinners,  even  after 
he  had  begun,  finished,  and  weot 
sway,  but  still  he  ate  and  ate  on. 
At  length  he  gave  indications  tliat 
he  was  coming  to  a  doac  by  tuniiiV 
the  meat  over  and  over,  cutting  a 
morsel  off  here  and  another  there, 
asifdetennined  tomake  opforfist- 
daya.  He  then,  as  if  unwilling  to 
lose  even  the  sight  of  wbat  had  ^vcn 
him  BO  much  enjoyment,  oontmatd 
to  amuae  bimaelf  with  placing  the 
_  Jish  and  then 
he  would  alter 


njoyment,  oontmata 
it  with     ■■-**■- 
meat  in  one  part  of  the  di 

in  anotlier.    Anon,  he  ' 

that  arrangement,  put  the  meat  alo^ 
with  tlie  potatoes;  aad  again  hit 
mind  would  change,  and  he  wwi^ 
place  it  with  the  bit  of  pudding 
tliat  hul  eae^ted  his  devouring  js^'*' 
scrape  up  the  gravy,  that  ne« 
looked  like  so  mnui  dripping,  "lix^ 
with  the  potatoee,  and  indeed  seeoMo 
to  betotaJlyataloMhowlopKatfTt 
his  luxuries  in  all  their  swcetntB- 
During  the  whole  of  thit  tiinc  every 
e>'e  in  that  part  of  the  room  wu 
upcm  luiB;  aot  regaidiof  him  ■>*>> 


1646.] 


The  Commam  todgiMg'BMue. 


365 


u 


tile  contempt  that  saeh  an  mmBoaaXj 
induli^ce  of  the  appetite  deserreOt 
but  with  a  loncing  look  ae  if  they 
oolv  regretted  Uieir  inability  to  play 
admikrpart.  Two  men  were  sitting 
beside  him,  steadily  watching  every 
bit  he  put  into  his  month.  One 
yentured  (and  he  was  a  ca0t-<^  but- 
ler), but  in  the  most  deferential 
manner,  to  suggest  the  prc^riety  of 

f  icing  them  aU  separate  (the  wh, 
now  remember,  nad  partitions); 
but  the  lordly  owner,  as  if  conscious 
of  the  importance  such  abundance 
gaye  him,  scarcdv  deigned  an  answer. 
At  length,  satisned  with  his  enjoy- 
ment, he  handed  his  property  to  tne 
d^uty,  intimating  that  it  was  now 
his  pleasure  it  should  be  put  by,  fol- 
lowmg  it  at  the  same  time  with  his 
eye,  until  it  was  carefully  secured 
under  lock  and  key.  Haviog  as- 
sured himself  of  this  fact  he  arose, 
still  deeming  the  poverty-stricken 
wretches  around  him  unworthy  of  a 
word,  and  walked  away.  A  few 
minutes  after  I  saw  bun  blowii^ 
very  contentedly  out  of  a  cutty.  I 
am  not  an  advocate  for  tobacco,  but 
J  certainly  did  think  he  needed  a 
whiff. 

Should  the  reader  be  curious 
about  person  and  appearance,  I  must 
say  that  this  said  gentleman  would 
not  have  passed  as  a  relation  of 
Daniel  I^unbert's.  He  was  slender 
and  i^ve  the  middle  si^e,  with  mole- 
skin trousers,  a  black  coat  worn 
threadbare,  a  white,  or  rather  yel- 
lowish, handkerchief  pinned  tightly 
about  his  neck,  and  an  old  hat  set 
conceitedly  on  one  side — a  kind  of  an 
aristocratic  cadger;  his  complexion, 
too,  might  have  passed  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  bile  it8el£  Some  weeks 
9£t&r  I  met  him  msaching  up  UoU 
bom  Hill  with  a  long  pole  over  his 
shoulder  and  an  immense  placard  at 
the  end.  How  he  could  affi>rd  to 
live  so  luxuriously  was  a  puzzle  to 
me,  but  epicurism  and  gluttony  are 
the  bane  <^  the  low  Londoners. 

At  hidf-past  two  the  landlady  came 
down  stairs  and  gave  orders  to  ^ 
the  parlour  in  readiness  for  the  ap- 
IHYiachii^  lecture.  The  under-de- 
puty  was  in  the  kitchen  scouring  the 
table,  and  the  lodgers  who  were  there 
were  crowded  on  the  seat  under- 
neath the  window,  or  lyiii^  on  those 
against  the  wall,  smoking  and  chat- 
ting, and  forming  a  fine  picture  of 


low  life.  The  servants,  anu»^  whom 
was  that  respectable  looking  offidai 
the  cook,  bi^^  now  to  dear  away 
the  thin^  to  sweep  the  floor,  and 
sprinkle  It  over  with  sawdust.  After 
tnis  introduction  to  the  making  up  of 
a  chapel,  a  door  was  opened  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  room  that  led  into 
a  large  closet,  from  which  were  taken 
a  number  of  forms  to  the  amount  of 
twenty.  They  were  then  arranged 
in  the  parlour  in  a  ve^  tabernacle- 
like  style.  A  piece  of  furniture,  like 
the  upper  part  of  an  arm-chair  cut 
off  by  the  seat,  was  placed  upon  the 
form  against  the  wall,  a  cushion  was 
put  in  the  inside,  a  stool  resembling 
a  boot-jack  was  arranged  for  the 
&et,  a  table  was  drawn  up;  and  a 
huge  writing-desk,  fixed  upon  a 
SQuare  box  of  equal  breadtn,  the 
whole  covered  with  crimson  doth, 
with  tassels  dangling  at  the  track,  and 
a  branch-candlestick  on  each  side,  ca- 
pable of  holding  two  lights,  were  laid 
upon  the  table,  making  altogether  a 
venr  passable  pulpit.  Presently  the 
table  was  covered  with  Testaments 
and  Hymn-books,  all  in  excellent 
condition.  I  was  surprised,  but 
upon  examining  them  I  found  they 
belonged  to  the  Bible  Loan  Sodety. 
The  chapel  now  began  to  fill,  all 
having  their  faces  clean  washed, 
if  they  could  not  put  on  their  Sun- 
day's clothes.  AU  took  thdr  seats 
very  quietly;  some  little  fun  there 
was  certainly  with  a  few  young  men 
and  women,  and  that  not  in  the  most 
delicate  stvlc.  One  ease-loving  fel- 
low quietly  secured  himsdf  in  a 
corner  imd  prepared  for  a  nap.  He 
was  advised  to  go  to  bed.  **  No,"  he 
said,  "  he  could  deep  as  wdl  there, 
and  hoped  that  the  &llow  who  had 
to  come  would  not  make  such  a 
noise  as  the  one  who  was  here  last 
Sunday,  for  he  could  not  get  a  wink 
of  sleep  for  him."  An  old  man  seated 
himsdf  on  a  small  form,  and  for 
some  time  sat  very  demurely.  At 
the  other  end  was  a  strapping 
young  Irishman,  denominated  the 
Finger -smith.  Paddy,  who  was 
brimful  of  mirth,  was  not  long  in 
discovering  that  it  was  he  himself 
who  balanced  the  seat;  he  dyly 
slid  off  the  end,  bolt  uprieht  went 
the  seat,  and  sent  the  poor  old  cadger 
sprawling  on  the  floor.  Roars  c' 
laughter  followed  this  exploit.  T 
landlady,  on  hearing  the  noise,  cs 


356 

down  itkirs,  ftnd  tternly  ordered  that 
tl\  larking  should  ceMe,  and  likewise 
thst  there  shonld  be  no  more  Bmok- 
ing.  By  and  by  a  nutling  of  silka 
waa  bet^  and  the  landhtdr  oehered 
in  three  or  four  ladiea  and  m  mmy 
gentlemen.  After  the  osnal  cere- 
monies, a  h  jmn  was  nmg,  and  most  of 
the  inmates  joined  with  asmueh  eue 
and  freedom  as  if  they  had  not  been 
nnaecustomed  to  attend  Methodist 
or  dissenting  chapels.  A  prayer  fol- 
lowed, and  then  the  11th  chapter  of 
John  was  read,  beginning  with  these 
words,  "  Now  a  certain  man  was 
sick,  named  Lazarus;"  the  history 
of  which  was  very  applicable  to 
many  who  were  present,  and  was 
listened  to  with  considerable  atten- 
tion. At  the  conclusion  another 
hymn  was  given,  and  for  the  sermon 
was  selected  the  Sth  verae  of  the  4th 
chapter  of  James :  "  Draw  nigh  to 
God,  and  he  will  draw  nigh  to  you : 
cleanse  your  hands,  ye  sinners ; 
and  purify  your  hearts,  ye  double- 
minded."  A  text  equally  KOod,  and 
well  the  lecturer  worked  it  up. 
He  explained  to  bis  hearers  the  ne- 
cessity of  drawin*  close  to  bo  pure  a 
Being)  and  raignt  have  hinted  in 
broader  terms  or  the  danger  of  soiU 
ing  their  hands  with  other  people's 
property.  He  exhorted  them  moet 
ferrcntfy  on  the  advantages  of  a  clear 
conscience.  But  whether  it  was  that 
they  had  heard  such  exhortations 
before,  or  that  some  other  cause 
operated  upon  them,  certain  it  is 
that  Beveral  of  the  conurbation 
began  now  to  give  indications  that 
if  their  ears  still  received  the  sound, 
they  were  ftat  losing  the  power 
of  convevinR  the  sense.    As  for  the 


The  Common  Lodging-Houie, 


[Mareb, 


who  bad  their  eyes  c^ien,  eoold 
control  herself  no  longer,  f<w  a  np- 
preased  titteiing  waa  already  beud. 
Pnshing  forward,  ahe  seized  the  un- 
steady mortal  by  the  aim  with  a 
rripe  that  could  have  been  none  of 
the  gentlest,  for  the  man  wis  up  in 
a  moment,  and  as  wide  awake  « 
ever  be  waa  in  his  life.  Eveiy 
sleeper  was  in  an  instant  erect,  tad 
even  the  fellow  in  the  comer,  ifi") 
bad  been  so  determined  on  a  snoose, 
awoke  with  a  stare,  and  was  made 
aware  by  certain  dig*  in  the  sidethtt 
he,  too,  was  not  to  be  aUowed  Ibit 
indulgence.  The  eftbet  of  the  load- 
lady's  wrath  was  almost  magical.  It 
put  me  in  mind  of  a  conntry  patson, 
who  one  sultry  Sunday  aftonooa 
observing  that  the  whole  of  h>< 
hearers  had  dropped  asleep,  roond 
out,  "  Fire !  fire  1  fii«  T  The  peo- 
ple b^an  to  rub  their  eyes  and  aj, 
" Where P   where?    where P"     "In 

h ,"    he   shonled,    "for    slwRf 

bearers."  It  may  be  sappoeed  tlul 
there  was  no  more  sleeping,  neilber 
on  the  former  nor  on  the  present 
occarion.  The  lecturer,  seeii^  '!»' 
the  landlady  was  doii^  all  she  could 
to  rouse  the  attention  of  his  hearers, 
made  an  effort  to  second  her  exer- 
tions. He  became  a  tittle  more  ani- 
mated, and  finally  related  an  anec- 
dote of  a  workhouse 'boy,  who, 
feeling  a  desire  to  learn  to  read,  in- 
timated his  vrish  to  the  mistre*  "i 
the  establishment.  The  lady,  like  a 
true  bastile  govemesa,  reflised  to  en- 
conraKcsoIaudableadispoeitioii.  11k 
boy,  however,  was  detcmdned,  wtd 
running  away  one  Sunday  aften>oi>o 
to  a  Sunday-school,  fell  on  his  koeo 
'^  -  1  was  there. 


»unday-i 

e  a  clen 


1846.] 


The  Common  Lodging^Houie* 


357 


tevenl  ladies  and  geDtlemen ;  onbia 
left  stood  Mrs.  Belch,  with  two  or 
three  of  her  chief  domestics;  and  in 
the  back-gpnound  were  a  motley 
crowd  of  thieves,  cadgers,  navisators, 
tramps,  sailors,  disbanded  soldiers, 
and  vagabonds  of  every  description — 
as  fine  a  oonere|;ation  of  sinners  as 
any  man  neea  vrish  to  preach  to. 

Nothing  further  oocorred  during 
the  sermon;  but  in  singing  the  hymn 
which  is  usually  g^ven  at  the  con- 
clusion, I  thought  several  raised  their 
voices  with  a  feeling  something  akin 
to  that  which  boys  are  apt  to  shew 
after  Uiey  have  listened  to  a  long 
spiritual  exhortation,  and  are  in  the 
expectation  of  an  immediate  emanci- 
pation. After  the  singing,  a  tall,  old 
Sntleman,  who  had  been  in  the 
bit  of  frequenting  this  place  for  a 
number  of  years,  got  up  to  ffive,  as 
he  said,  a  few  pitting  words.    Ue 


chatted  away  in  the  most  ftmiliar 
st^le,  as  if  most  of  the  listeners  and 
lumself  were  old  acqoaintanoes,  and 
related  an  anecdote  or  two  of  his 
adventures  when  he  was  with  Gene- 
ral Elliot  at  the  si^e  of  Gibraltar. 
The  stories  had  often  been  heard  be- 
fore, indeed  the  old  gentleman,  like 
most  individuals  of  his  age,  was 
withal  rather  garrulous,  and  fond  of 
talking  over  the  scenes  of  his  youth ; 
and  was  listened  to,  therefore,  as  if 
an  old  favourite.  In  the  prayer  at 
the  close  of  the  service  the  poor 
wanderers  were  not  forgotten,  nor 
was  the  landlady  thought  unworthy 
to  be  remembere4  for  the  care  she 
took  in  providing  spiritual  food  for 
the  souls  of  her  lodgers.  After  the 
universal  prayer  for  all,  this  singular 
meeting  ended. 

The  landlady  now  escorted  the 
visitors  to  the  aoor. 


Mod$r»  Pamitr*,  ^. 


[ir«k, 


UODEKM  PAINTERS,   ETC.* 


Tu  moHrta  of  t  titeru7  anthw, 
whoM    labject    eipcciollv    iavolvei 
lOEtten  of  tMte    ftnd    reeling,  are 
generally  of  a  mixed  character ;  i.e. 
of  a  character  which  ii  not  leta  eon- 
dliatory  than  oMTCctive;   not  lest 
obedient  to  fuhion  than  oppoaed  to 
fUiacy.    Many  capable  of  advancing 
the  catiM  of  unqualified  Tnilh  have 
yet  become  in  a  great  meaiure,  and 
perhapa  unconsdotuly,  the  diiciples 
of  a    mere    eonvtntional   orthodoxg ; 
and  they  achieve  popularity  and  re- 
munerative tDcceH  rather  by  the  po- 
licy <^  affordiDK  additional  rcatoni  for 
the  iuftneM  or  f^cncral  opinion,  than 
by  the  more  daring  work  of  expoeing 
pc^ular  error.     A  niodeit  adherence 
to  all   the   Icadins   canons  of  time- 
hallowcd  decision  is,  at  least,  safe  and 
—-"— '*blc ;  a  radical  inclination  to 
thoK  canons  ii  unquestion- 
igeroua  and  presuming.    Not, 
:,  that  we  assert  the  auured 
y  of  a  totally  unrestrained 
ion  to  catholic  custom.  A  de- 
hesitating  movement  against 
)rs  of  a  Bystem,  assumed  to 
1  in  the  main,  is,  perhaps, 
ilitie  than  obttinatc  conser- 
bccauRc  it  wears  the  expres- 
i  candid  perception  of  defect, 
erefore,  of  a  legitimised  ap- 
)n  of  merit.    Same  necessity 
ection  must  be  admitted,  to 
the  mriting  of  n  book ;  this 
been    manifested    and    met 
I  it  bear  no  greater  proper- 
lie  maw  of  the  subject  tnan 
'■  half-penny  wo  rtli  of  bread 
ibundance  or  sack),  the  rest 
y  as  — "lying." 
lonally,  however,  an  author 
e,  either  merely  bold  in  pre- 
D,  or  really  potent  in  truth, 
»ming  to  chase    away  the 
1  outpoMa  of  conventionality, 
■  determinately  against  the 
art  of  "  mountainous  error," 
[aiming  with  Hotspur, — 
le  blood  more  itiri  lo  rouse  a 


the  Oxford  grwdtMtt'a  mtvmtioa.  Be 
baa,  indeed,    waglit    ft    repotatiM. 

He  haa  acftled  tbe  waU  oTtbeCanlt 
of  Prejndioe;  and,  firon  ita  onbst- 
tied  partapet,  mrea  na  to  follow. 
Feeling  that  there  ia  laon  in  hnJ- 
icape  art  tbsn  Jarge  sympathiea  ud 
hicn  intellecta  have  ever  yet  atknov- 
ledged,  be  has  dared  the  cbaige  of  i 
treasonous  rebelli^Ni  againat  the  mvc- 
reignty  of  "  the  Old  Hasten ,"  i*- 
sured,  no  doubt,  of  hianwcMisoooff 

,  and  that 
of  his  attempt  no  c 
imp^h  him. 

His  motives   are  aereie  in, that 
naglencM;  his  object,  unconciliaiDig 
correction.     He  hates  the  mon  tbt 
fallacy   which    is     fashionable,    and 
seems  to  have  industriously  freed  iiti 
mind  from  every  conrentional  biai. 
He  prefers  the  "  forlorn  bove'  «f 
confronting  popular  error,  to  fDee«7 
fame  of  otthodox  championship,    ot 
prefers  speculating  on  his  presump- 
tion, to  the  insipid  security  of  init- 
ing  to  his    modesty,      lie    prefers 
radicalism  on  principle  to  unprio- 
cipled    expediency.      He    does  no' 
CMuet  vrith  Reform ;  can  be  scarcely 
said  to  woo  her;  but  proclaims  ber 
his  mistress  whether  she  will  or  M. 
He  will  neither  be  so  merely  serrice- 
able  as  to  pioneer  /or  others,  nor  so 
cautiously  advantaged  as   by  otbat 
to  benefit.    His  book  originates  in 
what  he  conceives  to  be  a  great  and 
crying    necessity,    and,    under  ll« 
strong  impulse  of  that  conviction,  be 
has  written  it.     His  object,  in  brief, 
is  this,  viz.  to  bring  us  to  a  confes- 
aion  of  the  fact,  that  we  have  been 
taught  to  admire  the  old  masten 
before  we  had  learned  onr  duty  to 
their  older  mistress,  Nature;  and, 
further,  that  wtf  have  allowed  im- 

Sressions,  so  made,  to  prevent  or 
istort  the  truthftil  imagery  vrhicb, 
otherwise.  Nature  might  have  pro- 
jected on  the  clear  mirror  of  oar 


W 


Mthlsticated  eye. 

vp  rIiaII   At.  finiv 


ice  maie*  the  breach  and  niter*  it. 
•fih  is  now  the  admirable  peril  of 

deni  Painlets,  be.     B;  n  Cndaste  of  Oxford.     Second  Edition.     LoedoD, 


1846.] 


Modem  Painierif  ^e. 


3M 


Our  aiiibor  fint  admits  that  no- 
thing is  consecrated  by  time  with- 
out possessinff  in  a  high  degree  wme 
sterling  ezceuence. 

Bttt  what  is  reaUif  great  never  ad> 
dresses  itself  to  uncultivated  facul- 
ties. 

The  world,  therefore,  now  admires 
what  the  few  in  the  first  instance 
appredated,  when  men  in  general 
thought  nothing  of  it. 

Therefore  one  person  may  see 
merits  in  a  modem  painter  which 
the  many  see  not. 

JSx.  gr.  the  Oxford  graduate  may 
perceive  what  the  newspaper  critiGS 
cannot  perceive. 

But  he  has  learned  to  feel  wUh 
them  in  respect  to  the  great  hitlofiad 
painters ;  and,  in  this  communion  of 
thought  so  ftr,  he  claims  tlie  pri- 
vileges of  a  partnership  in  natural 
sensibility.  He  believes,  however, 
that  hu  love  exceeds  theirs  in  this 
particular ;  and  that,  if  it  did  not,  it 
might  equfd  theirs  in  respect  to  the 
oldVoiMifccme-painters.  But  the  study 
which  led  nim  to  the  fieet  of  Michael 
Angelo  and  Da  Vinci  has  ended  in 
the  comparative  alienation  of  his  ad- 
miration for  Claude  and  Gaspar,  and 
in  stimulating  his  re^d  for  tne  land- 
scape-painters of  his  own  day.  He 
honours  the  dead  for  that  on  which 
their  greatness  ib  founded ;  but  feels 
it  a  du^,  no  less  than  an  imnulse, 
to  manifest  that  gratitude  whicn  can 
only  be  for  the  living. — Pp.  7  and  8. 

He  then  proceeds  with  his  de- 
velopement  of  the  principles  of  high 
art,  and  disposes  of  mere  mMaUon 
by  a  course  of  reasoning,  of  which  the 
fwowing  is  the  substance : — 

He  mo  can  represent  an  object 
ftithlUUy  has  only  learned  the  Zcin- 
guagt  <»  paintifltt.  He  is  a  gram- 
marian and  versraer,  but  not  yet  a 
poet.  It  is  not  the  mode  of  speak- 
ing, but  what  is  spoken,  that  makes 
the  greatpoet  or  painter.— Pp.  10, 1 1. 

Most  Dutch  ^ctures  are  but  ad- 
nurable  exhibitions  of  speech,  while 
tiie  early  efforts  of  Cunabue  and 
Giotto  (full  of  thought,  but  wholly 
wanting  in  executive  power)  are  as 
*^the  stammered  propnedes  of  in- 
fimts.'*  Though  perfect  language  be 
necessary  to  perfect  eloquence,  yet 
the  highest  thoughts  are  the  least  de- 
pendent on  iangnaee,  and  three  pen- 
strokses  by  Baphad  are  better  than 
the  fbiished  worka  of  Gailo  Dold. 


He  is  the  grcakat  artist  who  cm- 
bodies  the  grei^est  number  of  |;reat 
ideas.  Where  imitation  is  so  finished 
as  to  claim  prominent  regard,  either 
the  observer  is  incapable  of  appre- 
ciating the  higher  merits  of  the  pic- 
ture, or  the  picture  has  none  to  be 
apmreciated. 

The  sources  of  pleasure  derivable 
from  art  are  thus  enumerated:  — 
Ideas  of  Power,  of  Imitation,  of 
Truth,  of  Beauty,  of  Relation. 

Ist.  Idetu  of  Power, — These  are 
chiefly  excited  in  men  of  practical 
knowledge,  who  can  estimate*  a  cer- 
tain executive  ability  apart  from  tha 
subject  treated. 

2d.  IdeaeoflmUaiion. — Our  author 
makes  no  distinction  between  copv- 
Ing  and  imitation.  Here  he  mcKiy 
dimers  from  many  of  us  in  the  mean- 
ing of  the  words.  It  is  enou^  for 
the  amiment  to  know,  that  by  "  imi- 
tation he  means  ^*  copying ;"  that 
is,  making  a  resemblance  of  visible 
material  things;  and  he  curiously 
(but  we  think  trulv)  attributes  tlie 
pleasure  derivable  from  this  source, 
to  the  object  not  being  what  it  closely 
resembles.  This  he  regards  as  the 
lesst  worthy  eflect  of  art,  because  the 
mind  rejects  the  address  of  the  thing 
represented,  and  only  reflects  on  the 
representation  not  being  what  it 
seems  to  be. 

Sd.  Ideoi  of  TVu/A.—Truth  seems 
to  be  used  by  the  writer  in  the  sense 
which  many  attach  to  imitation.  It, 
of  course,  mv<dves  the  imitation  of 
visible  and  material  objects;  but  it 
has  reference  to  emotions,  inmres- 
sions,  and  thoughts  ^truths  of  oar 
eternal  being),  whicn  devate  the 
mind  above  the  oonten^lation  of 
mere  resemblance. — P.  52. 

4th.  Idea$  of  Bcow^.— These  he 
seems  to  place  in  the  second  rank. 
The  love  of  beauty  is  inherent  in  us^ 
and  afiects  our  wnond  being ;  bat,  as 
we  cannot  account  for  its  influence, 
it  is  not  an  mteUectual  property. 

6th.  Jdege  of  RelaHm.  —  These 
he  appears  to  estimate  highly,  as  tlw 
sources  of  pleasure,  which,  at  the 
instant  of  their  perception,  require 
an  active  exertion  of  the  intellect  to 
deduce  fhmi  the  type  the  sentiment 
to  which  it  relates.— P.  86. 

Having  detailed  the  sources  of  pka^ 
sure  derivable  from  art,  he  nrocf"^^ 
to  consider  what  ahoold  be  tae 
ends  of  the  landscape-painter. 


360 


Modern  Painters,  Sfc. 


[March, 


These,  he  flajSt  are  two  :-* 
l8t.  To  promote  a  faithful  con' 
eenthn  of  any  natural  objects ;  and, 
2aly,  to  guide  the  spectator  to 
tiie  most  woBTHT  of  them,  by  in- 
forming him  of  the  thoughts  and 
feelings  with  which,  in  the  mind  of 
the  artist,  they  are  associated.  The 
former  is  more  generally  effected 
than  the  latter.  M  can  appreciate, 
to  a  certain  extent,  the  faitnf  ul  por- 
traiture of  natural  objects ;  but  many 
remain  incapable  of  being  guided  to 
selection,  or  of  being  especially  ad- 
dressed by  the  mind  of  the  artist. 
At  the  same  time,  the  second  great 
end  cannot  be  attained  without  the 
accomplishment  of  the  first.  The 
more  mtellectual  property  is  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  the  perfection  of 
the  picture;  but  no  power  of  im- 
agination or  intellect  can  make 
amends  for  a  departure  from  the 
truth  of  nature. 

He  asserts  (in  opposition  to  the 
popular  opinion)  that  even  pictorial 
truth  is  fio^  easily  discernible.  Only 
the  commonest  general  truths  of 
nature  impress  common  observers. 
Thus,  all  have  a  notion  of  blue  sky, 
white  and  grey  clouds,  green  grass 
and  trees,  brown  earth,  &c. ;  and,  at 
particular  times,  they  may  have  seen 
more  than  this ;  but,  not  having  re- 
flected upon  it,  so  as  to  make  it  per- 
manent m  their  memory,  they  re- 
cognise in  the  picture  only  the  com- 
monplaces of  Nature,  while  the 
representation  of  her  occasional  effects 
is  either  overlooked  or  pronounced 
unnatural.  One  man,  in  his  habit 
of  casual  and  heedless  observation  of 
nature,  sees  only  the  broad  physical 
facts  of  form  and  colour,  light  and 
shade ;  another,  in  his  constant  and 
devotional  worship,  sees  a  thousand 
rarer  beauties;  and,  requiring  all 
that  the  ordinary  spectator  perceives, 
demands  at  the  same  time  much 
more  than  the  latter  can  comprehend. 
We  surely  must  concur  with  our 
author,  when  he  pronounces  it  a  great 
mistake  for  people  to  suppose  that 
"  they  know  when  a  picture  is  like 
nature.**  It  mayrepresent  the  amount 
of  nature  with  which  they  are  ac- 
quainted; but  that  amount  may  be 
so  small  (in  comparison  with  Nature's 
vast  variety),  that  it  may  be  almost 
said  they  know  noUiing  of  nature, 
and,  therefore,  nothing  of  what  is 
like  it— P.  65. 


He  lays  it  down  as  a  principle,  that 
particular  truths  are  more  important 
than  general  truths ;  rare  trutns  more 
important  ihan  frequent  ones.  The 
artist's  judgment  is  shewn  in  the 
selection  of  the  highest  opportunity 
for  truths  particular  and  rare.  Evei^ 
truth  is  valuable  in  proportion  as  it 
characterises  the  thing  affirmed;  but 
a  truth,  which  shoukl  be  fully  de- 
tailed, if  it  be  the  only  one  to  he  ex» 
hibitedf  should  no^  be  so  detailed  if  it 
come  in  connexion  vrith  another 
truth  more  valuable.  Thus,  in  a 
Madonna,  there  are  the  face  and  the 
drapery.  The  first  should  exhibit 
parUcmar^  the  other  general  truth; 
the  one  should  be  detailed  as  much  as 
possible,  the  other  as  much  as  possible 
generalised. 

To  his  gnmd  principle,  that  the 
landscape-painter  is  a  teaches  or 
NATTJBB  we  must  assent,  unless  we 
can  regard  art  as  higher  than  the 
artist,  and  place  patronage  above 
genius.  It  is  the  nigh  province  of 
the  painter,  not  to  be  always  repeat- 
ing the  resemblance  of  every-day 
scenes  and  effects,  which  are  common 
to  common  observers ;  but  to  infoim 
us  of  those  occasional  beauties  or 
grandeurs  which  he  is  ever  on  the 
watch  for,  to  communicate  to  tu 
those  truths  which  Nature  has  mani- 
fested in  the  most  peculiar  and 
striking  way. 

Recurring  again  to  the  prindplea 
of  practice,  he  says,  truUi  of  cobvr 
is  inferior  to  that  of  form.  Colour 
ever  varies  yntii  the  season,  or  with 
its  situation  in  light,  shade,  or  dis- 
tance ;  but  form  Ming  permanent,  is 
always  characteristic.  Hie  aitisti 
therefore,  who  forgets  form  in  h» 
fondness  for  colour,  sacrifices  a  de- 
finite to  an  uncertain  property* 
Form,  explained  by  light  and  shade, 
he  regards  as  above  that  which  '» 
expressed  by  tone  and  odlour.  He, 
however,  denounces  the  tricks  of  de- 
ceptive chiaroscuro,  making  objects 
project  from  the  canvass,  as  the 
lowest  of  truths,  because  saexificing 
all  others.  "  He  who  throws  sa 
object  out  of  the  picture,  nevtf  1^ 
the  spectator  into  it.  The  eye  ia  ad- 
dressed b^  that  which  is  prop^^f 
onlv  a  subject  of  ftwcA. 

The  next  principle  we  select  ia  not 
only  valuable,  but  interesting  ia  ^ 
novelty.    "Truths,"  says  he,  "which 

speak  more  of  the  past  and  Aitiure 


1846.] 


Modern  PaintetSy  jrc. 


361 


state  of  aa  objeet,  are  more  yaluable 
than  those  wmch  tell  of  a  mere  tem- 
porary effect.  Thus  the  effect  of  any 
particular  character  of  leaf,  or  texture 
of  bough,  is  less  important  than  that 
appearance  of  energy  and  elasticity 
in  the  limbs  which  are  indicative  of 
growth  and  life.  Again,  the  lines 
which  mark  the  stratification  of  a 
crag,  and  its  appearance  under  the 
effects  of  water,  S]jeaking  of  its  early 
and  progressive  history,  are  superior 
in  value  to  the  stains  of  the  lichens 
which  change  year  by  year,  or  the 
accidental  fiisures  of  irost  or  decom- 
position, which,  though  historical, 
refer  to  shorter  periods." 

Such  are  the  leading  principles  on 
which  our  author  has  grounded  the 
judgment  he  proceeds  to  pass  on  the 
old  masters  of  landscape.  He  admits 
that  they  gave  certain  particular 
truths  with  unequsdled  power,  but 
asserts  that  they  did  not  particularise 
i^e  highest  iruvis,  ^*  Deep  and  serious 
effects  of  li^ht  and  tone ;  exact  de- 
gree of  relief  of  material  objects 
a^inst  light  and  atmosphere ;  labo- 
rious industry  in  their  for^rounds ; 
pitch  of  the  shade  of  their  trees 
against  the  sky;  exquisite  use  of 
transparent  colour  and  aerial  tone  in 
their  distances;  a  fine  feeling  for 
beauty  of  form  and  great  refinement 
in  Claude ;  in  Cuyp,  effects  of  yellow 
Buidight  never  equalled;  high  imi- 
tative accuracy  both  in  Cuyp  and  F. 
Potter ;  in  Gaspar  Fonssin,  a  redeem- 
ing perception  of  the  feeling  and 
moral  truth  of  nature ;  great  sensa- 
tions of  power  and  rapid  execution 
in  Berghem  and  Salvator  Rosa ;  in 
Canaletti,  wonderful  mechanism ;  in 
Claude,  Cuyp,  and  Teniers,  some  of 
the  best  sky-painting ;  in  Claude  and 
Bnysdael, '  well-done  water ;'  ^nuine 
aim  and  fine  passages  of  mecnanical 
truth  in  Both  and  Hobbima,  and  good 
foliage  in  the  middle  distances  of 
Claude." 

For  his  remarks  on  Nicholas  Pous- 
sin,  see  p.  7. 

General  remarks  on  old  masters, 
p.  X. 

Respect  for  them,  p.  xix.* 

The  author,  then,  admitting  the 
exeellenee  of  the  old  masters  in  the 


for^^ing  particulars,  maintains,  on 
the  unfavourable  side,  that  Uier  were 
chiefly  moved  by  ideas  fk  imitation 
in  the  unmetapnysiod  sense  of  the 
word,  i.«.  as  referring  to  hy^im^ml 
matters  of  execution,  as  dexterity  of 
touch,  clever  oppositions  of  colour, 
and  contrasts  between  material  ob- 
jects and  the  atmosphere.  He  allows 
that  they  perfected  the  lower  pro- 
perties of  their  art;  but  that  Uiey 
sacrificed  to  these  all  those  more 

Srecious  qualities  of  truth,  which  a 
eeper  insight  into  Nature  and  an 
ambition  to  proclaim  her  extraordi- 
nary and  ever- varying  phenomena  to 
the  world,  should  nave  mduced  them 
to  estimate. 

Thus  in  Canaletti,  the  architecture 
stands  in  proper  relief  against  Uie 
sky,  and  every  distance  has  its  re- 
lative pade;  but,  in  order  to  obtain 
the  relief  of  substance  against  air,  he 
has  left  himself  to  obtain  the  relative 
approximations  from  the  distance  to 
the  for^;round  by  unnaturally  deep- 
ening his  shadows,  till  the  *'  uufaingr, 
dazzling,  exulting  light  of  Venice^ 
is  smothered  in  umbre.  In  the  same 
manner  the  old  landscape-painters 
have  effected  the  partial  inierior  truth 
of  a  correct  contrast  between  their 
middle  objects  and  the  sky,  by  making 
their  foregrounds  as  mucn  deeper 
than  nature  as  the  light  of  their 
canvass  or  paper  is  fainter  than  the 
liffht  of  the  sun.  This  might  be 
aUowable,  if  Nature  did  not  as  much 
surpass  Art  in  her  power  of  shade  as 
in  ner  power  of  bght.  There  will 
be  parts  of  a  picture  where  Nature*s 
gloom  is  as  much  required  for  Truth's 
sake  as  Nature's  dazzling  light,  and 
how  is  this  to  be  had?  We  have 
already  so  darkened  our  compara- 
tively light  parts  for  the  sake  of  a 
forced  contrast  in  one  particular, 
that  we  can  get  nothing  deep  enoug^h 
for  what  is  of  paramount  depth  m 
nature.  The  writer  conceives  it 
worthy  of  a  great  artist  to  observe 
all  those  modifications  which  his 
feeble  means  of  light  enforce,  and 
thus  to  gain  a  general  truth  by  for- 
feiting a  partial  one.  The  particular 
inferiorities  of  modem  paintings  are 
the  consequence  of  a  deliberate  choice 


*  Our  references,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind,  relate  to  the  teeond  edition.    We  re 
frain.in  this,  as  in  many  other  instances,  from  quoting ;  our  object  being,  in  as  bri 
manner  as  possible,  to  giro  what  may  be  termed  the  mere  akeleton  of  our  ant' 
argumentt 


36S 


Modern  Paintert,  tfc. 


[^Marcb, 


niher  to  mig^;ctt  a  multitude   of 
tfuthfl  than  to  imitate  one. — P.  100. 

Speaking  of  truth  of  eolour,  he 
adduees  a  picture  by  Salyator  Rom 
in  which  a  sW-blne  mountain  ez- 
hibiti  all  ita  details  of  fissure  and 
eng.  Now,  the  aerial  blue  signify- 
ing distanoe  is  utterly  incompAtibie 
wnh  details  which  signify  uroximity. 
Where  detail  is  visible,  tnere  must 
be  a  variety  of  delicate  eolour ;  where 
distance  produces  a  uniform  blue,  it 
invariably  obliterates  all  detail. 

Alluding  to  chiaroscuro,  this  writer 
repudiates  the  old  masters  for  giving 
very  dark  shadows  with  softened 
edges,  instead  of  lighter  shadows 
which  would  appear  sufficiently  dark 
if  their  outlines  were  distinct.  Again, 
they  often  make  the  otfeet  conspicu* 
ons  when  the  shadow  should  have 
been  more  so.  When  a  cane  is  be- 
tween a  light  stone  and  the  sun,  the 
shadow  on  the  stone  will  be  more 
distinct  than  the  cane  itself. 

He  has  before  informed  us,  that 
particular  truths  are  more  valuable 
than  general  truths,  and  we  under- 
stand him  to  signif^  that  every  pic- 
ture has,  or  should  nave,  some  grand 
key •  passage,  or  point.  Thus,  says 
he,  the  foreground  or  distance  must 
be  partially  sacrificed ;  not  by  slurred 
or  soft  lines,  but  by  a  decisive  im- 
perfection, a  firm  but  partial  assertion 
of  form,  which  the  eye  feels,  indeed, 
but  from  which  it  is  driven  away  of 
necessity  to  the  part  on  which  it  is 
intended  to  repose. 

The  proper  degree  of  distinctness 
in  objects  more  or  less  distant  is  next 
touched  upon.  Both  vacancv  and 
perfect  distinctness  are  equally  de- 
structive of  ideas  of  space ;  for  va- 

vncy  affords  no  measure,  and  dis- 

ctiiess  will  most  likely  give  a  false 
.  We  apprehend  him  here  to 
m,  that  an  accurate  distinctness 
all  component  parts  is,  for  the 

jt  part,  unattainable,  and  that  M- 

jurate  distinctness  is  injurious, 
.bus,  in  an  Italian  view,  there  is  a 
square  tower,  which,  being  of  plain 
undetailed  surface,  ffives  no  idea  of 
its  being  composed  of  many  lavers  of 
stones,  and,  therefore,  no  idea  of 
height  or  width ;  whUe,  in  a  Dutch 
picture,  there  is  a  house,  the  bricks 
of  which  are  reduced  to  a  number 
that  mav  be  counted ;  and  the  size  of 
^e  building  is,  therefore,  propor- 

mally  reduced*    "  Nothing,"  says 


our  author,  "can  be  truly  great 
which  is  either  complete  or  vacant 
Ever^  touch  shonla  smggest  more 
than  It  represents,  and  every  space  ii 
injurious  which  reppeacnts  nothing. 
The  grand  mastery  of  art  indieatei 
the  truth  which  cannot  be  detailed, 
and  despises  the  vacancy  which  im- 
plies no  detail.** 

For  references  to  tbe  distances  of 
Poussin,  see  p.  177. 

This  admirable  writer  next  pro- 
ceeds to  the  subject  of  "  The  open 
sky;**  and  we  cannot  but  refer  to 
the  introductory  passage,  p.  181> 
which,  extravagant  or  not,  ia  replete 
with  such  high  fancy  and  deep  feel- 
ing as  must  promote  a  deferential 
regard  for  the  susceptibilities  and 
powers  of  his  mind. 

The  old  master,  he  says,  generaUy 
regarded  the  blue  sky  as  the  under- 
surface  of  a  dome,  and  the  clouds  as 
floating  beneath.  Thus  we  look  at 
their  clouds  m  the  neixf  d&te»5^» 
against  the  blue  cupola  beyond,  in- 
stead of  through  the  "  pure  azote  and 
oxygen,'*  m  which  aqueous  vapour  is 
suspended. 

The  circumstances  under  which 
visible  rays  of  light  appear  are  ex- 
amined by  this  author  veith  a  philo- 
sophical regard  to  natural  causes. 
The  old  masters,  he  remarks,  always 
shew  the  rays  as  issuing  immediat^y 
from  the  sun  (see  p.  193) ;  whereas 
rays  cannot  appear  at  all  where  the 
sky  is  cloudless,  and  only  seem  to 
emanate  directly  from  the  sun  when 
there  is  a  cloud  or  some  solid  body 
between  us  and  it.  In  modem  pic- 
tures it  would  appear  that  the  rays 
are  truthfully  shewn,  as  not  assuming 
any  form  within  a  certain  distance 
of  the  sun. 

He  divides  the  clouds  into  three 
regions  of  altitude:  the  upper,  or 
region  of  the  cirrus ;  the  mwdle,  or 
region  of  the  stratus ;  and  the  lower, 
or  region  of  the  rain- cloud. 

The  clouds  of  the  cirrus  are  fbrmed 
of  the  purest  aqueous  vapour  sym- 
metrical in  arrangement  ?  delicate, 
but  decisive  in  their  sharpnetf  ?' 
ed|^,  infinitely  multitudinous  i° 
their  component  parts,  and  of  a  vivid 
and  unsullied  white.  The  aatbor 
remembers  no  effort  of  the  old  m*** 
ters  (savins  in  one  case  of  Rubens) 
in  wuich  the  cirrus  is  repreeeoted  st 
all. 

The  clouds  of  the  stratus  9tt  s 


-i 


1846.] 


Modem  Painters^  jpc- 


303 


n§ged,  irrcffalar,  aod  testtered  t*- 
poor  of  little  form  and  leti  eolour ; 
when  collected  in  masees,  ronnded, 
ponderous,  and  shaded  with  dull 
gr^.  The  common  elond,  in  short ; 
easUy  executed;  useful,  as  varying 
the  blue  monotony ;  equally  innocent 
of  giving  high  gratification  or  offence ; 
and,  therefore,  the  favourite  dond 
of  the  old  masters.  At  the  same 
time«  our  author  conceives  that  the 
mid-region  clouds  may  derive  such 
varieties  from  the  cirrus  above  or 
the  storm-cloud  below,  as  to  afford 
every  opportunity  for.  the  highest 
artistical  di^lav ;  and  that  Salvr?or*s 
'^  rolling  skies, '  in  their  uniform  ad- 
hesion to  the  common-place  centnd 
efiect,  are  at  variance  with  the  truth 
of  general  effect. 

The  clouds  of  the  lowest  region 
differ  from  those  next  above,  rather 
in  colour  than  in  form.  Losing  their 
blue  by  nearness,  they  become  warm 
and  brown;  and  when  illumined,  of 
an  oehrotts  tone ;  never  brisrht ;  and 
in  dark  outline  against  the  more 
flfubdued  lights  of  the  central  clouds. 
They  lose  definiteness  of  form;  some- 
ttmes  become  a  mist,  rendering  the 
landscape  wholly  indistinct  and  dark ; 
or  their  outline  is  ragged,  and  more 
like  water  in  the  state  of  spray  than 
elastic  vajiour.  This  is  increaysed  by 
formed  rain  descending  like  a  veil  or 
jagged  fringe ;  often  waved  and  bent 
by  the  wind,  twisted,  and  sometimes 
swept  upward  from  the  doud.  With 
an  allusion  to  the  rain -cloud,  and 
the  little  use  of  it  by  the  old  masters 
(p.  232),  he  notices  the  exquisite  blue 
of  the  sky  as  seen  through  the  aper- 
tures of  a  dissipating  storm-cloud 
(p.  244J.  We  must  concur  with  the 
writer  in  his  opinion,  that  the  true 
principles  of  art  require  a  much 
fuller  attention  to  the  varieties  and 
modifications  of  sky-scenery  than  was 
ever  awarded  by  the  old  masters. 

Artistical  geology  is  next  con- 
sidered. '*  Ground,"  says  he,  "  is 
to  the  landscape-painter  what  the 
naked  human  body  is  to  the  historical. 
To  the  growth  of  vegetation,  and  the 
action  of  water  and  donds,  he  likens 
the  folds  of  dress  and  the  fall  of  the 
hair.  The  spirit  of  the  hills  is  action, 
of  the  lowlands  repose.  Mountains 
are  the  bones  of  the  earth;  their 
peaks  only  those  parts  of  their  ana* 
tomy  which,  in  the  plains,  lie  buried 
uncwr  niny  thousand  ftet  of  soil. 


The  artkt  nrast  shew  that  the  mourn- 
tains  come  from  wiidsr  all,  and  da 
not  rest  upon  it;  that  all  ^tivable 
plains  are  deposits  from  water,  from 
which,  as  from  the  sea  arise  the  rocks, 
with  lifted  earth  about  them  like  the 
breakers.**  The  summary  of  his  lead- 
mg  geological  prindple  is  this:— > 
The  plungmg  ofthe  hiUs  underneath 
the  plain,  the  perfect  levd  and  re- 
pose ofthe  latter  laid  in  their  ams^ 
and  the  tumultuous  action  of  the 
emergent  summits. 

He  then  particularises  the  finrma- 
tion  of  the  central  mountains,  the 
inferior  ditto,  and  the  foreground. 

Central  Mottntams. — Their  sum- 
mits pyramidal  wedges:  split  ver- 
tically :  fissures  like  edges  of  planks 
leaning  against  a  wdl.  Rise  from 
twelve  to  twenty-four  thousand  feet 
When  beheld  from  any  region  of 
vegetation,  or  from  any  such  distance 
as  will  display  their  entire  mass,  they 
cannot  be  nearer  the  eye  than  fVom 
twelve  to  fifteen  miles;  and,  there- 
fore, they  mugt  ^become  aSrial  and 
faint  in  all  their  details."  Clear 
they  may  be,  but  frail.  The  outline 
of  their  summits  probably  of  remark- 
able distinctness,  but  tiieir  masses 
more  like  shades  than  solids.  Never 
reaching  the  height  of  perpetual 
snow,  without  an  infinite  variety  of 
form ;  jagged,  instead  of  undulating 
outlines ;  and,  instead  of  soft  edges^ 
decinve  ones. 

He  finds  all  «rio-geological  truth 
in  Turner.  He  finds  none  at  all  in 
any  of  the  old  masters.  In  a  certain 
picture  by  Claude,  we  observe  per- 
petual snow  on  a  mountain,  which, 
from  its  lowness  above  the  horizon, 
must  be  farther  off  than  would  allow 
of  the  details  it  exhibits.  It  is  either 
too  remote  to  have  any  thing  more 
than  a  shadowy  form  beneath  its 
snowy  summit,  or  it  is  not  remote, 
and,  therefore,  too  low  to  have  a 
snowy  summit.  Its  soft  outline 
might  do  for  a  Dartmoor  hill  of 
2000  feet  high;  but  it  is  in  direct 
contradiction  of  that  Alj^ine  fonn 
which  constitutes  the  justification  of 
a  snovry  crown. 

It  is  a  truth  to  which  we  can  all 
bear  witness,  that  distance,  whOe  it 
makes  the  mountain  mass  more  and 
more  faint,  makes  the  mountain  out- 
line sharper  and  sharper.  Of  cour 
the  outline  will,  in  its  exeesi  of  ahi 
ncsB,  dieappwr ;  but,  wldle  the  i 


364 


Modem  Painiers^  jrc. 


(^Marcfa, 


reUuns  any  appare&t  density  at  all, 
the  outline  will  become  comparatiYely 
dominant,  i,e.  pro]^rtionally  stronser 
as  the  body  gets  fainter.  In  Claude's 
244,  Dulwioi  Gallery,  we  have  pure 
blue  giving  distance,  which  is  incom* 
patibk  with  his  blunt  outline ;  or, 
we  haye  a  soft  outline,  arguing  a 
proximity  which  is  inconsistent  with 
pure  blue.  Except  in  one  or  two 
examples  by  Nicholas  Foussin,  the 
author  knows  of  no  instance  in  the 
mountains  of  the  Italian  school  which 
do  not  '*  involye,  under  any  suppo- 
sition whatever,  at  least  two  impos- 
sibilities.** It  would  seem  that  the 
old  masters  never  employed  distant 
mountains,  except  as  ordinary  por- 
trait-painters use  curtains,  t.e.  to  aid 
some  effect  of  colour  in  their  leading 
subject ;  whereas,  says  the  graduat^ 
**  we  want  the  pure  and  holy  hills 
treated  as  a  link  between  heaven  and 
earth." 

Proceeding  to  the  inferior  moun- 
tains, he  says  they  are  divided  into 
bedi,  with  jomts  "  throwing  the  whole 
into  blocks  more  or  less  rhomboidal,** 
&c. ;  affirming  that,  for  a  clear  idea 
of  organisation,  he  would  not  refer  to 
any  geological  drawing,  but  to  Tur- 
ner's *'I^h  Coriskin.**  He  then 
notices,  with  all  the  technical  and 
practical  truth  of  a  mere  geologist, 
the  effects  of  airaeous  erosion,  as  pro- 
ducing a  dome-like  convexity  of  out- 
line; and  proceeds  to  consider  the 
action  of  torrents ;  shewing  how  these 
combined  actions  produce  the  two 
grand  general  results  of  simplicity  of 
contour  and  multiplicity  of  feature. 
See  what  he  says  of  geological  truth 
in  reference  to  Turner,  p.  298 ;  and, 
dropping  the  geologist,  hear  him  as  a 
poet,  p.  301. 

Foreground.— ^DeKxihing  Nature's 
stones  and  rocks;  their  obtuse  round- 
ing by  the  wet;  their  sharp  fractures 
by  frost  or  the  ^arry-man;  the 
peculiar  opportumty  thev  afford  for 
predsion  of  light  and  shadow,  re- 
flection and  shade;  and  their  ex- 
pression of-  hardness  or  brittleness ; 
ne  denounces  the  old  masters  as  giv- 
ing us  only  **  toughness,  malleabiuty, 
Bponginess,  flexibility,  tenuity,  and 
tnmmrency." 

With  equal  truth  he  delineates  the 
character  of  loose  earth,  shewing  how 
the  old  masters  f^ve  a  mere  general 
notion  of  what  is  held  in  memory^ 
while  the  Britiah  painter  praents  us 


widi  an  immediate  tiaiiacnpi  finom 
Nahire^  leaving  us  to  observe  and 
speculfl^  as  suely,  on  the  past  and 
future  states  of  the  pietoied  BpoL,  as  if 
we  were  standing  on  the  spot  itself; 
and,  at  the  same  time,  teaching  ns 
more  fby  the  feeling  and  skill  with 
which  ne  has  represented  eertain  im- 
portant truths)  than  we  should  have 
learned  by  a  mere  eontemplatiop  of 
the  material  object — See  p.  326. 

Having  now  revelled  in  Air  and 
roamed  on  Earth,  we  come  to  Water, 
^  the  source  of  the  clouds,  the  agent 
which  has  modelled  earth  into  sym- 
metry, and  crag  into  g^nioey — wludi, 
robing  the  mountain  with  snow,  has 
afforded  the  torrent,  the  iria,  the 
morning  mist,  the  deep  dystaUiBe 
pool,  the  broad  lake,  the  g^lancisg 
river,  and  the  sea.*' 

Acknowledging^  the  ease  of  aigm- 
fying  that  water  is  meaUy  he  aUndei 
to  the  difficulty  of  representipg  iti 
infinite  variety;   its  reflective  pro- 
perties, modified  by  ripple,  prolooged, 
or  brokoi;  and  its  rejection  of  any 
shadow  save  that  whidi  is  reflcctioa 
It  mirrors  the  shadow  ta  the  clouds, 
but  is  never  shadowed  6y  the  clouds. 
See  pp.  331,  334.    AlludinR  to  the 
mistakes  of  Cuvp  and  P.  rottet  in 
this  particular,  ne  acknowledges  that 
Ruysdael  tenders  a  low  watersiU  with 
fidelity,  and  that  if  he  had  painted 
one  or  two  rough  seas,  he  wooU 
have   shewn  that  Yan^velde  and 
Backhuysen  were  not  quite  sea  dei- 
ties,   llie  latter  throw  coai-Uaek 
shadow  on  wlwt  never  takes  any 
shadow,  and  give  us  smoke  instesd 
of  foam  and  spray,  with  waves  hav- 
ing the  undulatinK  lines  of  ropes  hi- 
stoid of  curves  oiprojection.    llieir 
ships,  instead  of  floating  mi  the  sea, 
are  inserted  m  it;  and  the  dienm- 
stanoes    contributing    to    hide   the 
water-line  upon  the  wood  are  alwajs 
neglected  under  the  want  of  leelii^ 
or  Knowledge.  Complimenting  Brit- 
ish painters  on  their  power  as  water- 
artists,  he  justifies  his  own  jutanent 
by  a  description  of  the  falls  of  Schaff- 
hausen.    He  next  alludes  to  the  diffi- 
culty of  giving  swfmes  to  smooth, 
dear  water,  which  too   frequently 
invites  us  to  descend  into  it  when  we 
only  desire  to  glide  over  it.    This  he 
attributes  to  the  habit  of  repicsaitiQff 
the  reflection  of  distant  and  ezalteS 
objects,  which,  of  course,  plunge  as  toa 
depth  equalling  their  altitude^  iMlesd 


1846.J 


Modem  Painters  J  ifc. 


365 


of  the  reflection  of  small  surfiice-ob- 
jects  which  would  sustain  us  on  the  face 
of  the  mirror.  He  then  refers  to  the 
error  of  reflecting  objects  as  we  see 
them  aboye  water,  whereas  their 
aspect  should  be  as  if  we  were  look- 
ing at  them  from  beneath.  Speaking 
of  falling  water,  he  popeny  em- 
phasiases  the  making  it  stqrine,  not 
actiye;  i.e.  of  making  it  fall,  not 
leap.  It  may  leap  over  a  salmon 
weir,  it  may  spring  at  the  top  of 
Nia«ira;  but  where  there  is  any 
deptn,  it  soon  exhibits  no  more  than 
the  plunge  of  its  own  dead  weight. 
If  the  depth  be  extraordinary,  it 
b^ins  to  writhe  and  twist,  stretching 
as  it  falls,  till  the  counter-wind  from 
the  valley  strikes  the  spray  from  its 
edges,  and  carries  it  bacK  in  reverted 
rags  and  threads.  In  a  perpendicu- 
lar fiiU,  the  outer  spray  will  rebound 
from  the  elastic  air  below,  ascending 
like  a  fountain.  See  the  description 
of  the  Dranse,  p.  367. 

Speaking  of  the  sea,  he  allndes  to 
the  very  limited  idea  of  its  reckless- 
ness, power,  and  breadth,  which  is 
afforded  on  viewing  it  from  the  shore, 
vrhen  each  wave  is  but  a  separate 
individual,  which,  having  performed 
its  part,  perishes  to  be  succeeded  by 
another.  On  the  sea  we  perceive  no 
Buccession,  but  the  same  forms  risinff, 
crashing,  recoiling,  and  rolling  m 
again  with  fresh  fury.  The  ex- 
pression of  weight,  the  action  of  re- 
coil, the  direct  stroke  of  the  breaker, 
the  heaving  of  the  sea  after  a  con- 
tinued gale, — all  these  are  depicted 
by  our  author  with  all  the  power  of 
a  painter-poet. 

A  very  important  portion  of  his 
book  has  reference  to  the  truth  of 
vegetation,  and  as  the  old  Italian 
school  exhibits  but  very  few  instances 
where  foliage  does  not  form  the  prin- 
cipal part  of  the  picture,  it  would  be 
reasonable  to  expect  that  in  this  de- 
psxtment  of  art  it  would  be  correct. 
His  observation  of  Nature  leads  him 
to  the  following  facts : — 

1.  That  in  the  ordinary  trees  of 
Europe  neither  trunks  nor  boughs 
ever  taper  in  the  interval  between 
those  points  where  the  oifshoots 
sprinff: 

2.  That  where  these  ofishoots  ap- 
pear, the  trunk  or  bough  becomes 
less  in  diameter  by  the  exact  quan* 
titv  of  the  substance  which  these 
offi^oots  contain : 

VOL,  XXXIU.  NO.  CXCV. 


3.  That  an  appearance  of  tapering 
shews  itself  onrjr  where  the  oftshoots 
and  buddings  nave  dropped  off  or 
been  removS ;  and  that  toe  tapering 
only  appears  continuous  ^and  then 
slight)  when  the  distance  is  such  as 
to  prevent  our  observing  the  remain- 
ing part  of  the  joints  or  sockets  of 
such  offshoots,  and  coiuequently  does 
not  allow  us  to  perceive  the  gentle 
parallel  gradations  of  ascent :  ^ 

4.  That  as  no  boughs  diminish 
where  they  do  not  fork,  so  they  can- 
not fork  without  diminishing,  and 
they  do  not  diminish  without  in- 
creasing in  number : 

5.  That  the  almost  invariable  loss 
of  minor  boughs  and  sprays  accounts 
for  the  main  boughs  containing 
somewhat  more  than  the  sum  of  the 
main  trunk: 

6.  That  the  limbs  and  twigs  of  a 
tree,  however  they  may  be  bait  by 
the  wind  or  otherwise,  never  lose 
their  elbows  and  angles,  t.e.  they 
never  continuously  curve. 

Going  from  Nature  to  the  great 
modem  English  landscape  artists,  he 
finds  all  these  truths  observed.  Going 
to  Foussin  and  others,  he  finds  them 
all  contradicted.  He  finds  the  stems  of 
near  trees  tapering  like  carrots,  with- 
out any  indication  that  boughs  have 
ever  existed;  and  he  finds  boughs 
tapering  as  violently  without  any 
twigs  to  account  for  it — ^without  any 
thing  to  hold  the  leaves,  which, 
therefore,  seem  to  hold  on  to  one 
another  like  a  swarm  of  bees.  He 
finds  a  diminishing  trunk  leading  to 
two  diminishing  boughs,  leading  to  a 
pair  of  forks  with  diminishing  prongs 
stuck  into  two  great  bunches  of  leu- 
age  like  Dutch  brooms.  He  ftads 
them  smooth  without  parallel  grada- 
tions— ^without  any  irregularities  to 
account  for  their  apparent  tapering, 
and  curved  without  any  of  the  elbows 
and  angles  which  Nature  insists  upon. 
In  short,  he  finds  them  abundantly 
wrong  on  all  the  six  points  of  tree 
anatomy. 

He  then  proceeds  to  the  laws  of 
foliage.    Nature  shews, — 

1 .  A  general  feeling  for  symmetry, 
combinS  with  unlimited  though  ever 
harmonising  irregularity:  never  a 
repetition  of  any  one  leaf  or  any  one 
combination. 

2.  The  outer  leaves  of  trees  be- 
come mere   points   and   lines,  t^ 
leaves  acquinng  body  and  fbrm 

B  B 


-iiW 


tit$^  iiywntij  aaod  'dirmtmm  o^m  per- 
ft€t  Uipt  art  iiidoded,  each  bot^ 
rp(y:kiaig  thdt  huuLtd  huaadarj  woh 
iti  tiUtstaty^  bat  Mif  pamuig  it. 
U'Im^  th»  M  ivA  the  cate,  an  imper- 
Usttwa  in  the-  growth  of  the  tree,  or 
MMiM;  Umh  of  branch  or  boo^  vOl 
aJwayft  be  ibond  to  accottnt  Ibr  it. 
'ilfiM  the  ^eoK  id^  if(z  well-grown 
oak  will  tie  included  within  the  form 
of  a  dome;  that  of  a  taller  tree  within 
the  ooUine  of  a  jiear.  The  aothor 
juitfAen  the  adoption  of  the  abstnct 
icb/U  fornix  and  only  insists  on  its 
exhibttjug  that  which  mi^ht  be, or  has 
fMMrn  ibund  exemplified  m  particular 

eUMSM. 

As  Ixrlbrc,  he  finds  the  modem 
KngliNh  artists  right;  Claude  worthy 
of  praise  in  the  trees  of  his  middle 
dlstancei  aud  llobbima  and  Both 
iujimlly  so  in  their  nearest  foliage. 
ff(%  )iowevor«  censures  them  for  ex- 
liibititig  details  where  detail  could 
mi  poMibly  be  iK*cn  ;  magnifying 
tho  one  leaf,  diminiihing  t£c  mul- 
titude t  nmkhiif  finite  tno  infinite. 
Jiui  It  i»  u)M)n  roumin  that  the  gra- 
duate In  nuMt  Nevere, — if,  indeed,  that 
uan  Im  oallcd  severity  which  is  justice. 
In  hh  pictures,  lie  ibds  a  certain 
uuni|)ttUM)lc  quantity  of  resembling 
l9AV<^s,  regularly  disposed  in  rcsem* 
hlln^  buuchos— rneix)  conventional 
touiMU^s  iiuithematieally  arranged ; 
the  whole  ^'Nt^i«^r  tree*  not  reseni- 
hlii\g  it*    Siuuotiwcs,  Ibr  a  vatm  of 


IbUniit)  a  s|)ace  of  smooth,  opiique, 
YM^uiahed    Urowii,     with    circular 

firo\lps  of  gi'^^nish  ioucltes  at  regular 
it«rval9  imm  it*— not  oomlitg  oal  of 
K  aud  a»  Air  iV\un  Nature's  iutrieaey 
WmI  varWly  as  tVoiu  her  harmony 
*  UiUly.    LtMbt^  he  rt^f^ra  lo  the 
\  iMi|)t(^l  vX  ine  idd  luastera  In 
i  r^  Uw  |U\HW  itt»piMiUou  of 


but 

tluova  tke 

while 

wiio  eonld  not  psuBt  so 

have 
tibe  ^ 
of  paipectiTe  wfaidi  ne  naa  in  many 
fffttsTrcs  exhibited.  An^  it  ■**«m1« 
to  Ksaon,  that  men,  who  in  broad, 
simple,  and  demonstzaUe  matters  are 
perpetoaDy  wioi^  will  not  be  right 
m  carxying  out  matters  delicate,  re- 
fined, aJM^  snbtile. 

The  author  then  asserts  that  peo- 
ple begin  to  find  fiudt  with  TonDer 
where  thej  cease  to  have  the  power 
of  appreciating  him ;  that  they  ace 
arrogant  in  eriUdnag^  where  they 
ought  to  be  humble  in  learmug; 
that  the  province  of  such  a  painter  as 
Turner  is  to  administer  delight  to 
the  informed,  and  to  afford  instmc- 
tion  to  the  ignorant. 

His  concluding  chapter  is  on  Mo- 
dern Art  and  Modem  Critidam. 
He  exposes  the  error  of  measuring 
an  artisfs  relative  rank  by  the  hwher 
or  lower  amount  of  his  femng; 
whereas  it  is  the  fidelity  and  truth 
with  which  he  exhibits  the  pecoliar 
subject  of  his  choice  that  should  he 
reg^ded«  The  feelings  of  different 
artists  arc  not  capable  of  comparison, 
but  their  fidelity  and  truth  are  ;  and 
the  author  seems  rather  to  think, 
that  when  a  painter  exhibits  perfect 
and  high  truth  in  some  inferior  sub- 
ject to  which  he  habituates  himself, 
and  on  whkh  he  leaHses  fiune  and 
fortune,  he  is  capahU  of  taking  mud^ 
higher  ground  with  equal  suoceas ;  it 
bciqg  his  opinion  that  no  man  can 
draw  any  one  thing  well  if  he  can 
draw  nothing  cbe,  and  that  when 
this  appears  to  be  contradicted^  it  is 
owing  to  some  tiidceqr  whidi  will 
sooner  or  later  be  diaoovcred. 

Though  MMlBrM  tniUi  does  aoi  ID 


1846.] 


Modem  Painierif  %c. 


367 


kiftlf  eoofltiiute  h^fh  isnk,  he  thniks 
ii  «  perfeot  test  ofr^UtUM  rank ;  tnd 
does  Qot  00  much  aocuae  modem 
eHtioB  of  mjoBtioe  in  their  decision  on 
ariiete,  a«  of  punpering  to  the  varyiog 
and  low  state  of  the  public  tarte. 
He  thinks  it  the  business  of  the  |M?ess 
to  tell  us  lohat  to  ask  for,  not  wham 
to  ask ;  not  to  tell  us  which  is  our 
beet  painter,  but  whether  our  best 
painter  is  doing  hie  best;  not  to 
measure  our  living  nainters  by  a 
eomnarison  with  the  old  masters,  but 
solely  with  reference  to  that  Kature 
which  scorns  the  mannerisms  of  the 
schools. 

He  alludes  to  the  morbid  fondness 
of  the  public  for  unfinished  works, 
shewing  how  improperly  encouraging 
this  is  to  the  clever  idler  in  art,  or  the 
claptrap  money-maker;  and  how 
«^}0st  towards  the  man  of  industry, 
«ierg^,  and  feeling,  who  is  desirous 
of  doing  something  worth  having 
lived  for.  The  one  draws  a  draft  on 
a  banker  at  he  draws  a  sketch  ;  the 
other  drags  oa  an  unramunerated 
life  aa  he  labours  on  a  pietaxe.  It 
ahould  be  the  artistes  difficulty  to 
know  when  to  leave  o%  nor  sliould 
he  do  so  while  he  can  put  another 
thought  into  his  pietiue.  Our  author 
does  not  mean  tocensure  real  sketches, 
intended  only  aa  such ;  and,  in  fact, 
he  tlufiks  them  not  sufficiently  en- 
couraged. Youn^  artists,  instowl  of 
apiog  the  execution  of  masters,  and 
littenng  disjointed  repetitions  of  other 
men^s  wow  without  sharing  in  their 
emotions,  should  be  industrious  with 
their  out-door  sketch-book. 

As  the  fault  of  the  generality  of 
modem  painters,  he  instances  a  "  want 
of  solemnity  and  definite  purpose," 
saying  our  landscapes  are  generallv 
**  descriptive,**  not  "  reflective."  He 
deems  them  too  prone  to  repeat 
themselves.  ^*  All  copyists,"  says  he, 
^are  contemptible;  but  the  copyist 
of  himself  the  most  so,  since  he  nas 
the  worst  orinnal."  He  concludes 
by  calling  on  the  press  to  benefit  art 
by  leading  the  public  into  a  proper 
estimation  of  Turner,  and  by  umng 
that  artist  to  give  all  his  future  effi)rts 
to  great  wonss ;  such  works  as  may 
remain  for  the  teaching  of  nations. — 
P.  423. 

Such  is  the  general  account  we 
have  endeavoured  to  give  of,  perhaps, 
the  most  remarkable  nook  which  has 
ever  been  published  in  reference  to 


art  To  the  truth  of  all  its /?rnic^ 
we  accord  the  fullest  and  most  entire 
submission;  on  the  perfiact  justness 
of  all  its  Ubutratiom  we  may  not, 
with  such  unhesitating  trust,  rely ; 
but,  in  the  main,  we  are  wiUing  to 
accept  (A«m  also.  The  author  has 
made  us  clearly  see  much  that  we 
had  overlooked;  and  has,  at  leasti 
stimulated  in  us  aa  increased  desire 
lor  that  knowledge  of  Nature,  with- 
out which  all  patronage  of  art  is 
foolery  and  all  criticism  cant. 

All  men  who  have  eyes  to  behold 
and  liberty  to  range,  liave  presented 
to  them  the  innumerable  distinct 
varieties  and  combiaatioas  of  Nature. 
This  exhibition  involves  every  pos^ 
sible  change  of  position,  and  modified 
form,  and  colour ;  every  grade  from 
impenetrable  darkness  to  intensest 
Ik^ot,  and  from  the  powerful  strength 
of  proximity  to  the  fading  and  al- 
most imperceptible  delicacy  of  re- 
motest distance. 

Some  men,  from  either  a  com- 
parative insensibility  to  euMition  oit 
partial  education,  see  in  all  this  no- 
thing more  than  the  result  of  phy- 
sical creation  acted  upon  by  the  laws 
of  optics.  Others,  either  from  native 
susceptibility  or  the  accidents  of  early 
traimng,  observe  in  Nature's  variety 
the  eloquence  of  a  Creator  stimulating 
the  heart  as  well  as  the  mind  to  that 
apprehension  of  the  Sublime  and 
B^uitiful  which  will  exist  for  ever, 
when  the  physical  has  passed  away 
and  matter  is  no  more. 

The  Sdencea  which  contribute  to 
the  practical  good  of  the  present 
world,  and  the  Arte  which  sustain  its 
imaginative  condition,  are  doubtless 
of  equal  value,  different  men  having 
their  different  missions,  either  for 
promoting  a  knowledge  of  the  m«- 
chamsm  of  the  universe,  or  a  feeling 
for  its  harmony. 

Leaving  Science,  then,  in  the  hands 
of  its  duly  appointed  disciples,  we 
would  regard  Art  as  having  for  its 
object  the  refinement  and  elevation 
of  the  soul  in  its  temporal  alliances. 
Confininff  our  remarx  to  the  land- 
scape artist,  we  would  receive  him  as 
the  minister  of  those  eternal  truths 
which  the  Creator  speaks  in  the  pic- 
torifd  eloquence  of  Sky,  Earth,  and 
Ocean  ;  it  being  bis  duty  not  to 
repeat  the  more  commonly  kno*' 
passages  in  that  literal  form  w' 
IS  familiar  to  our  memory,  b^ 


368 


Modern  Painten^  Sfc, 


[Mftfchy 


seize  upon  the  more  important,  the 
more  pregnant  portions,  and  to  ren- 
der more  acute  our  perception,  and 
more  exalted  our  estimate,  of  the 
comprehensiye  meaning  they  are  in- 
tended to  convey. 

That  the  work  of  the  Oxford  gra- 
duate has  for  its  especial  aim  the 
promotion  of  Landscane  Nature  as  a 
great  moral  means,  ana  the  elevation 
of  the  artist  as  the  expounder  of  its 
mysteries,  is  sufficient  to  demand  for 
its  author  the  highest  respect  of  the 
ordinary  observer  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  professional  aspirant  on  the 
other.  For  our  own  parts,  we  are 
grateful  to  him,  not  more  for  stimu- 
lating our  regard  for  Art^  than  for 
teaching  us  how  to  cultivate  a 
thriving  love  for  Nature,  We  have, 
since  tne  perusal  of  his  treatise, 
gained  many  an  additional  insight 
mto  the  riches  of  landscape ;  and  we 
thank  him  cordially  for  having 
opened  to  us  those  sources  of  enjoy- 
ment which  lie,  like  ever-gusning 
fountains,  in  the  mountains,  the  val- 
leys, the  fields,  and  the  woods ;  and 
for  having  awakened  our  filler  ap- 
prehension of  those  sublimities  which 
distinguish  the  phenomena  of  ocean, 
and  of**  the  brave  overhanging  firma- 
ment.** 

The  graduate's  volume  is,  in  short, 
a  work  which  prompts  us  to  leave 
the  eanveniumat  for  the  true;  and, 
quitting  the  cant  of  gallery  connois- 
seurship,  to  find 

"  ToDgues  in  trees,  books  in  the  ranning 

brooks, 
Sermons  in  etones,  and  good  in  erery 

thing." 

We  cannot  close  this  article  on  the 


graduate's  volume,  wiUiout  referrioji; 
to  the  singular  eloquence  and  graobK 
power  displayed  in  very  many  oi  its 
passages,  ft  is  evidently  not  the 
work  of  a  critic  only,  but  of  a  painter 
and  poet.  The  sterling  oommon- 
sense  and  the  acute  observation, 
shewn  in  its  more  practical  detaili, 
are  not  more  remarkable  than  the 
reverential  feeling  he  entertains  to* 
wards  Art,  and  the  enthusiasm  of  his 
love  for  Nature.  We  only  regret, 
for  the  sake  of  his  cause,  that  he 
should  so  openly  have  prodaimed 
himself  the  champion  of  Turner  in 
particular.  He  might  have  kept 
Turner  in  his  eye,  without  snch 
unqualified  personal  worship.  The 
Tumeric  miffht  have  been  advocated, 
without  such  an  especial  idolatry  of 
the  artist  himself.  Xlie  pre-eminent 
getuua  of  Turner  might  have  been 
asserted,  and  sufficiently  proved,  by 
reference  to  certain  particular  moits, 
even  in  such  of  his  works  as  are,  in 
their  general  character,  deemed  most 
extravagant;  but  when  such  works 
are  alluded  to  as  illustrating  the 
ffraduate*s  theonr  of  landscape  per- 
fection, readers,  less  docile  than  our- 
selves, will  visit,  upon  the  reryprtH' 
ctples  of  his  book,  the  doubts  which 
should  only  attach  to  the  justice  of 
some  of  his  examples.  With  these 
few  oualitying  remarks  we  take  leave 
of  tne  eraduate,  hoping  that  the 
"word  of  promise*'  wnich  he  has  left 
with  us,  in  respect  to  the  continuation 
of  his  subject,  will  be  speedily  re- 
deemed. Well  and  wisely  hath  he 
charmed  us  so  far,  and,  in  the  words 
of  Jaques,  we  earnestly  exclaim,— 

"  Morsi  more ;  I  pr'y  tbee,  more ! " 


1846.}        What  U  the  PoriHoH  t^  Sir  Robert  Peel  ?  ^c. 


369 


WHAT  IS  THE  FOSITION  OF  SIR  ROBERT  PEEL  AND  HIS  CABINET? 


OuB  readers,  we  think,  will  do  U8  the 
jiistioe  to  acknowledge,  that  we  have 
not  mahed  into  anj  hasty  conclusions 
ccmceming  the  wisdom  of  the  finan- 
cial policy  of  the  minister,  heing  ]^et 
undeclared,  or  the  effect  which  it  bids 
Uat  to  produce  upon  the  general  con- 
dition, social  as  well  as  commercial,  of 
the  country.  It  is  indeed  possible  that 
to  the  more  earnest  among  them  we 
may  seem  to  have  exercised  an  excess 
of  caution  in  this  respect,  for  earnest 
men  are  not  always  reasonable  men ; 
and  reason,  though  it  be  our  safest 
guide  in  politics  as  in  most  other 
things,  selaom  keeps  its  ground  when 
assaued  by  prejudice  wpassion.  But 
we  cannot  help  this.  We  hare  nerer 
written  a  line  on  any  of  the  great 
questions  of  the  day,  which  at  this 
present  moment  we  would  wish  to 
retract.  We  have  done  nothing  in 
the  matter  of  the  last  move  in  the 
Conservative  cabinet,  which  we  could 
at  this  moment  desire  to  be  undone. 
As  long  as  it  was  possible  to  keep  the 
judnnent  in  suspense  we  wholly  sus- 
pended ours ;  and  took  the  precaution, 
even  after  Sir  Bobert  Feel  had  made 
the  first  announcement  of  his  purposes, 
to  postpone  to  a  future  occasion  the 
remarks  which  we  might  feel  it  our 
duty  to  make  upon  them.  There  is 
an  end,  however,  now,  to  all  &rther 
hesitation.  The  secret  is  fullv  out, 
— the  gpreat  plan  is  developed,;  the 
ways  and  means  by  which  it  has  been 
brought  so  far  towards  its  accom- 
plishment are  patent  to  the  whole 
world :  and  to  affect  neutrality  any 
loi^r  would  be  ridiculous.  It  has 
become  our  duty  to  deliver  our  opi- 
nion on  the  premises  before  us,  and 
we  shall  enoeavour  to  go  through 
with  it  as  becomes  us. 

And  first  let  us  guard  ourselves 
a^nst  appearing  to  write  in  a  spirit  of 
bitterness  about  Sir  Robert  Feel.  We 
have  no  railing  accusation  whatever 
to  brinff  against  him.  As  a  man,  we 
believe  nim  to  be  as  honest  now  as  he 
ever  was :  as  a  statesman,  we  cannot 
doubt  that  the  motives  by  which  he 
is  actuated  are  pure.  What  indeed 
has  he  to  jgain,  either  personally  or 
in  reputation,  by  the  course  which 
he  has  comsidered  it  expedient  to 


adopt  ?  He  sacrifices  old  frienc 
old  associations,  old  opinions,  old 
connexions,  every  thine  which  men 
most  esteem,  and  which  go  the  far- 
thest to  smooth  for  them  the  path  of 
life:  and  for  what?  To  effect  a 
change  in  the  financial  policy  of 
the  greatest  empire  in  the  world, 
over  the  destinies  of  which  he  has 
been  called  upon  to  preside ;  and  to 
run  the  risk,  while  doing  so,  of 
making  shipwreck  of  his  own  in« 
fluenoe.  For  should  he  fail  to  cany 
his  measure  after  all,  there  is  but  a 
choice  of  evils  before  him :  he  must 
either  retire  at  once  from  public  life, 
or  throw  in  his  lot  with  a  party  witii 
which  he  has  no  sjnmpathy  in  common. 
And  even  if  he  succeed,  wherein  can 
he  expect  to  be  benefited  ?  Will  fu- 
ture parliaments  prove  more  manage- 
able because  this,  which  was  elected 
on  nrotection  principles,  has  stultified 
itself  and  established  the  principle  of 
firee  trade  ?  Will  the  House  of  Lords, 
like  the  beaten  spaniel,  eringre  or 
obey  the  premier  more  cheerftu^  in 
consequence  of  the  discipline  which 
it  has  undex^gone  f  Fositively  we  see 
nothing  for  Sir  Bobert  Feel  in  the 
future  but  mortification,  annoyance, 
and  an  ultimate  retreat  to  Drayton 
Manor.  For,  whether  the  country 
thrive  or  not  under  the  new  system 
which  he  has  devised  for  it,  in  him 
no  human  being  can  hereafter  repose 
confidence;  inasmuch  as,  though 
acting  always  upon  principle  and  a 
desire  to  do  right,  there  is  no  fixed- 
ness of  opinion  about  him.  And 
we  defy  any  set  of  rational  beings, 
whether  they  be  banded  together  m 
arms  or  collected  into  deliberative 
assemblies,  to  follow  as  their  leader  a 
man  whom  they  cannot  trust,  not 
because  they  esteem  him  intentionally 
didionest,  but  because  he  claims  for 
himself  the  privilege  of  changing  his 
opinions  whenever  ne  chooses,  and  in- 
sists that  others  shall  change  theirs 
in  like  manner. 

Sir  Bobert  Feel  has  become  a  free- 
trader, in  the  most  extended  sense  of 
the  term,  suddenly,  and  after  a  long 
public  life  spent  m  the  maintenance 
of  a  system  of  protection  to  agricul' 
ture  and  domestic  industry.     H 


370 

Bwures  na  that  the  change  ia  the 
result  of  a  settled  conviction,  not 
urived  at  in  a  moment  but  cautiously, 
and  in  reluctance  pressed  upon  him  bj 
the  erenta  of  the  last  three  years. 
Now  we  cannot  grye  the  lie  to  a  man 
of  hMMur,  let  him  make  what  aaaer- 
lionhemaj;  and  we  quite  belieretbat 
Sir  Robert  Peel  is  sincere,  as  far  as 
any  man  in  hi*  position  can  be  lineere, 
when  he  make*  this  statement.  But 
if  it  be  true  that  the  minds  of  moat 
men  are  apt  to  be  read  imperfectly 
even  by  t&emselvea,  then  mu»t  we 


that  the  working  of  the  tariff  of  1 842 
led  him  to  consider  the  whole  qnes- 
tioD  of  free  trade  in  a  new  light,  and 
that  the  reiult  has  been  hia  ccmTcr- 


no  leanings  in  1 842  towards  fVee  trade 
which  the  champion  of  Protection 
hesitated  to  gratify,  bnt  which  he 
ptneked  up  heart  of  grace  to  try,  in 
Ibeir  fitness,  hr  the  very  meaanres 
which  are  now  described  as  giving  rise 
to  the  ftee-trade  opinion  ?  We  sus- 
pect that  there  were,  and  in  sincerity 
and  truth  we  hope  that  there  were. 
Per  the  experience  of  three  such 
yeare  as  have  just  run  tlieir 


What  it  the  PmMm  of 


[March, 


Was  Sir  Kohert  Pe«l  the  man  to 
bring  forward  this  measaie,  and  hu 
he  dealt  richtly  by  the  conntiy,  by  bii 
party,  andby  himself,  in  his  mannei 
of  bringing  it  forward  ?  We  will 
endeavonr  to  answer  these  qnestiom 
with  the  candour  and  the  cahnneN 
which  the  subject  deaerrea,  and  our 
readers  will  perhaps  hiv«  as  the 
trouble  of  drawing  any  infacncn 
fhnn  the  ai^^ument,  at  all  events,  io 
detail. 

We  are  not  goio^  to  ttrgne  at  leitttb 
about  tbeeomparatiTC  wisdom  or  folly 
of  the  restrieuve  and  the  fVee-trade 


'Stems,  as  applied  t 


syste 
this. 


ninti^Iiit 
besudfor 


years  of  unexampled  prosperity  and 
bustle — of  railroads  ana  the  press,  and 
of  buMnesB  tonnectcd  with  them— of 
abundant  talxntr,  good  harvests,  and 
high  wages,  was  certainly  not  the  sort 
of  experience  which  would  induce 
any  reasonable  man  to  conclude  that 
the  policy  which  led  the  way  to  them 
was  a  bad  policy.    For  his  own  sake, 
therefore,  for  the  sake  of  his  con- 
sistency and  common  sense,  we  hope, 
and  indeed  believe,  that  Sir  Robert 
Peel  imagined,    long  before    1843, 
that  the  svstem  of  protection  had 
me  limits ;  and  that  the 
for  retaming  min 
>f  things  which  is  at 
in  the  abstrnet,  and 
ice  he  the  best  also, 
led  nattons  to  (kll  in 
in  then,  where  are  wef 
lay  be  as  eood  as  Sir 
.  Cobden  declare  it  to 
id  to  all  the  results, 
I  they  are,  for  which 
but  of  the  occurrence 
er  has  given  us  the 
by  anticipation;  yet 
;irt  revCTts  upon  n». 


Agreat  de«l  i 
both,  and  a  great  deal  against  both. 
In  favour  of  the  revtrictive  systwn  it 
may  be  hhly  urged,  that  with  it, 
and  therefore  by    iDeans  of  it,  the 
country  rose  to  the  pitch  of  pros- 
perirt  and  greatness  at  which  wt 
find  It.     In  lavonr  of  a  fVee  trade  tbt 
argument  unquestionably  lies,  thai 
there  are  periods  in  the  bntory  of  all 
nations  when  the  system  of  p)K^ 
which  reared  ceases  to  be  applicable 
to  their  mvntenanee;  exactly  ai  in 
the  individnal  man,  the  minal  v^ 
even   jtbyaieal  coltare  which  mwt 
avails  in  youth  becomes   izyiuieM 
in  the  vigour  of  onr  days,  and  kills  ii 
it  be  persevered  in  to  old  age.    No 
ftct,  for  instance,  can  be  more  per* 
fcetly  established,  than  that  the  cni- 
toms  and  excise,  and  other  sonrtes  of 
revenue  arising  out  of  the  system  of 
protection,  were   stretched    ly  tb* 
Whigi,  in  1839,  beyond  theffjiw« 
limits ;  that  they  imposed  upon  both 
dealers  and  consumers  incouTenieniw 
innumerable,  and  had  ceased  lo  he 
profitable.    In  like  manner  the  OM 
assertion  that   the  agrfcultmalist  « 
the  roanafhctnrer's  l>est    eoEtamer, 
will  not  bear  a  moment's  inspeetiiw. 
That  the  home  market  is  more  to  the 
mannfaetitrer  than  all  the  IbRip 
markets  into  whidi  he  makes  h" 
way,  we  quite  believe ;  but  the  tnor 
is  to  suppose,  that  the  only  buyer  in 
this  market    is  the  agrieulturaW- 
Consider  what  the  articles  are  wh''" 
the    manufacturer    produces.     "• 
gives  us  cotton-piece  goods  for  ow 
shirting  and  our  sbeetinj,  fir  (m 
gowns  of  onr  wives  and  daughten; 
he  gives  us  broad  cloths  and  Mrrw^, 
and  woollen  febrics  of  other  sort* J*'' 
onr  coats,  trousers,  waistcoats,  bW- 
kets,andsQch  like :  hesnppHes OS  "'■>'' 


1&4S.J 


Sir  Eoberi  Peet  and  hU  Cabinet  ? 


371 


article  that  is  vised  in  the  fhraishing 
of  our  housesy^-our  window^cnrtainsy 
bed-enrtains,    carpets,   chair- corera, 
are theproduceoflns  loom.  Now,  who 
are  thej  that  consume  these  different 
articles  chiefly?    Does  the  country 
gentleman,  with  his  rental  of  five  thou- 
sand a-year,  expend  half  as  much  upon 
the  elothinff  of  his  own  person  as  a 
spmoe  derk  in  the  Admiralty,  or  a 
Bnonnian  in  HoweD  and  James's? 
And  when  you  look  to  the  fanner, 
ivhat  is  his  erery-day  costume  ?  A 
sfaooting-jacket,  which  lasts  him  on  an 
areraffe  five  years — a  pair  of  corduroy 
breeches — ^leather  ^ters  and  high- 
lows — ^to   work   Ins    way   through 
-which  will  take  him  three  years  at 
the  least.    It  is  only  on  market-days 
and  Sunday  that  he  arrays  himself  m 
his  green  coat  and  yellows :  and  these 
are  carefully  pulled  off  and  folded 
and  laid  away  again  as  soon  as  the 
occasion  ceases.      Nor  is  the  case 
different  if  we  compare  the  style  of 
dress  that  prevails  amon^  the  opera- 
tives, and  that  which  suits  the  tastes 
and  purses  of  the  agricultural  la- 
bourers.    We  venture  to  say,  that 
more  money  is  spent  upon  wearing 
apparel  in  any  one  thriving  street  in 
Manchester,  than  in  half  the  purely 
agricultural  villages  of  Lancashh-e 
•pat  together.    And  as  to  the  sums 
expended  in  fhmiture,  compare  the 
parlours  and  bed-rooms  of  our  shop- 
keepers and  dealers  with  those  of  the 
tenant-farmers    in    any   county   of 
England,  and  you  win  find  that  it 
is  tne  former  clan  which  goes  most 
frequently,  and  to  the  largest  amount, 
into  the  market  by  tenfold.     We 
repeat,  then,  that  though  the  home 
market  be  unquestionably  more  to 
the  manufacturer  than  stll  the  foreign 
markets  into  which  he  now  makes 
hii  way,  it  is  a  fallacy  to  contend  that, 
therefore,  the  agriculturalist  must  be 
his  best  customer.    The  fact  is,  that 
each  particular  manufacturer,  with 
his  operatives,  and  the   tradesmen 
who  purchase  his   goods,  and  the 
shop -boys  who   self  them,  is  the 
best  customer  to  another  manufac- 
turer, who  fabricates  goods  of  a  dif- 
ferent descriptbn ;    and  that  mer- 
chants, lawyers,  medical  men,  clerks 
—the  vast  number  of  persons,  in 
short,  who  have  no  connexion  with 
the  soil  whatever,  do  more,  or,  at 
re8«t,*a8  much,  for  the  whole  of  the 


manufteturing  classes,  as  all  the 
landlords,  tenants,  and  peasants  in 
the  kingdom. 

Assuming,  then,  that  the  present 
policy  of  Sir  Robert  Peel  is  the 
sound  policy, — ^putting  oat  of  view 
the  ccdonies,  ana  forgetting  the  mi- 
serable way  in  which  they  &ve  here- 
tofore been  mismanaged, — shutting 
your  eyes  to  the  ikct  that,  if  you 
want  com,  Canada  alone  will  supply 
you,  and  that  Canada,  if  you  deal 
fairly  by  her,  will  take  more  of 
your  manufactured  goods  than  all 
the  continent  of  Europe  put  to- 
gether,— setting  all  these  considera- 
tions aside,  b.m  very  many  more, 
into  which,  because  we  are  not 
contrasting  system  with  system,  but 
thinking  of  matters  to  the  full  as 
momentous,  it  were  out  of  place 
to  enter,  we  return  to  the  ques- 
tions wluch  we  have  undertaken  to 
answer,  namely.  Was  Sir  Robert 
Feel  the  man  to  brinff  forward  the 
measure  that  is  now  before  parlia- 
ment ?  and.  Has  he  dealt  fairly  by 
the  country,  by  his  party,  and  by 
himself,  in  his  manner  of  bringing  it 
forward  ?  Our  reply  in  both  cases 
is,  and  must  be,  a  decided  negative. 
Sir  Robert  is  not  the  man  by  whom 
the  free-trade  system  ought  to  have 
been  proposed  to  the  country  for 
adoption.  Sir  Robert  Peel  has  dealt 
most  unfairly  by  the  country,  by  his 
party,  and  by  himself,  in  his  manner 
of  forcing  his  new- fancied  notions  to 
a  point.    Let  us  explam  ourselves. 

We  give  Sir  Robert  Peel  full  cre- 
dit for  a  conscientious  change  of 
opinion  on  the  great  question  which 
is  now  under  discussion  in  the  legis- 
lature. But  for  such  change,  indeed, 
his  conduct  would  be  quite  inex- 
plicable. He  has  become  a  free 
trader  because  he  believed  that  free 
trade  would  benefit  the  country ;  if 
he  had  not  believed  this,  he  would 
have  continued  what  he  was,  or  was 
supposed  to  be,  when  the  Conserva- 
tive or  Protectionist  party  brought 
him  into  power.  But  Sir  Robert 
over-estimated  the  extent  of  his 
rights  when  he  assumed  that,  because 
he  was  at  liberty  to  alter  his  own 
mind,  and  even  to  support  a  new 
policy  as  an  individual  member  of 
parliament,  he  was,  therefore,  equally 
at  liberty  to  jump  Jim  Crow,  claim- 
ing all  tne  while  to  be  treated  as  the 
head  of  the  Conservative  party. 


372 


What  is  the  Position  of 


[March^ 


With  his  respoiiabilitiefras  minister 
of  the  crowD,  be  it  observed,  we  have 
no  concern.  The  sovereign,  not  the 
people,  most  consider  that ;  for  the 
letter  of  the  constitution,  and,  in  all 
hands  except  his  own,  its  spirit  like- 
wise, gives  to  the  sovereign  the  un- 
doubted right  of  choosing  her  respon- 
sible ministers.  But  the  responsibility 
even  of  a  queen*s  mimster  to  the  partv 
which  he  brought  together,  which 
he  reared  up,  and  was  or  appeared 
to  be  so  proud  of,  and  which  he  has 
used  to  accomplished  his  own  ends, — 
that  is  our  concern  and  the  concern 
of  more  than  us,  of  the  people  of 
England,  and  indeed  of  all  thinking 
men  throughout  the  world.  We 
think,  therefore,  that  Sir  Robert 
FeeFs  resi^ation  of  office,  however 
becoming  it  mi^ht  be  in  the  divided 
state  of  nis  cabmet,  and  taking  into 
account  his  own  admitted  place  in 
that  cabinet,  as  the  chief  or  a  very 
small  minority,  was  no  concession  at 
all  to  public  opinion,  no  compliment 
to  the  Conservative  party,  no  proof 
that  in  order  to  benefit  the  country 
he  was  prepared,  in  obedience  to  the 
dictates  oi  conscience,  to  sacrifice 
himself,  For  see  to  what  the  ar- 
rangement tended.  Either  Sir  Eor 
bert  was  honest  in  his  resipation  of 
office,  or  he  was  not.  K  Honest,  he 
desired  and  expected  that  power 
would  pass  into  other  hands;  and 
previous  communications  with  his 
coUeagues  having  convinced  him  that 
amone  thern  there  was  not  an  indi- 
vidual prepared  to  undertake  the 
formation  of  a  government,  it  could 
not  but  be  clear  to  him  that  he  was 
making  way  for  strange  events.  He 
could  not  DC  ignorant  that  his  re- 
tirement from  the  aueen*s  service 
must  lead  to  the  calling  in  of  the 
heads  of  the  party  to  which  his  own 
was  opposed;  in  other  words,  into 
the  surrender  by  the  general  of  that 
position  of  strength  to  the  enemy 
which  the  steadiness  and  good  con- 
duct of  his  troops,  not  his  own  in- 
dividual valour,  had  won.  Or  if  on 
the  other  hand  he  were  not  sincere, 
if  he  anticipated  that  Lord  John 
Bussell  woiud  fail  as  he  did  in  his 
attempt  to  form  a  government,  was 
not  the  whole  proceeding  from  first 
to  last  a  farce  ?  And  is  it  not  self- 
evident  that  the  chief  actor  therein 
sought  only  to  throw  dust  in  tiie 
eyes  of  the  simple,  for  more  than 


the  sinaple  were  not  to  be  blinded  hf 
it?  Now,  what  we  oontend  for  is 
ibis,  that  in  either  of  these  cases  Sr 
Bobert  Peel  has  taken  nothing  by 
lus  motion.  His  resignation,  whether 
it  were  real  or  pretended,  has  not 
saved,  and  could  not  save,  hb  politi- 
cal honour.  On  the  contrary,  hii 
treason  to  his  party,  and,  let  ns  add, 
to  himself,  has  been  agei&vated  by 
the  proceeding;  and  nS^  new  &ci 
that  comes  to  light  sinks  him  loiter 
and  lower  in  the  estimation  of  the 
world. 

On  the  night  of  Monday,  the  9th 
of  February  last,  Sir  Bobert  Fed 
made  a  long  speech  in  defence  of 
himself  and  of  his  policy.     With  the 
soundness  of  his  argument  —  as  it 
bore  upon  the  (question  of  free  trsde 
— ^we  must  dechne  for  the  present  to 
meddle;  neither  shall  we  paose  to 
examine  the  taste,  good,  had,  or  in- 
diffisrent,  wherewith  be  demolished 
some  of  the  speakers  on  his  own  side 
of  the  house.  But  of  the  letter  whidt 
he  read  to  the  house,  as,  it  appeared 
to  us,  with  an  air  of  consummale 
triumph  and  satisfaction,  we  most 
say  one  word.     If  any  thing  had 
been  wanting  to  complete  the  wreck 
of  the  minister's  pubhc  character,  be 
himself,  by  making  public  his  letter 
to  the  queen,  supplied  it.  What  does 
he  think  that  gentlemen  are  made  oC 
if  he  expects  that  they  on  either  side 
can  ever  a^ain  repose  the  smallest 
confidence  m  such  as  he  ?    Was  it 
not  enough  to  leave  his  jiarty  in 
the  lurch? — that  party,  be  it  ob- 
served, which  represented  the  majo- 
rity of  the  constituencies,  and  there- 
fore spake,  as  is  assumed    by  the 
constitution,  the  voice  of  the  people; 
but  he  must  needs  volunteer  his 
assistance  to  the  leader  of  Uie  oppo- 
site party,  in  any  attack  which  he 
mi^ht  make  upon  arrangements  to 
which  parliament  had  consented,  widi 
extreme  reluctance,  only  a  few  years 
ago,  because  its  chosen  loider,  not 
then  supposed  to  be  a  renegade,  had 
suggested  them?  Positively  we  marvel 
whUc  we  think  of  all  tins.    What! 
not  only  make  a  boast  of  deserting 
your  prmciples  and  your  friends,— ot 
taking  from  them,  as  well  as  from 
yourself,  the  preside  of  office,~bnt 
stand  up  in  the  house  and  read,  sa 
if  it  had  been  the  production  of  a 
great  mind,  a  document,  wherein  you 
declare  yourself  ready  to  betray  your 


1846.] 


Sir  Bobert  Pe^l  and  kU  CaiiMt  ? 


378 


party  fltDl  fttfther,  by  eonraptiBg  its 
sevml  members  as  imr  as  you  can, 
and  persuadiDg  them  to  vote  against 
their  judgment,  their  pledges,  their 
consistency,  and  the  interests,  or  sup- 
posed interests,  of  the  electors  who 
sent  them  to  parliament?  Fositivdy 
we  manrel  while  we  think  of  all  this ; 
and  haye  much  difficulty  in  persuade 
ing  ourselves  that  we  are  awake. 

But  we  have  not  yet  done  with 
this  port  of  our  subiect  Sir  Robot 
Fed,  it  appears  (at  least  so  we  under- 
stood his  great  speech  of  the  9th  of 
February  to  state),  is  not  now,  for 
the  first  time,  taken  by  the  beauty  of 
a  firee-trade  system.  lie  has  long  been 
convinced  that  protection  to  native 
industry  is  a  mistake,  and  would 
have  willingly  thrown  it  overboard, 
the  Corn-laws  goin^  with  it,  a  dozen 
years  ago,  had  he  known  how.  In 
the  name  of  common  sense  and  eom- 
mon  int^rity,  why,  then,  did  he  not 
tell  us  so?  What  was  his  object  in 
strengtheniiM;  the  hands  of  Lord 
Greys  and  Lord  Melboume*s  admi- 
nistrations, in  the  opposition  which 
they  offered,  year  hy  year,  to  Mr. 
Yilliers*  motion?  Why,  when  the 
latter  cabinet  exhibited  symptoms  of 
yielding,  and  was  accused  of  coquet- 
ting with  the  Anti-Com-law  League, 
did  he  denoimce  and  hold  up  to  the 
ridicule  of  the  world  men  wnom  he 
could  not  but  respect,  and  opinions 
towards  which  his  own,  as  he  now 
confesses,  were  yerging  ?  And  finally, 
in  1841,  when  Lord  John  Bussell 
plucked  up  courage  to  make  a  move, 
why  did  Sir  Bo&rt  Fed  withstand 
him  ?  Was  it  because  the  leader  of 
the  Whiffs  did  not  go  far  enough  ? 
Was  it  toe  fixed  duty,  and  not  the 
inroad  upon  the  principle  of  protec- 
tion to  the  home  grower,  iinat  he 
objected  to?  He  now  tells  us  that 
it  was;  and  we,  in  our  turn,  are 
forced  to  tell  him  that  we  are 
puaded  which  to  believe,  which  to 
discredit, — ^hts  present  declarations, 
or  his  past  proceedings, — ^for  there 
is  ndther  consistency  nor  the  shadow 
of  concord  between  them. 

The  repeal  of  the  Corn-laws,  and 
the  removal  of  protection  from  our 
heavily-taxed  manufiicturers  and  ar- 
tisans, may  be  a  wise  thing.  We  are 
not  now  arguing  to  the  contrary: 
but  of  this  there  can  be  no  doubt, 
that  measures  such  as  these  never 
ought  to  haye  been  proposed  by  Sir 


Eotet  Feel,— no,  not  even  if  the 
effect  of  his  holding  bsek  had  been 
to  jiostpone  the  desirable  eonsoa- 
matbn  to  a  period  indefinitdy  re- 
mote; for,  apart  fhmi  all  other  con* 
siderations,  it  is  self-evident  that» 
assuming  Sir  Bobert  Fed  to  be  the 
only  man  possessed  of  infinenoe 
enough,  both  within  and  without 
the  house,  to  cany  these  measures, 
the  country  cannot  yet  be  ripe  for 
them.  Let  the  country  only  desire 
some  great  change  in  the  manner  of 
conducting  its  public  affiurs,  and 
there  is  no  need  of  a  Fed,  or  of  any 
other  great  name,  to  bring  it  about 
Look  at  the  Beform-bill, — who  ear- 
ned that?  Was  it  Fed,  or  the  party 
of  whidb  Fed  was  a  leader  ?  No : 
the  country,  diwusted  by  what  it 
bdieved  to  be  tne  abandonment  of 
all  prindple  among  the  Tor^  chie&, 
— the  conntiv,  torn  and  divided  by 
factions,  to  wmch  the  yielding  policy 
of  this  same  Sir  Bobert  Feef  gave 
existence,  jdned  in  demanding  that 
the  ctmstitutaon  should  be  remodd- 
led,  and  raising  into  office  a  set  of 
men  whom,  up  to  the  year  1830,  it 
had  treated  with  marveiloiuly  ^ht 
respect,  trod  under  foot  Fed,  Wel- 
lington, Eldon,  Ljmdhurst,  and  car- 
ried its  point.  K,  then,  it  be  the  fact 
that  no  living  statesman,  except  Sir 
Bobert  Feel,  would  be  able  to  aceom* 
plish  a  repeal  of  the  Corn-laws,  we 
want  no  surer  proof  that  the  time 
for  repealing  these  laws  is  not  come. 
The  laws,  we  doubt  not,  lotS  be  re- 
pealed now;  and  we  hope,  and  are 
willing  to  believe,  that  both  thc^ 
who  cuunour  for  the  repeal,  and  their 
opponents  who  resist  it|  will  be  sur- 
prised at  the  slight  difference  thai 
will  be  oceasioiied  thereby  in  the 
condition  of  the  different  clnspca  of 
society.  But  be  the  ecmsequenoea 
what  they  may,  the  mord  nature  of 
this  act  is  not  changed.  The  repeal 
of  the  Corn-laws  ml,  if  carried,  be 
carried  by  a  firaud,  and  the  man  who 
carries  them  does  so  at  the  cost  of  his 
politksd  honour. 

If  the  evils  attendant  on  this  most 
unhappy  move  extended  no  farther 
than  tnis, — if  th^  ruined  only  the 
public  character  of  Sir  Bobert  Feel, 
and  drove  him,  as  they  oertainly  will, 
into  private  life, — ^we  diould  deeply 
lament  thdr  occurrence.  Sir  Bobert 
Fed,  in  spite  of  all  his  fiiulto,  r 

great  naa  and  a  great  mir 


Wlat  is  the  Pari^ioH  9/ 


[Hsrcli, 


Hif  mind  Mcmt  to  gnm 
ever;  ntjcct  whieh  it  tAet  up,  and 


to  twiat  and  tom  it  in  all  < 
■ad  hi*  memory  k  sorpnalag,  both 
in  great  thi^a  and  in  nnall.  The 
Idm  of  Micfa  a  mm  to  bis  eoontiys 
■errfee  iriD  be  grierons.  Yet  we  «■ 
bear  it.  England  bae  never  lacked 
ber  dHTOpioni  in  tbe  hour  of  need. 
England  mrald  be  able,  we  dare  la;, 
to  find  a  niDee«R>r  for  ^  Robert 
PiBd,  not  pttbapH  w  astute  In  every 
mpetA,  bat  quite  competent  to  man- 
age tbe  afTaiiB  of  tbe  nation.  Eng- 
land wevld  be  able  to  do  thii,  woe 
ber  present  minister  taken  away 
ftmn  ner  by  any  one  of  tbe  ceoMs 
itbieh  operate  to  render  ^aees  vacant. 
But  Sir  Robert  Peel  seems  detamined 
tkat  when  be  does  ftU,  w  ftU  be  soon 
will,  tbe  qneen  shall  And  berseif 
Borely  pniiled  where  to  look  for  a 
neeaasm'.  We  do  not  think,  ftrr  ex- 
ample, that  the  couDtiy  would  wil- 
lingly flwuent  to  receive  another 
Wh^  government.  Tbe  party  which 
affrees  m  ill  with  itaelf,  as  to  be  nn- 
aue  to  accept  power  when  it  is  press- 
ed upon  it,  is  not  very  likely  to 
win  its  way  to  power  through  tbe 
(qipoMtion  of  a  body  of  exasperated 
antagimists.  Lords  Grey  and  lU- 
merstmt,  and  the  R«ht  Honourable 
Thomas  BaUngton  Haeauluy,  seem 
to  ns  to  have  knocked  the  official 
woapeota  of  themselves  and  tbdr 
Mends  on  the  bead.  Neither,  we 
Ahik,  ecMMiderii^  the  exhibition 
which  they  have  inst  made  of  them- 
Mlvca,  are  Uie  dehv  of  the  esitting 
cabinet  likely  to  stenre  the  confi- 
dnwe  «dier  of  the  sovereign  or  of 
tbe  people.  And  this  brings  us  to 
UMtMr  <rf  tbe  hideotu  featnrea  which 
give  exmnien  to  tbe  present  poHey 
of  Sir  Robert  F«el.  How  be  bss 
iMinyiil  it  we  etonot  concave;  but 
bt  certainly  has  contrived  to  BtnltifV  tbem, 
and  degrade,  and  to  drag  through  feels, 
tbe  raite,  men  of  wIumo,  op  to  tbe      don  ) 


wprove; 

sMenqy — naiy  we  not  eaU  h  by  a 
harsher  termr—andw  the  pka  at  a 
^valravs  devotion  (o  the  qaeen's 
service  I  Did  eYer  mortal  ears  Usten 
to  soeh  a  speech  as  that  wbemn  his 
grace  aecoanted  fbr  his  iK-Mppev' 
mee^  After  a  tcmponify  retzremoit, 
as  minister  ot  the  crwwn,  before  the 
House  of  Lords?  "  Her  mqesty  was 
^aeed  in  ntch  a  position,  that  dtt 
felt  herself  unable  to  fbm  a  govcn- 
mcnt.  What  WAS  I  to  do?  Ire* 
turned  to  office, — ^beeanse  I  Ibougbt 
and  think  a  great  deal  more  aboal 
ber  miueety  tuving  a  government  in 
which  she  can  trust,  than  about  any 
private  man's  ojrimoti  on  the  Cont- 
lawi^  or  on  any  other  laws."  Our 
veneration  for  the  duke  will  not  per- 
mit us  to  ofFbr  one  word  of  eomment 
upon  this  declaration ;  but  we  mint 
confess  that  we  are  profoondly  igno- 
rant of  the  spirit  of  tbe  constittitioa 
if  this  be  in  unison  with  it. 

Tbe  Duke  of  Wellington  is  so  eir- 
cumstanoed,  that  he  may  my  or  ii' 
most  do  say  thii^.    Tbe  cabinet  is 
not,  however,  made  up  absolutely  of 
Dnkea  of  Wellington ;  and  thoogb 
his  grace  will  undoubtedly  snrvive 
the  blow  whieh  he  has  ioAicted  oa 
his  own  good  name,  we  are  inclined 
to  think  that  no  other  indlvidnal 
connected  with  the  cabinet  will  es- 
cape thus  easily.     It  appears  that 
on  tbe  division  touching  tbe  adop- 
tion or  rejection  of  free-trade  po- 
licy, three    members    ot  this   pre* 
ciouB  cabinet,  including  tbe  premier, 
voted  fbr  and  eleven    i^atnst  tbe 
new-(^1ed  notions.  Now  what,  we 
beg  leave  recpectfoUy  to  inquire  of 
Sir  James  Graham,  and  Lord  Lyod- 
bnrst,  uid  Mr.  Goaltmm,  and  Lend 
Granville  Somerset,  is  this  — Did 
anv  thing  ooenr  to  compel  a  change 
either  in  the  opintons  or  thepoliey  of 
■ttcfaastbeyr    The  dnke 
,  pnli^M,  that  wera  he  to  aban- 
8ir  Robert  Peel,  tlie  premier 
deed  be  powerless.    With 
WDuM  go  the  entire  House 
;  and  bad  tbe  House  of 
dared  against  the  measure 
ttsel,  we  ore  NrtMcd  that 
his    powers  of  pereuasbm 
ve  enabled  Sir  Robert  Peel 
r  ha  mcasDre  even  a  first 
He  weald    have  broken 


1846.] 


Sir  RobeH  Peel  ani  hit  Cabinet  ? 


975 


the  experiment  iniut  have  been  tried, 
Tfhether  or  no  it  was  imposnble  to 
fonn  a  goyemment  dsewhere  tban 
from  among  the  Bed-tapen  on  both 
aides.  Bnt  these  other  gentlemen, 
are  they  so  little  ac^naint^  with  the 
tme  nature  of  their  position  as  to 
snppoee  that  their  secession  wonld 
haye  impeded  Peel's  morement  in  the 
least,  or  that  there  was  the  smallest 
necessity  for  their  undergoing  a  self- 
inflicted:  political  martyrdom?  We 
mnst  entreat  them  to  lay  aside  so 
absurd  a  crotchet.  No  human  being 
cares  how  they  vote  or  how  they 
speak.  Their  adherence  to  Peel  has 
become  a  source  of  weakness — not 
of  strength  to  him:  thdr  retirement 
fyom  office  might  have  made  them 
s<Mnething,  bnt  it  could  haye  done 
BO  damage  wbateyer  to  him  or  to 
his  measure.  At  the  same  time  this 
irreparable  mischief  has  accrued  from 
their  temyersation,  that  confidence 
in  all  public  men  is  destroyed.  The 
piremier  deoeiyes  and  disappoints  his 
party,  —  excusing  himself  by  mak- 
ing a  fnmk  ayowal  that  his  yiews 
en  certain  points  are  changed.  The 
majority  m  his  colleagues,  haying 
shewn  that,  so  lately  as  November 
last,  they  had  not  changed  their 
opinions,  and  could  not  conscien- 
tiously act  against  them,  return  to 
office,  after  lengning,  and  falsify 
their  own  declarations  by  8U|^rt* 
ing  the  premieres  measures.  It  is  a 
harsh  tmng  to  say,  and  a  cruel  thing 
to  feel, — but  the  recusants  of  Novem- 
ber last  would  not  be  believed  upon 
their  oaths,  were  they  to  swear  that 
their  free-trade  speeches  of  February 
came  fi'om  their  honest  convictions. 

Again,  not  the  least  galHng  part 
of  this  unworthy  business  is,  that  the 
vrhole  British  emnire  is  insulted  and 
abused  by  the  leaders  of  two  parties, 
almost,  perhaps,  equally  untrust" 
worthy.  Looking  at  events  as  they 
have  occurred,  it  seems  to  be  the 
settled  oninion  of  Sir  Robert  Feel  on 
the  one  nand,  and  Lord  John  Rus- 
sell on  the  other,  that  they  are  the 
<mly  two  men  in  the  kingdom  worthy 
to  be  honoured  with  the  queen's  con- 
fidence. Hence  Lord  «fohn,  when 
the  ground  is  slipping  from  beneath 
him,  advises  her  majesty  to  send  for 
Sir  Robert  Peel.  Hence  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  finding  his  cabinet  restive,  ad- 
vises the  queen  to  send  for  Lord 
John ;  while  Lord  John,  having  tried 


and  fidled  to  form  a  governmeat,  re* 
commends  thai  Sir  Robert  Beel  be 
sent  for  once  more;  and,  beh(M,  we 
have  him  once  more  in  Downing 
Street !  Thus  the  fortnaes  and  the 
honour  of  this  rreat  country  are 
held,  like  a  pa»  of  cards,  m  the 
hands  of  two  gamblers,  who  shnfle 
us  all  backwaras  and  forwards  just 
as  they  please,  and  tell  us  that  if 
they  were  to  lay  us  down  there  h 
nobody  in  England  ^mable  of  play- 
ing out  the  game.  Now  we  bc^  to 
assure  them  that  they  are  mistaken. 
Clever  men  we  admit  them  to  be^ 
eminent  men,  if  you  prefer  the  term, 
standing  as  far  above  the  hack  states- 
men of  their  respective  factions  as  the 
dome  of  St.  Paulas  stands  above  the 
church-towers  in  the  Ci^.  But,  not- 
withstanding all  this,  it  IS  our  honest 
belief  that  we  can  play  our  own  came 
for  ourselves  ,*  and  very  sincerely  do 
we  wish  that  both  would  give  us  the 
opportunity  of  tryin?.  Moreover 
the  insult,  tor  an  insnlt  we  hold  it 
to  be,  touches  men  of  M  ranks  and 
stations  in  society.  Sir  Robert  Peel 
and  Lord  John  Russell  have  no 
more  right  to  denounce  the  possible 
elevation  of  Mr.  Cobden  to  a  seat 
in  the  cabinet,  than  they  have  to 
sneer  at  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  or 
the  Duke  of  Richmond,  as  if  they 
were  wanting  in  the  talents  and 
weiffht  that  are  needed  for  high  poli- 
tical station.  And  if  it  be  true,  as 
we  have  heard  it  whispered,  that  one 
reason  which  induced  Peel  and  his 
colleagues  to  resume  office  was,  *^thal 
her  majesty  might  not  fidl  into  the 
hands  of  the  league,**  we  must  say 
that  any  thing  more  unconstitntional, 
as  well  as  unwise,  was  never  mad  m> 
done  by  public  men,  since  puUie 
men  came  into  extatenee. 

But  we  have  not  yet  done  with 
Su*  Robert  Peel  and  his  cabinet,  and 
their  measure.  If  we  are  to  beUeve 
the  premier,  the  ^an  on  which  he  is 
now  proceedhig  is  not  that  whtoii 
he  onginally  proposed  to  his  col- 
leagues ;  the  dread  of  an  impending 
famine  (God  knows  whence  ccmveyed 
to  him),  and  a  knowledge  that  the 
potato  crop  was  very  bad  in  Ire- 
land, induced  him  to  propose  in  No- 
vember last  that  the  ports  Aoold 
be  opened,  and  that  arrangements 
should  be  made  while  things  were  «*- 
this  state  ibr  getting  rid  of  the  Or 
laws  altogether.    There  was  wf 


376 


Whal  is  the  Podium  of 


[Maidi, 


as  well  as  moral  oouiage  in  this, — 
aamming  the  premises  on  which  the 
idea  rested  to  be  soond.  When  fa- 
mine comes,  or  while  it  threatens,  all 
laws  must  give  way ;  and  supposing 
Sir  Robert  Peel  to  have  been  ho- 
nestly convinced  that  a  calamity  so 
frightful  hung  over  the  nation,  he 
could  not  do  less  than  propose  that 
it  should  be  met  by  giving  every 
facQity  to  the  importation  of  fore^n 
flprain.  But  what  has  he  actually 
done?  His  colleagues  would  not 
consent  to  open  the  ports ;  he  could 
not  bring  them  over,  even  on  this 
pcont,  to  his  way  of  thinking ;  he, 
therefore,  declares  his  intention  to 
resign  office,  and  to  a^  man  they  re- 
gign  likewise.  This  is  very  consi- 
derate in  them ;  very  complimentary, 
after  a  fashion.  It  remmds  us  of 
the  generosity  of  school-boys,  who, 
when  they  are  going  to  be  flogged, 
lidways  make  a  point  of  getting  as 
many  of  their  companions  into  the 
tame  scrape  as  they  can.  But,  lo 
and  befaoml  the  noble  act  of  self- 
devotion  won^t  do.  The  other  gam- 
bler cannot  manage  the  cards,  and 
they  come  back  again  into  the  hands 
ofSirBobert.  What  follows?  He 
is  now  doubly  armed.  He  goes  to 
his  friends,  of  course^and  says,  ^'  Now, 
my  good  fellows,  you  see  how  the 
land  lies ;  I  miut  h&  prime-minister. 
There  is  nobody  to  fill  my  place ; 
and,  convinced  as  I  am  that  nunine 
is  at  the  door,  I  must  open  the  ports. 
Are  you  willing  now  to  sanction  the 
measure,  because  if  you  are  not,  I 
most  find  others  who  will?"  Was 
this  the  premieres  amiment?  We 
cannot  tell ;  but  this  we  whole  world 
Imows,  that,  if  used,  Uie  argument 
availed  nothing.  It  seems,  on  the 
contrary,  to  have  been  met  (that  is, 
if  it  were  spoken),  by  a  rejoinder  after 
this  fashion:  "  My  good  fellow,  this 
famine  is  all  blarney.  We  don't 
believe  a  word  of  it,  and  we  don*t 
believe  that  you  believe  it  either. 
What  you  want  is  free  trade;  and 
so,  rather  than  lose  our  monopoly  of 
office  or  let  in  Cobden,  we  will  consent 
to  the  abolition  of  the  Corn-laws :  but 
we  cannot  permit  the  ports  to  be 
qpened  now,  nor  our  Corn-laws  to  so 
in^  a  moment."  Accordingly  the  la- 
mine,  with  the  arrangements  which 
were  to  meet  and  obviate  the  eviU 
occasioned  by  it,  are  postponed ;  and 
a  rasasure  is  concocted}  which)  if  we 


may  judge  by  the  time  that  has  been 
required  to  carry  it  to  a  seoond  read- 
ing in  the  House  of  Commons,  ia  likely 
to  furnish  members  with  a  sul^iect « 
debate  till  the  new  potato  czop  shall 
have  been  housed,  andperhaps  eaten. 
Meanwhile   the   efract    prodoced 
upon  all  the  relations  of  social  life 
in  this  country,  by  the  propoaal  of 
such  a  measure  by  such  a  minister, 
is  most  deplorable.    It  has  led  to 
the   severance,  perhaps  to  the  de- 
struction, of  the  ties  of  kindred  and 
connexion;  to  the  array  of  tenants 
against  landlord,  brother  against  bro- 
ther, father  agiunst  son.     The  late 
contest  for  South  Nottinghamshire, 
presents  to  our  eyes  the  sandcst  spec- 
tacle on  which  we  hare  ever  looked. 
Not  that  we  ourselves  have  much 
sympathy  with  the  ezcessiYe  alaxni 
of  tne   agricultural  interests.    We 
hope,  and  indeed  beUeve,  that  in  the 
changes  and  chances  of  times  and 
seasons,  all  things  will  find  their  jut 
level;  we  are  confident  that,  amee 
the  battle  must  be  lost,  it  were  better 
to  withdraw  from  the  contest  wiUi  a 
good  grace,  and  instead   of  filling 
the  holds  of  tenants  and  labonros 
with  notions  of  impending  ruin,  and 
of  course  of  falling  rent^  to  direct 
the  energies  which  are  thus  wasted 
to  the  encouragement  of  agricultare 
as  a  science.    For,  indeed,  we  have 
no  nervous  dread  of  fordgn  compe- 
tition, and  are  therefore  rea^  to 
say  with  Mr.  Cobden,  that  the  giest 
error  in^  Sir  Bobert  Peel*s  measure 
is  that  it  prolongs  anxiety  and  dit- 
trust,  by  putting  off  for  tnree  yean 
arrangements  wnich  might  iuat  as  well 
be  CTOCted  at  once,    n  tnere  be  no 
absolute  fiunine,  there  is,  nnqnestkm- 
ably,  a  defective  crop  elsewhere  than 
in  Great  Britain ;  indeed  we  are  in- 
clined to  think,  that  while  foreign 
nations  suffer  a  good  deal  finom  thv 
deficiency,  our  own   share    of  the 
burthen  is  a  light   one.    Bat  the 
cases  may  be  reversed  three  yeafs 
hence;  and  if  they  be,  vaU  there 
come  pouring  in  upon  us  all  the 
surplus  produce  of  the  world,  then 
indeed  the  shock  given  to  agiienl- 
tural  confidence  may  be  a  serious 
one.    On  the  other  hand,  siqipose 
the  Corn-laws  to  be  repealed  now — 
now  when  we  have  supnlica  snffio^ 
cient,  or  nearly  so,  at  nome,  and 
foreign  powers  have  no  snrpliis,  or 
next  to  none,  wherewith  to  over* 


1846.1 


Sir  RiAeri  Peel  and  hU  Cahinei  ? 


377 


i;vhelm  us,  time  and  opportunity  will 
be  afforded  to  adjust  matters  between 
landlords  and  tenants  to  tbeir  mutual 
satisfaction.  For  these,  among  other 
reasons,  we  should  have  be^  well 

E leased  had  Sir  Robert  Peel,  since 
e  must  needs  take  the  initiatiye, 
fairly  belled  the  cat,  and  declared 
for  an  immediate  repeal.  However, 
that  is  a  point  comparatively  of  small 
eonsequence.  The  matter  really  to 
be  lamented,  both  in  the  measure  and 
in  the  manner  of  working  it,  is  the 
frif^htful  influence  which  it  is  ezer- 
ciaing  towards  the  dislocation  of  so- 
ciety. For  feuds  between  fathers 
and  sons  are  at  once  more  bitter,  and 
a  thousand  fold  more  lasting  in  their 
efiects,  than  any  mere  sanabble  of 
fiictions.  The  future  auke  who 
fights  the  present,  will  probably  win 
the  battle  in  the  end;  for,  in  the 
order  of  nature,  he  may  be  expected 
to  survive  his  faUier.  But  such  a 
victory  wiU  bring  him,  personally, 
no  ^eat  satisfaction ;  and  it  well  tdl 
forcibly  against  the  tenants  who 
nuy  have  served  under  his  father's 
banner  against  him.  How  could  Sir 
Bobert  Feel  commit  so  grievous  an 
outrage  on  nature  as  to  permit  Lord 
lincdui,  at  this  crisis,  to  change  his 
office  P 

In  like  manner  we  ^rceive  and 
deplore  the  beginnings,  m  such  con- 
tests as  these,  of  absolute  anarchy. 
Whigs  and  Badicals  may  condemn, 
as  much  as  they  please,  family  power 
and  hereditary  respect :  but  we  look 
upon  both  as  essential  to  the  well- 
being  of  society  in  a  country  hke 
this,  where  tiie  law  holds  all  men  to 
be  equal.  What  right-minded  per- 
son, fbr  example,  would  desire,  be- 
cause of  a  Uttle  obstinacy  or  blind- 
ness in  one  duke,  to  root  up  and 
overthrow  for  ever  the  influence  of 
the  Dukes  of  Rutland  or  New- 
castle in  their  own  neighbourhoods  ? 
Yet  the  sluices  are  struck  through 
which,  in  many  quarters,  the  flood  is 
to  rush ;  and  a  very  san^^uine  mind 
must  that  be  which  anticipates  that, 
once  fairly  opened,  there  will  be 
strength  enough  any  where  to  dose 
them  again. 

But  what  would  we  have  had  Sir 
Robert  Peel  to  do?  Moved  to  a 
particular  course  by  a  sense  of  duty, 
was  he,  because  of  pledges  of  old 
standing,  to  hold  back  fhxm  it?  Was 
he  who  felt  that  the  time  h»d  oome 


for  effecting  a  complete  ehange  in 
the  commercial  ana  fiscal  manage- 
ment of  this  country,  to  be  deterred, 
through  defer^ce  to  the  opinions  of 
a  part^,  from  attempting  to  acocmi- 
plish  it?  We  answer,  that  tiU  he 
should  have  altogether  changed  his 
own  position,  he  was  deterred  from 
taking  any  step  of  the  kind.  He 
had  not  only  no  right  to  entrap  and 
mystify,  and  mislesia  the  present  par- 
liament, but,  before  commg  forward 
in  the  character  of  an  avowed  free- 
trader, he  was  bound,  in  our  opinion, 
to  have  retreated  for  a  season  into 
private  life.  Not  only  his  place  in 
the  cabinet,  but  his  seat  in  tne  legis- 
lature ouffht  to  have  been  resigned; 
and  evendese  steps,  had  he  played  the 
lofty  game,  would  have  oeen  but 
supplemental  to  others.  We  don*t 
care  at  what  period  Sir  Robert  Peel 
may  have  b^un  to  surrender  up  his 
mind  to  the  soft  enticements  of  the 
political  economists.  Whether  it  were 
three  ^ears  ago,  or  six,  or  nine,  that 
misgivings  on  the  subject  of  a  re- 
strictive polity  arose  within  him,  he 
ought  to  have  communicated  the 
fiict  then  to  his  political  friends ;  fw 
it  is  sheer  nonsense  to  think  of  go- 
verning a  free  country  like  this  by  a 
system  of  mystification.  The  peoj^, 
or  if  not  the  people,  their  represen- 
tatives, have  a  right  to  be  torn  what 
the  minister  proposes  to  do  with 
them  and  their  property,  ere  he  ma- 
ture his  plan ;  and  till  the  minister 
of  the  crown,  whoever  he  may  be, 
understands  tbis,  he  will  never  be 
able  to  govern  the  country  plea- 
santiy.  See  how  entireljr  the  system 
of  seeretiveness  has  failed  m  ef- 
fecting, in  this  instance,  its  intended 
object.  Has  Sir  Robert  carried  his 
measure  by  a  coup  de  mainf  has  he 
any  chance  of  carrying  it,  except 
after  much  acrimonious  dispute  and 
agitation?  But  suppose  another 
course  had  been  taken,  what  might 
not  4iave  followed?  We  are  not 
prepared  to  say  that  the  members  of 
the  Agricultmral  Association  could 
have  been  talked  over  at  any  time 
by  Sir  Robert  Peel.  Probably  many 
of  them  would  have  been  deaf  as  the 
adder  both  to  his  arguments  and  to 
his  nersuasions;  but,  at  all  eventiH 
had  ne  moved  about  among  them,  or 
gathered  them  bv  little  knots  about 
him,  and  opened,  his  mind  now  on 
{his  topic,  now  ou  tbati  their  atten* 


3»8 


What  is  tke  Podikm  of  Sir  Robert  Peel  ?     [March,  1846. 


ibn  would  hxve  been  amkened^  sod 
thiey  would  haT«  gone  (o  the  ooa* 
fidenlion  of  Hie  areait  question  with 
&wer  prmdioee  toan  confewiedly  ob- 
aeiife  tndu*  peroeptioofl  of  it  now.  But 
Sir  Bohctt  Feel  has  never  had  the 
ftankness  to  aet  thus. 

Had  Sir  fiobeit  Fed  acted  thus, 
eren  in  1841,  and  his  party  foreed 
him,  nevertheless,  into  the  pkce 
which  he  now  fills,  his  great  meamre 
-— for  a  great  measure  it  is — ^would 
have  been  veceived,  even  by  such  as 
now  oppose  it,  in  a  very  different 
temper.  Having  fidled  to  act  thus, 
another  course  was  sdll  opai  to  him. 
Instead  of  consulting  only  in  the  ca^ 
binet,  he  ought  to  have  called  the 
heads  of  the  partv  together,  and 
stated  to  them  both  his  intentioos 
and  the  reasons  which  led  to  them. 
If  they  reAised  to  be  convinced,  his 
next  8tq[»  should  have  been  to  sever 
tiie  connexion  that  was  betwcNi 
them;  and  having  effected  this,  he 
ought  to  have  retired  from  the  House 
of  Commons,  openly  declaring  why 
he  had  done  so.  His  retirement  from 
parliament  would  have  ^one  hand  in 
nand,  of  course,  with  his  rengnation 
of  office;  and  in  all  probability  the 
veiy  same  results  would  have  fol- 
lowed on  which  we  lately  looked. 
Lord  John  Busseli,  had  bie  tried  to 
form  a  government,  must  have  fiuled ; 
and  thoQ  Peel,  no  longer  the  head  of 
a  party,  might  have  oeen  called  by 
bis  sovereign  out  of  the  retirement 
into  which  ne  had  withdrawn.  With 
what  perfect  dignity,  with  what  un- 
blemished honour,  might  he  have 
placed  himself  under  suidi  circum- 
atanees  at  the  helm  of  state,  and 
proposed,  if  he  liked  it,  the  very 


otme  meaoiue  wfaiefa  he  is  nowstnig- 
Unff  to  carry  againsi  his  friends!  But 
it  IS  not  quite  certain  that  all  this 
wonld  have  come  to  pass.  With 
Peel  out  of  the  way,  our  bd^  ii, 
that  the  uneompromising  sectioa  cf 
the  cabinet  'would  have  coastmcted 
a  govemment  of  their  own ;  andfaad 
tlMy  done  so,  we  aee  no  reason  to 
doubt  that  they  would  have  been 
able  to  carry  it  on,  at  all  events,  dit" 
ring  the  natural  U£b  of  tiie  praent 
parliament 

We  have  elsewhere  stated,  that  it 
was  not  our  intention  to  discuss  ibt 
comparative  merits  and  demerits  of 
Sir  Robert  Peel*8  phin.     Had  it  been 
proposed  to  us  by  almost  any  oiber 
individual  in  public  life,  we  ahoold 
have  sifted  its  daims  np<m  poblic 
support  to  the  bottom,  and  fbuiid,  u 
indeed  we  find  now,  a  ffi'eat  deal  m 
it  to  oomaiend.    But  ooSered  by  Sir 
Robert  Peel,  and  mrgned  for  liy  1» 
present  cabinet,  there  is  overv  thiag 
about  it  to  repel  inqaiiy .     That  the 
measure  will  pus,  we  believe;  thatii 
may  prove  eminently  useful  to  the 
commerce  of  the  country,  we  more 
than  hope ;   but  the  giver  oi  the 
boon,  if  a  boon  it  be,  can  nenr 
again  be  to  us  what  he  once  wat. 
He  has  ruined  himself,  and  dngfB^ 
aiter  him   to   politksal    destroetioa 
every  member  m  the  cabinet  whidi 
he  has  succeeded  in  making'  ins  tool* 
Kow,  the  country  cannot  stand  da- 
plksi^  of  this  sort  in  publie  men; 
and  faenee  thonf^  theyeontiBDe  ia 
office,  if  the  present  diange  be  to- 
lerated, ^ring  the  parlianient  that 
now   ia,  they  will  nnd  when  the 
general   election    comes,    that   the 
voices  of  all  parties  areagainst  theai' 


fttetM  by  Oeorit  Bvdsy,  CMtlt  StKe(>  Uiociltr  H 


FRASER'S   MAGAZINE 


ton 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 


No.  CXCVI. 


APRIL,  1846. 


Vol.  XXXIIL 


OF  THE  SPAINS  AKD  THE  SPANIARDS. 


BY  MOBOAN  BATTLBB. 


'*  let  va  fxaiit  H^t  fbrV  t|)at  caxxUii  ui  ober/' 

OldProoerh. 


TuEBE  are  no  countries  in  the  world 
so  little  traversed  by  the  migratory 
swarms  that  issue  annually  from  the 
modem  officina  genUtan,  Great  Bri- 
tain, with  the  which  countries  and 
their  inhabitants  the  English  reader 
at  home  is  so  well  and  familiarly  ac- 
quainted, as  with  the  Spains.  I  use 
tne  last  word  advisedly,  meaning 
thereby  the  Spains  merely  of  the 
Peninsula :  and  I  do  so  because  it  is 
idle  now,  even  as  it  was  always,  to 
talk  of  Spain  as  a  kingdom,  or  the 
various  classes  of  Spaniards  therein 
maintained  as  a  nation.  This  has 
been  remarked  bv  many  writers, 
French  and  Enfflisb,  and  dwelt  upon 
by  Mr.  Ford,  the  accomplished  au- 
thor of  the  Hand'Book  of  Spain. 
He  says,— 

"  Tbe  aggregate  monarchy  of  Spain  is 
composed  of  many  distinct  provinces, 
each  of  which,  in  earlier  times,  formed  a 
sepamte  and  independent  kingdom  \  al- 
though all  are  now  united  by  marriage^ 
inheritance,  conquest,  and  other  circum- 
stances, under  one  crown,  the  original 
distinctions,  geographical  as  well  as  so- 
cial, remain  almost  unaltered.  The  lan- 
guage, costume,  habits,  and  local  charac- 
ter of  the  natives,  vary  no  less  than  the 
climate  and  productions  of  the  soil.  Man 
following,  as  it  were,  the  example  of  the 
nature  by  which  be  is  sonrounded,  has 

vox*,  zzxin.  Bo.  czcvi. 


little  in  common  with  the  inhabitant  of 
the  adjoining  district ;  and  these  differ- 
ences are  increased  and  perpetuated  by 
the  ancient  jealousiea  and  inreterate  dia* 
likes  which  petty  and  contiguous  states 
keep  up  with  such  tenacious  memoty. 
The  eeneral  comprehensiTe  term  *  Spain,' 
which  is  convenient  for  geographers  and 
politicians,  is  calculated  to  mislead  the 
traveller.  Nothing  can  be  more  vague 
or  inaccurate  than  to  predicate  any  sin- 
gle thing  of  Spain  or  Spaniards,  which 
will  be  equally  applicable  to  all  its  hetero* 
geneous  component  parts.  The  north- 
western provinces  are  more  rainy  thata 
Devonshire,  while  the  centre  plains  are 
more  calcined  than  those  of  Barbery ; 
while  tbe  rude  agricultural  GalUeian, 
the  industrious  manufacturing  artisan  of 
Barcelona,  the  gay  and  voluptuous  An- 
dalusian,  are  as  essentially  different  from 
each  other  as  so  many  uistinct  charac- 
ters at  the  same  masquerade." 

Again,  he  observes, — 

**  There  is  no  King  of  Spain  ;  amonff 
the  infinity  of  kingdoms,  the  list  of  which 
swells  out  the  royal  st^le.  that  of  *  Spain' 
is  not  found  ;  he  is  King  of  the  Spains» 
Rey  de  lot  Espafiai,  not  Key  de  Espafia." 

Besides,  there   is   no   capital   in 
Spain  that  forms  a  point  or  general 
concentration,  like  Rome,  Constanti- 
nople, St.  Petersburg,  Vienna,  J 
bon^  Paris,  or  Loudon ;  no  one 

c  c 


3do 


Of  the  Sptttns  and  the  Spaniards. 


[April, 


which  18  the  prime  seat  of  arts,  and 
literature,  ana  commerce,  as  vrell  as 
the  4)fficial  residence  of  the  £oiirt* 
The  position  of  Madrid,  mo|Koyer» 
forbids  that  it  ever  should  become 
such.  The  possession  of  it  would  be 
of  no  essential  and  enduring  advan- 
tage to  an  enemy — it  would  be  of  no 
fral  or  permanent  consequence  to 
the  Feniiuula.  Sweep  it  away  from 
the  map,  and  one  of  the  Spains  only 
woidd  nave  moulted  a  bad  feather. 
The  tail  of  the  strutting  peacock 
with  its  separate  and  royal  stars, 
would,  in  the  bird's  haughty  imagin- 
ation, and  under  the  resplendent 
glaries  Toachsafed  by  the  sun's  rays, 
shine  as  bru;htly  as  ever :  in  truth, 
it  would  onty  have  discharged  a  dis- 
eased and  draggled  feather,  while  the 
reel  weakness  would  remain  in  the 
unsightly  and  unstable  feet»  on  which 
the  glitteriug  mass  of  plumage  has 
been  destin^  to  rest  in  an  uneasy 
and  precarious  manner.  Madrid,  in 
fact,  is  a  place  of  no  commercial,  mi- 
litary, political,  or  national  import- 
ance, it  is  not  even  a  city  (ciudad), 
like  Toledo,  Seville,  Grenada,  Leon, 
Burgos,  or  Yidladolid.  It  is  only  a 
town  or  (villa).  It  has  no  cathedral. 
It  boaats  only  the  presence  of  a  cor- 
rupt, and  debauched,  and  brutalised 
court  and  government — ^both  a  een-* 
tury  or  two  behind  all  others  in  Eu- 
rope, in  the  forms  and  shapes  of  their 
heredies  against  the  decencies  of  so- 
dal  life  and  the  rights  of  mankind. 
It  attracts  place-hunters  and  adven- 
turers in  every  walk  and  grade  of 
life,  from  all  parts  of  the  provinces; 
for  if  the  centre  of  nothing  else  it  is 
that  of  patronage  and  fashion — as  it 
must  be  called  for  the  want  of  a  bet* 
ter  word — unless  ne  wfaagkdness  (and 
that  of  a  coarse  and  unoenial  kmd) 
may  serve  oar  turn.  StOl  Madrid  is 
boasted  of. 
Mr.  Ford  says, — 

"  The  capital  has  a  hold  on  (he  ambition 
rather  than  on  the  affections  of  the  notion 
at  large.  The  iahahitanta  of  the  differ- 
ent pioyincei  think,  indeed,  that  Madrid 
ia  the  greateat  and  richest  court  in  the 
world,  but  their  hearta  are  in  their  native 
localitiea.  '  Mi  paitano,*  njr  iellow-coun- 
tryman,  does  not  mean  Spaniard,  but 
Andalosiaa,  CaHalanian,  aa  the  caae  oMy 
be.  When  asked^  *  Where  do  you  Gone 
from  r  the  reply  u,  Sojf  hijc  dt  Murdm,^ 
h{fo  d§  Granuda^^'  I  am  a  eon  of  Murcia 
^a  son  of  Gmoada/  &c.  This  is  sUicUy 


analoeous  to  '  the  children  of  Israel,'  the 
'  Bent'  of  the  Spanish  Moora ;  and  to  this 
day  the  Arabs  of  Cairo  call  themaelTes 
children  of  that  town,  Ihn  el  Mntr,  &c. 
This  being  of  the  same  province  or  town 
creates  a  powerful  feeling  of  clanship, — 
a  freemasonry.  The  parties  cling  to^ 
ther  tike  old  achool-fellowa,  or  the  Scotch. 
It  is  a  home  and  reall  7  binding  feeling. 
To  the  apot  of  their  birth  all  their  re- 
coUectiona,  comparisons,  and  eulcigies, 
are  turned;  nothing  to  them  cornea  op 
to  their  particular  province*  that  is 
their  real  country ; '  Ijx  Patria/  naeanio^ 
Spain  at  large,- is  a  aobject  of  declama- 
tion, fine  words,  palabras — pelaTer,  ia 
which  all,  like  Orientals,  delight  to  io- 
dttlge,  and  to  which  their  gnLndiloqoenc 
idiom  lends  itself  readily.  From  the  ear« 
lieat  period  down  to  the  present*  all  ob- 
servera  have  been  struck  with  thin  locaf' 
urn  as  a  salient  feature  in  Iberiaa  charac- 
ter. They  never  would  atmalgamate — 
never  would,  aa  Strabo  aaid,  put  their 
shields  together;  never  would  sacrifice 
their  own  local  private  interest  for  the 
general  good ;  on  the  contrary,  in  the 
hour  of  need,  they  hod,  as  at  present,  a 
tendency  to  aeparate  into  distinct  juntss. 
each  ot  which  only  thought  of  its  owa 
views,  utterly  indifferent  to  the  injuir 
thereby  oecasioned,  to  what  ought  te 
have  been  the  common  cnase  of  all. 
Thus  the  virility  and  the  vitality  of  lbs 
noble  people  has  been  neutralised  ;  thej 
have  indeed  strong  limbs  and  hon^A 
hearts,  but,  as  in  the  Oriental  parable, 
'  a  head '  is  wanting  to  direct  and  go- 
vern. Hence  Spain  is  to-day,  aa  italwsn 
has  been,  a  bundle  of  smatt  bodies  tu4 
together  by  a  rope  of  sand,  aod  beiar 
without  union  ta  also  without  strengch, 
and  baa  been  beaten  io  detail .  The  aaarh* 
used  phrase  EtpaHolismo  expreeeea  la^ 
ther  '  a  dislike  of  foreign  dictatian,'  sal 
the  '  self-estimation*  of  Spaniards,  Esp** 
holet  tobre  todos,  than  any  real  patziottc 
love  of  country." 

Let  the  Eo^ida  reader  be^r  these 
facts  in  fals  mind,  and  also  eertain 
others  of  even  a  still  more  general 
nature,  which  I  shall  lay  before  him 
also  in  the  words  of  Mr.  Ford,  mnd 
he  will  then  be  fully  in  a  condition 
to  read,  mark,  learn,  and  inwardly 
digest,  the  mass  of  information  which 
is  Drought  home  to  him  here  in  our 
own  England,  in  so  many  varied 
forms,  Mout  the  Spains  and  Span- 
iards.  The  passages  lam  about  to 
quote  are  to  be  found  in  the  pre&ce 
to  the  Hand'Book^  and  nm  thus, — 

"  To  see  the  cities  and  know  the  intads 
of  men  "  [by  the  way,  Mr.  Ford,  if  yoa 
said  "thoronghly  know/'  which  ia  Um 


1846.] 


6f  ikt  Spaini  and  the  Spaniard$. 


381 


meantog  of  tb«  Greek  word,  jon  might 

htLve  spared  the  Itdica],  *'  baa  been,  aince 

the  daya  of  the  Od^aaey,  the  object  of 

travel;   but  how  difficult  it  ia,  io  the 

words  of  THK  DtJiE  {Detp,  Dec.    13, 

I810)p '  to  onderatand  the  Spaniarda  ex. 

actly ! '    Made  up  of  contradietiona,  they 

dwell  in  the  land  of  the  unexpected,  le 

pays  dt  Vimprivu ;  where  exception  ia 

the  rule,  where  accident  and  the  impnlse 

of  the  moment  are  the  moving  powers, 

and  where  men,  especially  in  their  col. 

lective  capacity,  act  like   women   and 

children.    A  apark,  a  trifle  sets  the  im. 

presftionable  masaea  in  action,  and  none 

can  foresee  the  commonest  event.    Nor 

doea  any  Spaniard  ever  attempt  to  guess 

beyond  la  lituaeion  actual,  or  to  foretell 

what  the  morrow  will  bring.     Pacieneia 

y  barajar  ia  hia  motto;   and  he  waits 

patiently  to  see  what  will  next  turn  up 

ailer  another  shuffle,  for  his  creed  and 

practice  are  'resignation,'  the  Islam  of 

Che  Onental. 

**  The  key  to  decipher  this  aingolar 
people  ia  acareely  European,  aince  thia 
Beneria  Christiana  is  at  leaet  a  neutral 
ground  between  the  hat  and  the  turban, 
and  many  contend  that  Africa  begins  even 
nt  the  Pyrenees.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
Spain^firat  civiliaed  by  the  Phcenicians, 

and  long  poaseased  by  the  Moors ^baa 

indelibly  retained  the  original  im- 
pressions. Test  her,  therefore,  and  her 
nfttivea  by  an  Oriental  standard,  how 
analogous  doea  much  appear  that  is  atrange 
•nd  repugnant  if  compared  with  European 
uaages  !  This  land  and  people  of  routine 
and  habit  are  alao  potted  for  antiquarians, 
for  here  Pngan,  Roman,  and  Eastern 
customs,  long  obsolete  el  sew  here,  turn  up 
at  every  step,  in  church  and  house,  in 
cabinet  and  campaign,  as  we  shall  care- 
fully point  out." 

Let  the  reader,  I  say,  take  these 
facts  and  eonaiderations  with  him, 
and  he  will  be  in  a  condition  to  un- 
derstand, appreciate,  and  enjoy  the 
inultitude,  native  and  foreign,  of  va- 
rious works,  all  excellent  relating  to 
the  Stains,  Spanish  life,  and  manners, 
and  history,  from  Don  Quixote  down 
to  Borrow*8  Bible  in  Spain, — from 
"  Livy's  pictured  page  "  down  to  the 
Despatches  of  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton. And  strange  in  these  works,  as 
in  all  the  interinediate  grave  or  gay, 
is  the  story  of  the  Peninsula  and  the 
people.  The  south  of  Spain  is  the 
real  land  of  romance  and  chivalry 
— ^that  is  to  say,  the  chivalry  ro- 
manesque, — 

"  When  the  Gothic  plume  met  the  Mu- 

bammedan  glance. 
And  rivera  ran  red  with   the  Saracw 

iaoca." 


Bat  tlie  tnie  ehtvaliy,  the  chivalry 
of  the  conqueror's  desnatch,  is  and 
ever  was  with  us,  the  descendants  of 
the  N<Ninan,  the  Saxon,  and   the 
Dane,  as  with  their  forefMiers,  the 
sea-kings  and  the  lords   of  battle. 
Where  rolls  the  wave  that  does  not 
roll  over  some  memorial  of  our  con- 
quests P    Where  stands  the  spot  of 
solid  earth  that  has  not  trembled 
under  our  victorious  tread  P    And 
that  it  is  now  as  it  ivas  in  the  b^;in- 
ning  «nd  ever  shall  be,  bear  witness^ 
as  a  proof  and  a  jMromise,  Moodkee 
and  Ferozeshahl    But  I  again  say 
the  south  of  Spain  was  the  land  of 
romaoesque  adventure  and  chivalry; 
and  there  was  the  scene  laid  of  tne 
first  gentle  passages  of  arms.    But 
in  the  south  only — ^the  earthly  para* 
dise  of  the  Moors — and  certain  of  the 
adjoining  districts,  and  in  the  latter 
more  in  prevailing  fiction  than  in 
&ct;  for,  erede  mihi,  the  Peninsula 
generally  is  little  propitious  to  the 
practice  of  knight-errantry.    A  very 
slight  consideration  of  its  geogn^hy 
and  dimate  will  suffice  to  shew  this, 
Mr.  Ford  observes : — 

"  From  Spain  being  the  most  southern 
country  in  Europe,  it  is  very  natural  that 
those  who  have  nevar  been'  tliere  ahould 
imagine  the  climate  to  be  as  delicious  as 
that  of  luly  or  Greece.  This  is  far  frooi 
being  the  fact.  Some  of  the  sea-coasts 
and  sheltered  plaina  in  the  southern  and 
eaatem  provinces  are  warm  in  winter, 
and  exposed  to  an  almost  African  sun  in 
summer,  but  the  northern  and  western 
districts  are  damp  and  rainy  ;  while  the 
interior  ia  either  cold  and  cheerless,  or 
aanbumt and  wind-blown,  W inters  have 
occurred  at  Madrid  of  such  severity  that 
aentinels  have  been  frozen  to  death ;  and 
frequentlvall  communication  is  suspended 
by  the  depth  of  snow  in  the  elevated 
roads  of  the  Castiles." 

It  is  clear  enough,  then,  that  the 
Peninsula  generally  was  no  fit  scene 
for  knight-errantay  ;  and  certainly 
none  of  that,  and  very,  very  little  of 
true  chivalry,  remains  in  the  coun- 
try. The  nobility  are  the  worst  and 
most  despicable  in  the  world — worse 
even  than  the  old  noblesse  of  France, 
for  heartless,  and  base,  and  vilely 
debauched  and  dishonest  as  those  were, 
they  were  not  what  the  multitude  of 
the  Spanish  nobility  also  are,  personal 
cowards  and  paltry  traitors.  Mr 
Ford  praises  the  lower  classes  as  beir 
formed  of  a  better  material,  and 
doubt  they  are  entitled  to  that  re 


582 


Of  the  Spaina  and  the  Spaniarde. 


[April, 


tive  i>rai8e ;  but  when  a  potitiye  ad- 
miration of  them  is  expressed,  I  ven- 
ture to  dissent  from  it.    A  brave 
people  never  was  a  people  of  assassins, 
and  how  else  except  as  assassins,  or, 
in  other  words,  as  guerilleroa,  have 
Spaniards  since  the  olden  time  dis* 
tinguished  themselves  ?    There  is  no 
courage  in  taking  individual  strag- 
glers, or  small  bodies  of  the  enemy, 
at  advantage,  and  murdering  them. 
The  secret  blow,  too,  is  always  the 
coward's  blow,  and  rarely,  in  war  or 
in  private  quarrel,  has  tne  Spaniard 
dealt  any  other.    His  knife  is  always 
ready  to  stab  an  adversary  unawares 
by  thrust  or  throw,  but  he  has  no 
notion  of  fair  play — no  imagination 
of  a  free  and  manly  stand-up  fight; 
and  in  the  field  of  battle,  during  the 
French  invasion,  a  single  charge  of  a 
few  squadrons  of  cavalry  was,  with 
scarcely  an  exception,  sufficient  to 
drive  a  host  of  Spanish  braves,  or,  as 
in  other  countries  they  would  be 
styled,  braggadocios,  into  helpless  dis- 
order and  disgraceful  flight.     The 
g raises    lavished    upon    them     by 
outhey  and  other  English  writers  of 
the  same  kidney  (at  the  gross  and 
palpable  falsehoods  of  Spanish  writers, 
who  could  not  if  they  would  tell 
truth,  upon  almost  any  subject,  no- 
body is  astonbhed),  are  preposterous, 
and  shameful  in  the  last  degree  to 
those  who  uttered  them.    The  Span- 
iards never  stood  against  the  French 
soldiery  in  fair  fight,  any  more  than 
that  other  vaunt^  rabble,  the  Cos- 
sacks, did.    If  a  man  will  only  take 
the  facts  related  by  Mr.  Ford,  he 
must  perforce  arrive  at  this   con- 
clusion, notwithstanding  the  fervent 
expression  of  that  gentleman's  general 
opmions  to  the  contrary.    It  appears 
from  his  own  account,  that  even  their 
robbers^  who  make  so  remarkable  a 
figure  in  novels  and  romances,  are 
the  least  adventurous  and  the  most 
cowardly  of  their  class  in  any  coun- 
try.   They  never  stake  life  against 
life.      They   invariably   assail   the 
traveller  unawares,  at  some  deadly 
disadvantage,  or  with  overwhelming 
numbers.    Our  Dick  Turpins  and 
Claude  Duvals  were,  in  comparison 
with  the  most  famous  of  them,  princes 
and  paladins,  and  worthy  to  lead, 
like  the  Black  Prince,  an  army  of 
Free  Companions.    But  let  me  give 
Mr.  Ford's  account  of  these  Spanish 
freebooters,  for  it  is  interesting.    He 
says:— 


'*  It  18  not  to  be  denied  that  Spain  is, 
of  all  countries  in  Europe,  the  one  in 
which  the  ancteot,  classical,  md  once 
unirereal  system  of  robbing  on  ifae  higb. 
way  exists  the  most  unchanged.  V\  itb 
ns  these  things  hare  been  much  altered : 
Spain  is  what  England  waa  sixty  yean 
ago,  with  Hounalow  Heath  and  Fmchley 
Common, — what  Italy  waa  very  lately, 
and  may  be  again  next  year.  A  bad 
character  sticks  to  a  conntiy  as  well  as  to 
an  individual :  Spain  bad  the  same  rape, 
tation  in  the  days  or  antiquity,  bat  it  w«s 
always  the  accusation  of  foreigners.  The 
Romans,  who  had  no  business  to  in  rede 
Spain,   [indeed,  Mr.  Ford!]    were  hs- 

rossed  by  the  native  guerilleros, those 

undisdptioed  bands  of  armed  men  vbo 
wage  the  <  little  war '  which  Iberia  alwaji 
did.  The  Romans,  worried  by  these 
UDmilitary  voltigeurs,  called  all  the  Span- 
iards who  resisted  them  '  latrona  ; '  just 
as  the  French,  during  the  late  war,  Uxm 
the  same  reasons,  called  them  brigands 
and  asaassins.  The  national  reeistaace 
against  the  intrusive  foreigner  bns  always 
armed  the  peasantry  of  Spain.  Agam, 
that  sort  ot  patriotism,  d  mown  dm  rar- 
venir,  which  is  the  laat  and  vsual  re- 
source of  acoundrels,  is  often  made  ihs 
pretext  of  the  ill-conditioned  to  throw  s 
specious  mantle  over  the  congeiiial  tocs- 
tion  of  living  a  freebooting  idle  existence 
by  plunder  rather  than  by  work  and  in- 
dustry. This  accounts  tot  the  facilitT 
with  which  the  universal  Spanish  natioa 
flies  to  arms.  Smuggling,  again,  sows  the 
soil  with  dragon*s  teeth,  andprt>dace8,at 
a  moment's  notice,  a  plentiful  crop  of 
armed  men  or  guerilleros,  which  is  •Jii^flft 
a  convertible  term  with  robber. 

"  Robbery  in  other  countries  bss 
yielded  to  increased  population,  to  Aoie 
rapid  and  more  frequent  intercommunica- 
tion. The  distances  in  Spain  are  rvj 
great ;  the  highroads  are  few,  and  are 
carried  throngh  long  leagues  of  nncalti* 
vated  plains  {*  dehtULt'),  through  de- 
serted towna,  dispeopled  districts,  — 
•  dapohladot,'  a  term  more  common  in 
Spain,  as  in  the  East,  than  that  of  Tilkga 
is  in  England.  Aodalucia  is  the  m<»i 
dangerous  pro?ince,  and  it  was  alwavs 
so.  This  arises  from  the  nature  of  the 
country,  from  being  the  last  scene  of  the 
Moorish  struggle,  and  now  from  being 
in  the  ?icinity  of  GibralUr  the  great  focns 
of  smuggling,  which  prepares  the  raw 
materiiil  for  a  banditti.  Iliese  erils. 
which  are  abated  by  internal  quiet  and 
the  coniinued  exertions  of  the  authorities, 
increase  with  troubled  timea,  which,  as 
the  tempest  calls  forth  the  stormy  p«tzel, 
rouses  into  dangeious  action  the  worst 
portions  of  society,  and  creates  a  aort  of 
civil  cachexia,  which  can  only  be  pat 
down  by  peace  and  a  atrong  aettled  go- 
▼erament;  btesainga  which,  alas!  hnTS 
been   long  denied  to  nabappy  Spain  j 


1846.] 


Of  the  Spains  and  the  SpaniardM. 


383 


meanwhile  no  Hand-book  on  Spain  can 
be  complete  without  giving  aome  account 
of  the  different  classes  and  organisation 
of  the  robber  system,  the  alphabet  and 
rudiments  of  a  traveller'a  conversation 
when  on  the  road.  The  antiquity  of  the 
system  has  been  detailed  in  the  Quarterly 
neviewt  No.  CXXII.p.  9,  to  which  those 
abont  to  visit  the  '  Serrania  de  Ronda/ 
and  the  wild  country  between  Seville  and 
Grenada,  will  do  well  to  refer,  especiallj 
as  regards  Jos^  Maria/  who  so  long  held 
undisputed  rule  in  those  parts,  and  whose 
name  will  long  remain  in  the  mouths  of 
those  whose  talk  is  about  robbers.  First 
and  foremost  come  the  '  ladrones,'  the 
robbers  on  a  great  scale.  They  are  a 
regularly  organised  band,  from  eight  to 
fourteen  in  number,  well  armed  and 
mounted,  and  entireljr  under  the  command 
of  one  leader.  These  are  the  most  for- 
midable ;  and,  as  they  seldom  attack  any 
travellers  except  with  overwhelming 
forces,  and  under  circumstances  of  am- 
buscade and  surprise,  where  every  thing 
is  in  their  favour,  resistance  ia  generally 
useless,  and  can  only  lead  to  fatal  ac«i 
cidents  ;  it  is  better  at  once  to  submit  to 
the  summons,  which  will  admit  of  no 
denial,  —  '  boca  abajo,'  *  boea  a  titrra'  —^ 
mouth  down,  mouth  to  earth !  Those  who 
are  provided  with  such  a  sum  of  money  aa 
the  robbers  think  accordiag  to  their  class 
in  life  that  they  ought  to  carry  about  with 
them  are  very  rarely  ill-used;  a  frank, 
confident,  and  good-humoured  surrender, 
generally  not  only  prevents  any  bad 
treatment,  but  secures  even  civility 
during  the  disagreeable  operation.  Pis- 
tols and  sabres  are,  after  all,  a  poor 
defence,  as  Mr.  Cribb  said,  compared  to 
eiril  words  and  deeds.  The  Spaniard  is 
by  nature  high-bred  and  a  eabaUero,  and 
responds  to  any  appeal  to  qualities  of 
which  his  nation  has  reason  to  be  proud. 
Notwithstanding  these  moral  securities, 
if  only  by  way  of  making  assurance  doubly 
sure,  an  Englishman  will  do  well  in 
travelling  in  exposed  districts  to  be  pro- 
vided with  a  bag  containing  from  50  to 
100  dollars,  which  makes  a  handsome 
purse,  feels  heavy  in  the  hand,  and  is 
that  sort  of  amount  which  the  Spanish 
brigand  thinks  a  native  of  this  proverbi- 


ally rich   country  onght  to  have  with 
him  on  hia  travels.    He  has  a  remarkable 
tact  in  estimating  from  the  look  of  the 
individual,  his  equipage,  &c..  bow  much 
ready  money  it  is  befitting  his  condition 
for  him  to  have  about  him ;  if  the  sum 
should  not  be  enough,  he  reaents  aevertly 
the  depriving  him  of  the  regular  spoil  to 
which  he  considers  himself  entitled  by 
the  long-established  usage  of  the  high- 
road.   The  traveller  who  is  altogether 
unprovided  with  cash,  is  generally  made 
a   severe    example   of  pour  eneourager 
Us  aulrei,  either  by  beating  ('  sekandois 
palot*)orhy  stripping  to  the  skin  ('  dsjan* 
doUtn  euerot'),  after  the  faahion  of  the 
thieves  of  old  in  Jericho.    The  traveller 
should  be  particularly  careful  to  have 
a  watch  of  some  kind ;  one  with  a  gaudy 
gilt  chain  and  seals  is  the  best  suited. 
Not  to  have  a  watch  of  any  kind  exposes 
the  traveller  to  more  certain  indignities 
than  a  scantily  filled  purse.    The  money 
may  have  been  spent,  but  the  absence 
of  the  watch  can  only  be  accounted  for 
by  the  premeditated  intention  of  not  being 
robbed  of  it,  which  the  ladron  considers 
as  an  unjuatifiable  attempt  to  defraud 
him  of  kis  right.    It  must  be  said,  to  the 
credit  of  the  Spanish  brigands,  especially 
those  of  the  nighest  class,    that  they 
rarely  ill-use  women  or  children  ;  nor  do 
they  commence  firing  or  offering  violence 
unless  resisted.    The  next  clasa  of  rob. 
hers  —  omitting  some  minor  distinctions, 
such  as  the  salteadorei,  or  two  or  three 
persons  who  lie  in  ambuscade  and  jump 
out  on  the  unprepared  traveller— is  the 
'  raltro*  the  rat.    He  is  held  in  contempt, 
but  is  not  the  less  dangerous.    He  is  not 
brought  regularly  up  to  the  profession 
and  organised,  but  takes  to  it,  pro  re  nata, 
of  a  sudden,  commits  his  robbery,  and 
then  returns   to  his  pristine  vocation. 
Very  often  on  the  arrival  of  atrangers, 
two  or  three  of  the  ill-conditioned  worst 
classes  get  up  a  robbery  next  day  for  the 
special  occasion,  according  to  the  proverb, 
'  la  oeoMion  hae$  el  ladron.* 

*^  TherateriUo,  or  small  rat,  is  a  skulk* 
ing  footpad,  who  seldom  attacks  any  but 
single  and  unprotected  passengers,  who, 
if  they  get  robbed,  have  nobody  to  blame 
but  themselves;  for  no  man  is  justified 


m  tt 


My  friend  John  Lewis,  the  celebrated  painter,  now  resident  at  Grand  Cairo, 
saw  this  bandit  in  Spain,  and  took  likenesses  of  him  and  his  favourite  horse.    The 
fellow  looked  rather  like  a  paunchy  innkeeper  than  a  brigand.  He  was  the  reverse  of 
tall,  and  by  no  means,  to  all  appearance,  strongly  knit  or  built;  nor  was  there  any 
thing  of  cruelty,  ferocity,  or  malignity  in  the  expression  of  his  countenanee.    Any 
ordinary  Engbsh  gentleman  who  knew  how  to  use  his  hands,  would  have  doubled 
him  up  in  two  minutes.    Jos6  Maria  ended  a  career  as  famous  in  his  locality  as  that 
of  the  earlier  brigand,  the  Cid,  at  the  garotte,  and  resigned  his  neck,  either  at  Sevil' 
or  Grenada,  I  forget  which,  to  the  iron  collar  with  exemplary  piety,  if  not  penile 
and  in  all  the  plenitude  of  beatific  hope  from  absolution  from  all  earthly  stains, 
^member  rightly^  John  Lewis  was  j^resent  at  the  exccu.tipQ«f' 


384 


Of  the  Spaim  and  the  Spaniafdu. 


[Apta, 


in*  exposing  Spaniards  to  the  temptation 
of  doing  a  little  something  in  that  Hue* 
The  shepherd  with  his  sheep,  the  plough- 
man with  his  plough,  the  rine-dresser 
amidst  his  grapes,— all  haTe  their  gun, 
-which,  ostensihl^  for  their  indiridaal 
protection,  furnishes  means  of  assouH 
and  hftttery  against  those  who  have  no 
other  defence  than  their  legs  and  virtue. 

''  The  regular  first-class  ludronei  are 
generally  armed  with  a  blunderbuss, 
*  retajot  which  hangs  at  their  saddles ; 
the  high-peaked  albarda,  which  is  covered 
with  a  fleece,  either  white  or  blue,  the 
'  tatea.*  The  dress  is,  for  the  most  part, 
very  rich,  and  in  the  highest  style  of 
'  afieion*—'  the  ftincy.'  They  are  the 
envy  and  models  of  the  lower  class  of 
Andalosians,  being  arrayed  in  the  fashion 
of  the  smuggler,  the  eontrabandhta,  or 
the  bull-fighter,  torrero ;  or,  in  a  word, 
the  majo  or  dandy,  who,  being  peculiar 
to  the  south  of  Spain,  will  he  more  pro- 
perly described  tn  Andalusia,  which  is 
the  home  and  head-qnarters  of  all  those 
who  aspire  to  the  elegant  accomplislimettts 
and  professions  to  which  we  have  just 
alluded/' 

The  nuno  dress  is  peculiar  to  the 
country;  but  in  all  piaoes  and  in  all 
climates,  by  sea  and  land,  the  brigand 
and  the  buccaneer  hare  delighted  .in 
finery— jewels  and  gold  chains.  Per- 
haps because  they  tuought  that  por- 
tion of  their  fortunes  which  they  bore 
upon  their  persons  was  in  the  safest 
and  most  satisfactory  custody.  The 
fair  ideal  of  the  ladron  is  to  be  found 
in  Shakspcare.  See  the  scene  in  the 
Tvso  Oememen  of  Verona,  between 
Valentine  and  the  outlaws  :->- 

"  3  Outlaw,  Know,  then»  that  some  of 
us  are  gentlemen. 
Such  as  the  fiiry  of  nngovero'd  youth 
Thrust  from  the  company  of  awful  men. 
Myself  was  from  Verona  banished 
Jor  practising  to  steal  away  a  lady. 
An  heir,  and  near  idlied  to  the  duke. 

2  Outlaw.  And  I  from  Mantua  for  a 

gentleman 
Whom,  in  my  mood,  I  stabVd  unto  tho 

heart. 
1  Outlaw,  And  I  for  svchlike  petty 

Crimea  as  these. 
But  to  the  purpose,  for  wa  cite  our  faults 
That  they  may  hold  excused  our  lawless 

lives. 

•  •  •  • 

3  Outlaw,   What  say'st  thoul      Wilt 

thou  be  of  our  consort t 
Say  av  I  and  be  the  captain  of  us  all. 
i'aL  I  take  your  ofler,  and  will  live 
with  you, 
Provided  that  you  do  no  outrages 
To  silly  women  or  poor  passengers. 


S  Oi*i2m>.   No,  wo  detest 
base  praotisM."* 


■veil  vilo. 


At  the  dose  of  the  pUy  Sir  Va- 
lentine yery  coolly,  imd  no  donbt 
very  sincerely,  after  the  roirit  of  the 
fashion  of  the  time  and  dime  to 
which  our  Shakspeare  is  never  fiibe, 
says,— 

"  These  banished  men  that  I  have  kept 

withal 
Are  men  endued  with  worthy  qualities. 
Forgive  them  what  they  have  committed 

here, 
And  let  them  berecall'd  from  their  exile. 
They  are  reform'd,  civil,  full  of  good. 
And  fit  for  great  employment,  worthy 

lord. 
Vtike,   Thou  hast  prevailed  :  I  pmrdoa 

them  and  thee. 
Dispose  of  them  as  thou  ]mow*at  their 

deserts." 

CosasdeEspaiial  Here  are  the  feel- 
ings, the  circumstances,  the  considera- 
tions, the  morality  that  might  at  thii 
moment  prevail  tnroughout  the  Pe- 
ninsula. The  great  Haraan,  the  grand 
admiral  of  the  Turks,  was  a  water- 
carrier  at  Constantinople.  The  aune 
pantomimie  changes  take  place  eoa- 
Btantiy  in  essentially  Oriental  Spam. 
Amongst  these  Chnstian  Arabs  mn 
are  a  thousand  ladranes  as  wise,  as 
learned,  as  valiant,  as  worthy  of 
high  place  as  Narvaez,  Espartero,  or 
Cabrera.  They  would  be  as  much 
at  home  in  the  piaoes  these  scoun- 
drels have  occupied  as  themselves,  and 
perform  their  fimctions  as  hanoar- 
ably  and  as  well,— and  no  better^  fiv 
it  is  nowadays  to  all  experienee  im- 
po68yi>le  for  any  Spanish  lom  to  rise 
beyond  the  lowest  Oriental  standsxd 
of  a  sacoessftd  ruffian  in  place  ad 

Eower.  The  existence  of  a  titled  no- 
ility  here  is  a  ikrce.  They  are  ibr 
the  most  part  the  scum  of  Spun. 
They  are  physically  and  morally  in- 
capable utterly  oi  neatness  or  of 
{;ood.  The  sway  ana  masterdam  ii 
invariably  in  the  huids  of  some  forta- 
nate  adventurer — a  quondam  smug- 
gler, or  Ixmdit)  or  BO-eaDed  soldier 
^1  mean  pretty  much  the  same 
thingX  snd  these  lord  it  for  a  time 
over  the  destinies  of  the  widahed 
eountnr  sad  trample  upon  tlie  de- 
graded hangers-on  of  a  debaudMd 
court.  There  is  now  a  gical  onttry 
against  Narvaez,  but  my  own  opinion 
is  that  he  is  the  bravest  and  the  most 
capable  of  all  the  adrenttuen  who 


1846.1 


Of  (ke  Spaint  and  the  Spaniarit* 


385 


Imve  risen  io  pre-emhienee  of  Isf e 
years.  Certainly  he  is  brave,  which 
cannot  be  said  of  most  of  the  bri- 
gands, whether  generals  of  armies  or 
leaders  of  ladranes.  Of  the  latter 
caste  Mr.  Ford  observes , — 

"It  may  be  remarked  that  Spanish 
robbers  are  very  shy  in  attacking  Eng- 
lish armed  travellers,  and  particalarly  if 
they  appear  upon  tbeir  guard.  The  rob- 
bers dislike  fighting.  They  haCe  danger 
from  knowing  what  it  is ;  they  have  no 
cbiralrous  courage  or  abstract  notions  of 
fair  play,  any  more  than  a  Turk  or  a  tiger, 
who  are  too  uncivilised  to  throw  away  a 
chance.  Aoeordmgly,  the  Spanish  rob* 
bars  seldom  attack  where  they  anticipate 
resistance,  which  they  all  feel  ihey  will 
assuredly  meet  from  £n|;lisbmen.  They 
bare  also  a  peculiar  dislike  to  English 
guns  and  gunpowder,  which,  in  fact,  both 
as  to  arms  and  ammunition,  are  infinitely 
superior  to  the  ruder  Spanish  weapons. 
Though  three  or  four  Englishmen  hare 
nothing  to  fear,  yet  where  there  are  la« 
dies  it  is  always  better  to  be  provided 
with  an  escort  of  MiqtuUttt** 

These  men  have  a  keen  and  accu- 
rate epre,  and  are  always  on  the  look- 
out for  prints  of  horses  and  other 
signs,  which,  escapin|^  the  notice  of 
superficial  observers,  mdicate  to  their 
practised  observations  the  presence 
of  danger.  The  Miquelites  are  inde- 
fatigable in  keeping  npwith  a  car- 
Tiaffe  day  and  night,  braving  heat 
and  cold,  hunger  and  thirst.  As 
they  are  maintained  at  the  expense 
of  the  government  they  are  not 
strictly  speaking  entitled  to  any  re« 
niuneration  from  the  travellers  they 
are  directed  to  escort ;  it  is,  however, 
usual  to  give  to  each  man  a  couple 
oi pesetas  a-day  and  a  dollar  to  their 
leader.  The  trifling  addition  of  a 
few  cigars,  a  hota  or  two  of  wine, 
some  nee  and  dried  cod-fish  baealao^ 
for  their  eyening  meal,  is  well  be- 
stowed ;  exercise  sharpens  the  appe- 
tite, and  the^  are  always  proud  to 
drink  to  their  master's  health,  and 
are  none  the  worse  for  his  food,  for 
^tripos  Uevan  a  pies,  y  no  pies  a 
tripos,**  which,  not  to  translate  it 
coarsely,  means,  *'the  bowels  carry 
the  feet,  and  not  the  feet  the  bowels. 
These  Miquelites  (named,  it  is  said, 
after  a  famous,  or  infamous,  instru- 
ment of  Caesar  Borgia*s)  are  a  corps 
serving  as  a  sort  of  police  upon  foot, 
— ^the  modem  representatives  of  the 
Uermandad  with  whom  Gil  Bias  has 
made  us  familiar,  and  very  faithful, 


very  sagaekms,  yerjr  aetiy&  asnd  in 
all  resp^sts  very  effident.  The  rob* 
hers  iear  them,  for  they  know  that 
in  all  points  they  are  more  than  s 
match  for  them.  The  travener  who 
wends  his  way  aocompanied  by  an 
adequate  escort  of  them  may  be  em- 
phatically pronounced  to  be  nfe. 
Spaniard  generally  are  not  in  a  po« 
sition  to  secure  tneir  services,  and 
when  they  do  venture  on  the  enforced 
perils  of  a  journey  they  have  gene* 
rally  recourse  to  the  Eastern  fashion 
of  making  themselves  constituent 
parts  of  a  caravan.  Every  SpaniaTd 
when  he  ventures  beyond  the  pre- 
cincts of  his  native  town  or  village 
goes  forth  armed  to  the  teeth,  and 
nature  has  endowed  the  people  gene- 
rally, of  all  castes  and  classes,  with 
the  fkculty  of  looking  so  like  brigands; 
throngh  every  variety,  from  the 
gladiator-ca^olZpro  to  'the  common 
cut-throat,  that  it  is  very  difficult  to 
distinguish  between  t^e  freebooter 
and  the  true  man. 

There  is  another  class  of  protec* 
tors  for  travellers  occasionally  call^ 
into  use — ^the  escopateros,  Mr.  Ford 
says,— 

"  These  eteopateros,  occasionally  rob^ 
hers  themselves,  lire  either  by  robbery 
or  the  prevention  of  it,  for  there  is  some 
honour  amongst  thieves — '  Bntre  UAm  no 
u  totM*  *  wolves  don't  eat  each  other,' 
unless  very  hard  ap  indeed.  Tbev  are 
by  no  means  so  bold  or  trustworthy  as 
the  Miquelites,  who  desvise  them.  The 
etoopatttn  natnrelly  enoeaToar  to  alarat 
travellers  with  oTer-exaggerated  acoonats 
of  danger,  in  order  that  their  services 
may  be  engaged.  Their  idle  stories  are 
often  believed  by  the  gobemouche  class 
of  bookmaking  travellers — the  Semples, 
Sir  John  Carrs,  Inglises,  st  hoegtnus  omnt 
~-who  note  down,  print,  and  pablish  tales 
of  horror  told  them  and  got  np  for  the 
occasion  by  people  who  are  laughing  at 
them  in  tbeir  sleeves.  But  these  things 
are  amongst  the  accidents  of  long  jour- 
neys,— '  sn  lusngat  viai,  luenguat  mentu 
rat:'* 

This  is  true  to  the  letter  about 
Carr  and  Inglis.    The  former  was  a 
terrifically   world-famous   '^snob;** 
the  latter  {Hretty  much  the  same,  ex- 
cept that  he  lacked  the  "  deep  damn- 
ation of  the  poefs  verse."   One  of  the 
]atter*8  raw-head  and  bloody-bones 
stories  of  personal  adventure  with  r 
bers  was  laid  at  a  time  when  b 
seated  (mietly  in  the  ^ligence 
side  of  Mr.  Payid  Bot^rts,  the 


386 


Of  the  Spains  and  the  Spaniarde. 


[Aprfl, 


Aeademiciaii.  A«  to  Semple,  I  think 
Mr.  Ford  has  heen  hasty  and  erro- 
neous in  the  charge  he  makes  against 
him.  I  do  not  believe  he  was  more 
credulous  in  lending  &ith  to  what  he 
may  have  heard  than  the  generality 
of  sagacious  and  intelligent  travellers, 
or  more  inaccurate  in  his  narrative 
than  aJl  men  must  be  who  pass  ra- 
pidly through  a  stnmge  country. 
The  whole  course  of  his  life  and  tne 
circumstances  of  his  death  prove  that 
he  was  a  man  of  personal  mtrepidity 
and  of  an  adventurous  spirit.  He 
travelled  in  a  great  many  countries, 
and  oftentimes  his  path  was  beset 
with  dangers.  At  last  he  was  ap- 
pointed governor  of  a  district  near 
xl&Si  River,  in  North  America,  by  the 
Earl  of  Selkirk  (in  Rupert*s  land), 
and  he  was  there  shot  down  (or,  m 
other  words,  murdered)  at  the  com- 
mencement of  a  fray  by  some  hoU 
hrulis^  or  half-breeds,  in  the  service 
of  the  North-west  Company,  which 
was  then  literally  at  war  with  the 
Hudson's  Bay  Company  (with  which 
it  has  since  been  amalgamated)  and 
the  Earl  of  Selkirk.  Poor  Semple 
shewed  great  daring  and  resolution 
upon  the  occasion.  In  his  travels 
in  Spain  there  is  only  one  stor^ 
about  robbers,  and  that  certainly  is 
neither  of  so  improbable  nor  extra- 
vagant a  nature  as  to  cast  a  just 
doubt  upon  his  veracity.* 

Before  I  turn  away  from  the  sub- 
ject of  modem  chivalry  in  Spain,  to 
which  I  was  some  short  time  since 
referriiu;,  a  glance  at  a  page  in  Bor- 
row*s  Bible  in  Spain  cries  "halt!"' 
that  I  may  do  justice  to  a  deed  of 
**  derring-do**  worthy  of  the  days  of 


the  Plantagenets.    There  is  no  doubt 
that  there  is  something  of  pamde^ 
radon    in  this  narrative,  ms    there 
is  in  almost  all  that  emanates  from 
the   pen   of  this   highly   dnunatlc 
writer.    But  the  nuun  facts  one  feeb 
compelled  to  accept  as  true,  and  the 
description  has  ail  the  fervoar  of 
Froissart.    The  wanton  Crisiina  had, 
to  save  the  life  of  her  cortefoy  or 
paramour,  Munoz,  sipped  the  con- 
stitution at  La  Granja.     The  day 
after  this  event,  Mr.  Borrovr  met  an 
old  and  dearly-beloved    friend   of 
mine  in  the  Puerta  del  SoL     There 
was  a  vast  crowd  assembled,  who 
ever  and  anon  broke  into  shouts  of 
'«La  Granja!**  and  ""Viva  el  Gon- 
stitncion!"    It  was  evident  that  a 
popular  outburst  was  intended,  to 
terminate,  as  it  might    be,   in   an 
imetUe,  a   revolt,  or  a  revolatian. 
Borrow  and  my  friend  hired  a  room 
commanding  a  good  view  of  the  place. 
A  squadron   of  cavalry  that  were 
false,  and  a  handful  of  mfantiy  that 
were  true,  were  marched  upon  the 
ground.    Borrow  says, — 

'*  We  had  scarcely  been  fire  mioutM 
at  tbe  wiodoiv  wheo  we  sudden] r 
heard  the  clattering  of  horses'  f«>ec 
hastening  down  the  street  called  tie 
Calie  de  Carretat,  Tbe  bouse  in  irkidi 
we  had  stationed  ourselres.  was,  as  I 
hare  already  observed,  just  opposite 
to  the  post-office,  at  the  left  of  which 
this  street  debouches  from  the  north  iato 
the  Puerta  del  Sol.  As  the  souods  be> 
came  louder  and  louder,  the  cries  of  the 
crowd  below  diminished^  and  a  speciei 
of  panic  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  all. 
Once  or  twice,  however,  I  could  dis. 
tinguishthe  wordsi '  Quesada,  Qaesada  !* 


*  Here  it  is,  and  the  reader,  afier  having  perused  Mr.  Ford's  lemarha  about 
Spanish  robbers,  regular,  irregular,  and  volunteers  for  the  nonce,  I  think,  will  agrM 
with  me :— "  About  two  leagues  from  Aldea  del  Rio,  as  we  were  ascending  ■  smatl 
hill,  I  beheld  two  men  with  long  muskets  running  as  if  to  reach  the  summit  before  us. 
My  guide  called  out  that  they  were  robbers,  which  appeared  to  me  very  probable.  1 
prepared  for  their  reception,  and  suffered  him  to  advance  about  forty  yards  in  frant 
By  this  means  I  thought  it  not  likely  that  the  robbers  would  fall  upon  the  guide, 
seeing  that  I  was  behind  well  mounted',  armed,  and  prepared,  in  case  of  need,  to  at- 
tack them«  Had  we  been  close  together,  ao  that  there  might  have  been  a  chance  of 
hitting  us  both,  they  would  certainly  have  fired.  As  it  was.  they  baited  with  the 
utmost  compoaure,  and  leaned  upon  their  long  muskets  while  I  passed.  I  held  mr 
hand  upon  my  pistol  in  the  holster,  and  looked  upon  them  sternly.  My  guide  was 
already  ao  far  ahead  with  the  baggage  that  it  would  have  been  needless  to  attack  me. 
Their  looks  were  wild  and  savage,  their  dress  was  composed  chiefly  of  sheapskiBa, 
and  besides  their  muskets  and  lone  knives  their  girdles  were  stuck  full  of  pistols. 
These  were  the  only  robbers  I  saw  in  Spain,  and  ahould  any  traveller  find  himself  in 
aimilar  circumstances,  I  recommend  the  plao^ which  I  adopted,  and  which  I  had  pi«« 
Xloualy  detenniM«d  to  pursue*!' 


1«4&] 


Of  the  Spaim  and  the  Spaniard$. 


387 


Tbe  foot>soldi6rt  itood  ealm  and  notion. 
less ;  but  I  observed  that  tbe  cavalry, 
witb  tbe  yooog  officer  commanding  tbem, 
displayed  botb  confusion  and  fear,  ex- 
changing wiib  eacb  otber  some  hurried 
words;  all  of  a  sudden,  tbat  part  of  tlie 
crowd  which  stood  near  tbe  mouth  of  tbe 
Calle  de  Carretas  fell  back  in  great  dis. 
order,  leaving  a  considerable  space  un. 
occapied  ;  and  tbe  next  moment  Quesada, 
in  a  complete  geDeraPs  uniform,  and 
mounted  on  a  brigbt  bay  tborougb-bred 
£nglish  horse,  with  a  drawn  sword  in 
bis  hand,  dashed  at  full  gallop  into  tbe 
area,  in  much  tbe  same  manner  I  have 
seen  a  Mnnchegau  bull  rush  into  the  am« 
phitbeatre  when  the  gates  of  his  pen  are 
•uddenlr  flung  open.  He  was  closely 
followed  by  iwo  mounted  officers,  and,  at 
a  short  distance,  by  as  many  dragoons. 
In  almost  less  time  than  is  sufficient  to 
relate  it.  several  individuals  in  tbe  crowd 
were  knocked  down  and  lay  sprawling 
upon  tbe  ground,  beneath  the  horses  of 
Quesada  and  his  two  friends ;  for  as  to 
tbe  dragoons,  they  halted  as  soon  as  they 
had  entered  the  Puerta  del  Sol.  It  was 
a  fine  sight  to  see  three  men,  by  dint  of 
valour  and  good  boraemansbip,  strike 
terror  into  at  least  as  many  thousands. 
I  saw  Quesada  repeatedly-  spur  bis  horse 
into  the  dense  masses  of  the  crowd,  and 
then  extricate  himself  in  the  most  masterly 
manner.  The  rabble  were  completely 
awed  and  gave  wsy,  retiring  by  tbe  Calle 
d»l  Commercio  and  the  street  of  Alcala. 
All  at  once  Quesada  singled  out  two 
Nationals,  who  were  attempting  to  escape ; 
and  setting  spurs  to  bis  horse,  turned 
them  in  a  moment,  and  drove  them  in 
another  direction,  striking  them  in  a  con- 
temptuous manner  with  tbe  flat  of  his 
aabre.  He  was  crying  out,  '  Long  live 
the  absolute  Queen  !"  when  just  beneath 
me,  amidst  a  portion  of  the  crowd  which 
had  still  maintained  its  ground,  perhsps 
from  not  having  tbe  means  of  escaping, 
I  saw  a  small  gun  glitter  for  a  moment, 
then  there  was  a  sharp  report,  and  a 
bullet  bad  nearly  sent  Quesada  to  bis 
long  account,  passing  so  near  to  the 
countenance  of  tne  general  as  to  graxe  bis 
hat.  I  had  an  indistinct  view  for  a  mo- 
ment of  a  well-known  foraging-cap  just 
about  the  spot  from  whence  the  gun  had 
been  discharged  [ponderacion !]  ,than  there 
was  a  ruib  of  the  crowd,  and  the  shooter, 
whoever  be  was,  escaped  discovery  amidst 
the  confusion  which  arose.  As  for  Que- 
sada, be  seemed  to  trest  tbe  danger  from 
which  be  bad  escaped  with  the  utmost 
contempt.  He  glared  about  him  fiercely 
for  a  moment;  then  leaving  the  two 
Nationals,  who  sneaked  nw  ay  like  whipped 
hounds,  he  went  up  to  the  young  officer 
who  commanded  the  cavalrjjr,  and 
whp   had  been,  a«stire   Ia  raising  tlie 


err  of  the  coostitation,  and  to  him  ha 
addressed  a  few  words  with  an  air  of 
stern  menace.  The  youth  evidently 
quailed  before  him,  and,  probably  in 
ottedience  to  bis  orders,  resigned  tbe 
command  of  the  party,  and  rode  slowly 
away  with  a  discomfited  air  ;  whereupon 
Quesada  dismounted,  and  walked  slowly 
backwards  and  forwards  before  the  Casa 
de  Postas  with  a  mien  which  seemed  to 
bid  defiance  to  mankind.  This  was  the 
glorious  diiy  of  Quesada's  existence—hia 
glorious  and  last  day.  1  call  it  tbe  day 
of  bis  glory,  for  he  certainly  never  before 
appeared  under  such  brilliant  circum- 
stances, and  be  never  lived  to  see  another 
sunset.  No  action  of  any  conqueror  or 
hero  on  record  is  to  be  compared  with 
this  closing  scene  of  the  life  or  Quesada  ; 
for  who,  by  bis  single,  denperate  courage 
and  impetuosity,  ever  before  stopped  a 
revolution  in  full  course  1  Quesada  did : 
he  atopped  the  revolution  at  Madrid  for 
one  entire  day,  and  brought  back  tbe 
uproarious  and  hostile  mob  of  a  huge  city 
to  perfect  order  and  quiet.  His  burst 
into  tbe  Puerta  del  Sol  was  tbe  most 
tremendous  and  auccessful  piece  of  dar. 
ing  ever  witnessed.  I  admired  so  much 
the  spirit  of  '  the  brute  bull,'  tbat  I  fre- 
quently, during  his  wild  onset,  shouted 
*  Viva  Quesada ! '  for  I  wished  him  well. 
[This,  Borrow  says,  not  from  any  poli- 
tical feeling.]  But,  I  repeat,  I  wished 
well  to  Quesada,  witnessing  as  I  did  bis 
stout  heart  and  good  horsemanship.  ** 

The  moderado  ministry  ran  away 
that  night,  and  Queseda  was  butch- 
ered by  the  rcucaiUe  rabbUmewt  of 
Nationals  next  day.  Cosaa  de 
Espaha! 

Mr.  Ford,  who  has  passed  some 
fifteen  years  in  the  Peninsula,  and 
Mr.  Borrow,  who  is  likewise  perfectly 
well  acquainted  with  it,  concur  in  an 
affectionate  regard  for  the  Spanish 
peasantry  and  humbler  chisses  in 
most  of  the  provinces.  Their  au- 
thority is  of  the  highest,  for  both 
gentlemen  are  masters  of  the  lan- 
guages and  manners  of  the  people, 
with  whom  they  have  lived  on  terms 
of  easy  intercourse.  And  no  doubt 
the  semi-Oriental  peasant  has,  gene- 
rally speaking,  many  noble  and 
amiable  qualities,  which  render  him 
superior  to  the  peasant  of  most  of 
the  Eastern  nations.  But  to  the 
English,  the  French,  the  German, 
the  Dutch  peasant,  he  is  inferior; 
nor  will  he  bear  comparison  with  the 
Turk  who  has  not  b^n  polluted  ^ 
Constantinople.  With  all  the  g 
qualities,  in  toe  rough,  and  ca^biT 


dss 


Of  (he  Sf€An$  and  the  Spaniards 


[Apr9, 


claimed  for  the  Spanish  man,  it  can- 
not be  denied  that  he  is,  perhaps,  the 
most  reckless  of  mankind  about  the 
shedding  of  human  blood.  He  is 
always  prone  to  stab  in  his  mood; 
he  is  cruel  atrociously,  like  the  Car- 
thaginian of  old,  and,  whenever  any 
thing  touches  him  nearly,  quite  as 
treadnerons.  Punica fides,  nationally 
and  individually,  is  pre-eminently 
one  of  the  cosas  de  Espaiia.  All  his 
better  qualities,  too,  are  rendered  ra- 
ther negative  than  positive  by  his 
dogged,  stolid  pride,  and  invincible 
and  execrable  laziness.  He  is  courteous 
and  hospitable,  it  is  said, — both,  how- 
ever, from  mere  custom.  He  is  cere- 
monious in  hie  demeanour,  that  he 
may  receive  ceremonious  treatment 
in  return,  which  is  to  him  as  the 
breath  of  his  nostrils.  Hospitable  he 
may  be,  but  he  has  nothmg  worth 
withholding  to  offer.  In  the  one 
word,  he  is  "  a  Christian  Arab ; "  and 
as  such,  even  is  inferior  to  the  Wa- 
habee,  who  is  a  pure  theist,  while 
the  religion  of  the  Spaniard,  falsely 
styled  Christian,  is  a  blind,  ignorant^ 
brutalising,  and  uncleanly  supersti- 
tion— as  bad,  if  not  worse,  than  any 
form  of  paganism  that  ever  prevailed, 
except  the  itigyptian,  to  which  it  is  in 
many  respects  akm,  as  vrill  appear 
when  I  come  to  say  a  few  words  on 
Mariolatry.  The  Spanish  peasant 
also  is  good-humourea,  so  is  a  cat  if 
you  stroke  its  coat  the  right  way; 
but  one  is  quite  as  ready  to  fl  v  at  you 
as  the  other.  The  Spaniard,  more- 
over, is  patient  under  poverty  and 
privations ;  he  bears  his  lot  with  the 
npathetic  resignation  of  a  Hindoo. 
Why  ?  Simply  because  it  is  easier 
for  him  to  endure  than  to  labour. 
In  this  (as,  indeed,  in  most  other 
respects)  he  falls  far  below  the 
standard  of  the  North  American 
Indian  of  the  Prairies,  who^  though 
he  may  indulge  himself  with  all  the 
lazy  gravity  of  a  Spaniard  in  absolute 
repose  when  he  has  provided  for  his 
wants  and  luxuries,  vet,  when  the 
supply  threatens  to  fail,  turns  out 
one  of  the  best,  the  boldest,  and  most 
adventurous  of  hunters,  even  as  he  is 
of  warriors,  when  he  once  enters  on 
the  war-path.  On  the  contrary,  the 
Spaniard  is  content  to  support  ex- 


istence on  a  scanty  supply  cnlvreid 
and  earlic,  to  lie  in  a  nlth  j  hoyel, 
and  lounge  in  rags  popnlcms  ^th 
vermin,  rather  than  work  like  a  man, 
with  work  ready  to  his  hand,  which 
would  afford  him  all  the  positive 
comforts  of  life,  and  eleyate  ns  con- 
dition in  the  social  scale.  Xo !  even 
if,  by  any  chance,  money  gets  into 
his  possession,  dther  by  the  gift  of  a 
traveller,  or  by  the  roblmig  of  a 
traveller,  or  by  some  other  means, 
instead  of  applying  it  to  relieye  the 
wants  of  hunself  and  family,  and 
improving  their  position  and  pro- 
spects, he  will  hoard  the  money  and 
hide  it.  Such  are  some  of  the  salknt 
points  in  the  Spanish  peasant's  cha- 
racter, evident  m  the  books  belbve 
me, — the  best  that  haye  been  yet 
written  about  the  Spains;  I  mean 
Ford's  and  Borrow's.* 

As  to  the  nobility  and  oppermoit 
classes  in  the  Pemnsnla,  only  one 
opinion  can  be  entertained  of  them, 
and  that  is,  that  they  are  pretty 
much  about  the  most  ignorant,  de* 
bauched,  degraded,  dishonest,  fiutb- 
less,  and  worthless  of  human  kind. 
But  whatever  sort  of  friends  the 
lower  classes  of  Spaniards  may  make, 
they,  according  to  all  accounts,  are 
very  agreeable  casual  aomndntanoeiL 
Nowhere,  probably,  does  ne  shew  to 
more  advantage  than  in  the  vents. 
Ford's  description  of  which  b  most 
interesting.  There  are  four  sorts  of 
inns  in  Spain, — iht  fonda,  v?hich  is 
the  resort  almost  exclusively  of  fo- 
reigners, and  is  to  be  found  <MDly  in 
the  largest  towns  (this  is  sesntily 
furnish^  and  provisions  are  sup- 
plied to  you)  ;  Uk^poiada,  the  Mate, 
and  the  venterUku  The  poaada  is 
^nnine  Spanish :  as  a  pubisc  inn,  it 
IS,  strictly  speaking,  bomid  only  to 
furnish  lodging,  salt,  and  the  means 
of  cooking  whatever  the  traveller 
brings  wim  him,  or  can  find  in  the 
village.  ■'The  posada,  which  in 
smaller  towns  degenerates  into  a 
venta,  ought  only  to  be  compared  to 
the  khans  of  the  East,  and  new  to 
the  imiB  of  Europe." 

"  If  foreigners,  snd  especinlly  Etig^tisli- 
men,  would  bear  ibis  in  miod,  they  wouM 
save  tbemselves  a  great  deal  of  trouble 
and    disappointment,    and    not    expo&e 


*  The  Haad-Book  for  Travellers  in  Spain  and  Readers  at  Home,    t  vols.    London. 
J.  Marray^* 

The  Bible  in  Spain,  by  George  Borrow. 


184&1 


Of  iAe  8pain$  and  ike  SpanktrdB. 


fhemmtres  by  ikMr  loss  tt  t&tnpet  <m 
the  0pot»  or  m  tbeir  note^books.  No 
Spaniard  is  ever  pat  out,  although  he 
maddens  at  the  slightest  personal  affront, 
for  blood  boils  without  hre,—*  la  tangre 
hierve  9in/utgo.'  He  takes  these  tbiofi^s 
coolly,  which  more  phlegmatic,  cold- 
blooded foreigners  seldom  do.  The  na- 
tive, like  the  Oriental,  does  not  expect 
to  find  any  thing,  and  accordingly  is 
never  surprised  at  only  getting  what  he 
brings  with  him.  His  surprise  is  reserved 
for  those  rare  occasions  when  he  finds 
any  tbin^  actually  ready  at  a  venta,  which 
be  considers  to  be  a  God-send." 

Farther  on  Mr.  Ford  says, — 

*'  Th«  country  paradar,  meton,  jmada, 
md  vtnta,  call  it  how  you  wiH,  is  the 
RoflMin  ttahulum.  The  original  inteDtion 
was  the  faottsing  of  cattle  ;  the  accom* 
modation  of  travellers  was  seoondary, 
and  so  it  is  in  Spain  to  this  day.  The 
accommodation  to  the  beait  is  excellent ; 
cool,  roomy  stablee,  ample  mangers,  a 
never-failing  supply  of  fodder  and  water» 
all  ready,  every  comfort  and  luxury  which 
animal  is  capable  of  enjoying,  is  on  the 
spot.  Aa  regards  man  all  is  the  reverse. 
He  must  forsge  abroad  for  any  thing  he 
may  waat.  Only  a  small  part  of  tiie  barn 
is  allotted  to  him,  and  then  he  is  lodged 
among  the  beasts  below,  or  among  the 
trusses  and  sacks  of  their  food  in  the  lofts 
above." 

Nothing  but  dire  misery  compels 
a  Spaniard  to  turn  innkeeper.  Mine 
host  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  the 
hundred  is  a  foreigner  or  a  ^psy* 
and  almost  inyariablj  an  extortioner 
and  a  thief.  It  was  so  in  the  times 
of  Cerrantes  and  Quevedo ;  it  is  sc^ 
at  present.  In  the  large  towns  of 
the  Spains,  as  in  America,  the  worst 
thieyes  are  the  low  English  refugees. 
Touching  the  venta, — 

"  The  ground- floor  is  a  sort  of  com- 
mon room  for  men  and  beasts.   The  por« 


tion  appropriated  to  the  stables  ie  often 
arched  over,  and  very  imperfectly  lighted 
to  keep  it  oool,  so  that  even  hj  day  the 
eye  has  some  diifieuUy  at  first  in  makini^ 
out  the  details.  The  range*  of  mangers 
are  fixed  round  the  walla,  and  the  haraeaa 
of  the  different  animals  suspended  on 
the  pillars  whieb  support  the  arches ;  a 
wide  door,  alwaya  open  to  the  road,  leads 
into  this  great  stable  or  commoa  hall ;  a 
small  space  in  the  interior  is  always  i%h 
unencumbered,  into  which  the  traveller 
eaters  on  foot,  or  on  horseback ;  no  one 
greets  him ;  no  obseqoions  landlord,  bust- 
ling waiter,  or  simpering  chambermaid, 
takes  any  notice  of  bis  arrival.  He  pro* 
oeeds  unaided  to  unload  or  unsaddle  his 
beast,  and  having  taken  him  to  a  manger 
applies  to  the  ventero  for  the  pieirso,  fod« 
der  for  his  beasts ;  gonads,  that  is  fofth.'ifm 
eebada,  straw  and  barley.  This  is  & 
ancient  Oriental  forage..' barley  also, 
and  straw  for  the  horses"  (1  Kings,  iv^ 
38).  Very  liUle  hay  is  used  in  Spain 
except  in  the  north-west  provinces,  and 
some  of  the  valleys*  The  atraw  is  very 
fine,  and  is  beaten  into  small  fragments. 
The  modern  system  of  thrashing  graia 
in  Spain  is  extremely  ancient,  elassieal, 
and  oriental.  Near  moat  com-«ounCry 
villsges  a  floor  called  •  La  Era,"  tha 
Latin  area,  is  prepared  in  the  open  air, 
and  which  is  either  paved  or  cemented 
with  hard  earth,  on  which  the  looaa 
sheaves  are  placed,  ever  which  soorting 
and  unharnessed  horses  are  driten,  or 
men  are  drawn  by  them  on  hurdles, 
or  on  a  trilto,  a  sort  of  harrow,  over  the 
sheaves.  The  com  is  thus  beaten  out  of 
the  ear,  and  the  straw,  the  palea  ofan* 
tjqnity,  brniaed  and  triturated  into  frag« 
meats;  it  is  the  precise  threshing' floor 
of  the  Bible,  and  the  Nonig  of  Egypt. 
The  Carthaginians  introduced  this  method 
into  Spain.  The  operation,  and  the 
Fletulhtm  Pmiieum,  are  accurately  de- 
scribed by  Varro  (i.  52).  The  traveller 
who  sees  this  primitive  process  going  oa 
under  the  burning  sun  of  La  Mancha, 
will  feel  the  full  force  of  the  magnificent 
nmUe  of  Homer  (//.xx.  495)*  applied 


*  I  quote  the  passage  to  which  Mr.  Ford  refets  :— 

'Ti/A^m  n  Xi«v'  iyiurr§  fiiSt  vTi  «■•#/  l^iftvmtif, 

Vi^iif  &vrm§  9rt*aXm»r»  mm  atrvytf  »i  «'i^«  )/^{*v, 
"At  i^'  «^*  l9tinim  i  frXi«y  faUfuyytt  7C«XX«v, 

IltXii^iff,  XiSi^ath  9rmXdf^tr»  x"^'^f  Ad*rwt» 

**  As  when  the  peasant  his  yoked  steers  employs 
To  tread  his  barley,  the  broad-fronted  pair 
With  ponderous  hoofs  trample  it  out  with  ease, 


390 


Ofth«  Spaint  and  th«  S^Hiartb. 


[April. 


to  tbe  car  of  Aobilles,  dashing  over  tbe 
dead  and  wounded,  •  «  • 

"  Having  first    bimielf  prorided  for 
the  wanU  and  comfortB  of  his  beast,  for 
'  el  ojo  del  awM  engorda  al  cabaUo*  tbe 
maater'a  eye  fattens  the  horse,  the  tra- 
veller thinks  of  himself.    One.  and  the 
rreater  tide  of  the  building,  is  destined 
for  the  cattle,  the  other  for  their  masters. 
Immediately  opposite  tlie  public  entrance 
is  the  staircase  which  leads  to  the  upper 
part  of  the  building,  which  is  dedicated 
to  the  lodgment  of  fudder,  fowls,  flens, 
and  tbe  better  class  of  truvellers.    The 
arrangement  of  the  larger  class  of  po- 
tadag  is  laid  out  on  the  plan  of  a  con- 
vent, and  is  well-calculated  to  lodge  the 
greatest  number  of  inmates  in  tlie  small- 
est  space.    The  ingress  and  egress  are 
facilitated  bj  a  long  corridor,  into  which 
the  doors  of  the  separate  rooms,  'vpom 
aenUit,'  open;    these    are   called  talus; 
euerUu,    however   (whence   our    word 
'  quarters'  may  be  derived),  is  the  ordi- 
nary term.    There  is  seldom  any  fumi* 
ture  in  them ;  whatever  is  wanted  is  to 
be  bad  of  the  host,  from  some  lock-up 
store,    reposteria.      Near    the   staircase 
down-stairs,  and  always   in   a    visible 
place,  is  a  gibbons  jar,  tinaja,  of  the  an- 
cient dasaical  and  amphora  shape,  filled 
with  fresh  water ;  and  by  it  is  a  tin  or 
copper  utensil  to  take  water  out  with, 
and  often  a  row  of  small  pipkins  made  of 
a  red  porous  clay,  which  are  kept  ready 
filled  with  water  on,  or  rather  in  a  shelf 
fixed  to  the  wall,  and  called  '  ia  tallada, 
el  taller,'    These  pots,  alearratas,  from 
the  constant  evaporation,  keep  the  water 
extremely  cooL     Thev  are  of  rarioua 
ahapes,  many,  especially  in  Valencia  and 
Andalusia,  being  of  the  unchanged,  iden- 
tical form  of  those  similar  clay-drinking 
ressels  discovered  at  Pompeii.     They 
are  tbe  precise  irulla.  Martial  (xiv.  106; 
iv.  46.)  speaks  both  of  the  colour  and 
material  of  those  made  at   Saguntum, 
where  they  are  still  prepared  in  great 
quantities.    1*hey    are    not   unlike    the 
ekeol'lehi  of  Egypt,  which  af«  made  of 
the  same  materials,  and  for  the  same  pur- 
poses, and  represent  tbe  ancient  Canobic 
rr«fv««.    They  are  seldom  destined  to 
be  placed  upon  the  table;  their  bottoms 
being  pointed  and  conical,  they  could  not 
stand  upright.    This  singular  fonn  was 
gif  en  to  tbe  vam  fuiitia,  or  oupa  used  at 


tbe  taertfices  of  Vesta,  which  woold  bavc 
been  defiled  had  they  touched  tbe  gnmnd." 

'Every  thing  in  and  aboat  the  kit- 
cben  is  as  nearly  as  may  be  in  the 
same  state  it  was  2000  yean  ago. 

"  The   portion    of  the    groand-ioor 
which  is  divided  by  the  }iublie  cntzaoce 
from  the  stables,  is  dedicated  to  tbe  kit- 
chen and  accommodation  of  the  travellers. 
The   kitchen   consists  of  a  huge  open 
i^u^gOf  generally  on  tbe  floor,  tbe  pats 
and  culinary  vessels  being  placed  against 
the  fire,  arranged  in  circles  as  described 
by  Martial  (xii.  18;, «  mulia  villica  quern 
corooat  oll&,'  who,  like  a  eood   Spaa- 
iard,  after  thirty-five  years  of  abecnee  at 
Bome,  writes  after  his  retom  to  Spain  ta 
his  Irieod  Juvenal,  a  full  aocoant  of  tbs 
real  comforts  that  he  once  more  enjoys  ia 
his  best-beloved  patria,  aod  which  ie>- 
minds  us  of  tbe  domestic  detmiU  in  tbe 
opening  chapter  of  Don  Quixaie„     These 
rows  of  ollat  are  kept  up  by  Araiii.Uke 
stones  called  tesu ;    above    ia    a   wide 
chimney,  which  is  armed  witb   iroo  for 
suspending  pots  of  a  large  sixe.     Sosne* 
times  there  are  a  few  stoves  of  masonry, 
but  more  frequently  they  are    only  the 
portable  ones  called  '  anaja.'     Aiooad 
the  blackened  walls  are  arranged  pots 
and  pipkina   (*e//aiy  padkema'),  gnd- 
irons    ('pan7/a«'),    frying-pans     (*  ftr- 
tenet  *),  which  hang  in  rows  Uko  tiifpolfs 
of  all  sizes,  to  accommodate   large  or 
small  parties,  and  the  more  the  better ;  it 
is  a  good  sign  '  en  cata  Uena,  pramta  m 
fuita  eena,'    At  tbe  side  of  this  kitchen 
IS  the  apartment  of  the   innkeeper,  in 
which  he  atorea  away  his  stock  of  rice 
^'arrot')  chocolate  {' ehoeoiate' ),  which 
is  always  superexcellent,  end  the  other 
eatables  which  form  the  fonndatioo  of 
the   national   cuitine,  which    is    by   no 
means  despicable,  and,  barring  a  some- 
what too  liberal  infusion  of  garlic,  which 
however  mav  be  checked,  is  savoury  and 
Oriental.     A  '  gui$ada  ds  Uebrg/  or  stew 
of  hare,  or  de  perd/cct,  of  partridges,  whca 
well  done  in  a  real  venta ;  is  a  dish  that 
might  be  set  before  a  king." 

To  nursue  this  subject  a  little  fui^ 
ther,  the  Spanish  hams  are  still  deli- 
cious, as  th^  were  in  the  tame  of  the 
Bomans.    And  I  am  xej<Moed  to  see 


So  by  magnanimoua  Achilles  driven, 

His  coursers'  solid-boofd  stampM  as  I  hey  ran 

The  shields  at  once,  and  bodies  of  the  slain  ; 

Blood  spatter'd  all  his  axle,  and  with  blood 

From  the  horse  hoofs,  and  from  the  fellied  wheels 

His  chariot  redden*d.  while  himself,  athirst 

For  glory,  his  unconquerable  bands 

Defiled  with  mingled  carnage,  sweat  and  dust ^''— Cow pxai 


1846.] 


Of  t\e  Spain$  and  ike  Spaniards. 


391 


by  an  Bdvertiflement  in  to-day's 
Mbndng  Chronicle  that  the  exem- 
plary/>row«for  for  gourmets.  Morel 
of  Piccadilly,  has  imported  some  of 
them.  The  bacon,  too — hurraJh  for 
bacon !  I  could  eat  it  in  extremis — 
is  excellent,  and  in  universal  use, 
first,  for  its  own  sake,  and  secondly, 
as  the  consumption  of  it  is  a  sign 
of  Spanish  Christianity,  the  flesh 
of  the  pig  being  abhorred  by 
Jew  and  Moor.  *'  No  hay  oUa  tin. 
tocino,  ni  sermon  sin  Agotitino^  saith 
the  proverb — ^There  is  no  olla  with- 
out bacon,  nor  a  sermon  without  a 
quotation  from  St.  Augustine.  Va- 
rious kinds  of  sausages,  too,  are  ad- 
mirable, and  there  is  an  abundance 
of  fine  pulse  and  other  vesetables,  as 
also  of  eggs.  Butchers  meat  in 
Spain,  and  especially  beef,  is  gene- 
rally bad :  ^  Vaea  y  camero,  oBa  de 
cavaUero^ — Beef  and  mutton  make 
a  gentleman's  olla.  It  will  be  recol- 
lected our  friend  Don  Quixote  was 
wont  to  have  more  beef  than  mutton 
in  his  oUas,  and  this  beef  commonly 
requires  a  dog's  tooth,  dienie  de 
perrOf  to  masticate  it.  Hares,  par- 
tridges, and  rabbits  are  constantly 
offered  for  sale  by  the  peasantry  at 
the  door  of  the  venta.  Bread  is  of 
the  best  quality,  and  this  and  wine 
are  always  to  be  procured.  The 
Spanish  garlic,  which  is  used  with 
well-nigh  every  dish,  is  infinitely 
less  pungent  and  more  delicate  in 
flavour  than  that  with  which  we  are 
acquainted  in  England.  It  is  mark- 
worthy,  too,  that  this  we  cannot  well 
remedy,  as  Spanish  garlic  and  onions 
on  bemg  transplanted  into  England 
degenerate  in  the  third  generation, 
and  so  become  coarse  and  pungent. 
And  yet  a  clove  of  even  degenerate  ajo 
in  the  handle  of  a  shoulder  of  mutton 
put  quivering  upon  the  spit,  may  be, 
perhaps,  sneezed  at,  but  cannot  be 
despised.  The  Spaniard  says,  "  Pan, 
vino  y  ajo  crvdo  hacen  andar  al  mozo 
agudoj' — ^Bread,  wine,  and  raw  garlic 
make  man  so  briskly.  But  as  we 
have  seen,  uiere  is  no  necessity  for 
the  traveller  to  rough  it  on  them.  To 
resume  Mr.  Ford's  observations,  he 
says,-^ 

"  The  live-stocky  bens  and  cbickpnc 
gollhiaa  y  po/(of— .run  about  tbe  whole 
f.round.floor,  picking  up  any  thing,  and 
ready  to  ha  picked  up  themselves  and 
dreaaed.     AU  the  operations  of  ccokery 


and  eating,  of  killiog,  lonsing  in  boiling 
water,  plucking,  &e.,  all  preparatory  as 
well  as  6nal,  go  on  in  this  open  kitchen. 
They  are  earned  on  by  the  Tentera  and 
her  daughters,  or  maids,  or  by  some 
weasen,  amoke-dried,  cross,  old  she- 
mummy,  the  lia,  *  my  aunt,'  who  is  tbe 
subject  of  the  good-humoured  remarks  of 
tbe  hungxy  and  conciliatory  traTeller  be- 
fore dinner,  and  of  his  fnlKstomached 
jests  afterwards.  The  assembled  par- 
ties crowd  round  the  fire  watching  and 
assisting  each  at  their  ofrn  saToory 
messes,  '  Un  tyo  a  la  tarten,  y  otro  a  la 
gata,* — One  eye  to  the  pan,  the  other  to 
the  cat.  And  each,  when  their  respective 
stews  are  ready,  form  clusters  and  groupa 
round  the  frying-pan,  which  is  moved 
from  the  fire  hot  and  smoking,  and 
placed  on  a  low  table,  or  block  of  wood 
before  them,  or  the  steaming  and  savoury- 
smelling  contents  emptied  into  a  huge 
earthen  reddish  dish,  the  ancient  platter 
'  magnd  fmroptide  eanat'  (Jut.  iiL  149), 
'parttptidt  rubra*  (Mart.  li.  27).  Chairs 
are  a  luiury.  The  lower  clasaes  ait,  as 
in  the  East,  on  low  stools,  and  fall  too  in 
a  most  Oriental  manner,  with  a  frequent 
ignorance  of  forks ;  they  substitute  a 
short  wooden  or  horn  spoon,  or  *dip' 
their  bread  into  the  dish,  or  fish  up  mor- 
sels with  llieir  long-pointed  knives.  They 
eat  copiously,  but  with  gniTity ;  with  ap- 
petite, but  no  greediness.  Mo  nation,  as 
a  mass,  is  l>etter  bred  or  mannered  than 
the  lower  classes  of  Spaniurds.  They  are 
rerj  pressing  in  their  invitations  when 
any  eating  is  going  on.  No  Spaniard,  or 
Spaninrda,  however  humble  their  class  or 
fare,  ever  allow  any  one  to  come  near  or 
pass  them  when  eating  without  inviting 
them  to  partake. '  Gu$t$  it  vtted  comer  r 
i— Will  you  be  pleased  to  dine  1  No  tra- 
Teller should  ever  omit  to  go  through, 
whenever  any  Spaniards,  high  or  low, 
come  near  him  when  he  is  eating,  espe- 
cially when  doing  so  out  of  doors,  which 
often  happens  in  travelling.  Nor  is  it 
altogether  an  empty  form;  all  classes 
consider  it  a  compliment  if  a  stranger, 
and  especially  an  Knglishman,  will  con- 
descend to  share  their  dinner.  In  the 
smaller  towns  those  invited  by  English 
will  often  partake,  even  the  better  classes, 
and  those  who  have  already  dined.  They 
think  it  civil,  and  have  no  objection  to 
eating  any  good  thin^,  which  is  the  ex- 
ception to  their  ordinary  frugal  habits. 
This  is  quite  Arabian.  The  Spaniards 
seldom  accept  the  invitation  at  once ;  they 
expect  to  be  pressed  by  an  obsequious 
host,  in  order  to  appear  to  do  gentle  vio- 
lence to  their  stomachs  in  order  to  oblige 
him.  The  angela  declined  Lot's  offered 
hospitalities  until  they  were  *nresf 
greatty*  (Gen.  zix.  3).  Traveller 
Spain  must  not  forget  this  still  exit 


39i 


Of  iks  Spava  and  thM  Spaniards. 


[April, 


Oriental  ftnit,  fiv  if  tlief  do  sot  gseotly 
preM  liMir  oier  Chojr  ore  uodentDod  m 
M— ntng  it  to  be  ft  nere  empt^  eompli- 
■mdL  Wo  hwre  known  Spaoiardi  who 
eaUed  with  the  intention  of  etaying  din- 
ner, go  away,  beoaaee  this  ceremooy  was 
not  g|one  threngh  according  to  their 
Donctilious  notions,  to  which  our  off- 
Lmd  mannera  are  diameti-ically  opposed. 
Hospitality  in  a  hungry,  inn}«es  land  be- 
coflies,  as  in  the  East,  a  aacied  dnt;^.  If 
a  man  eata  all  the  prorender  by  bimeelf 
he  can  expect  to  have  few  friends,**. 
'  BoGudo  eomiio  no  haet  amigo,*  ]f,  how* 
ever,  they  do  jnatioe  to  the  feaat,  both  in 
eatieg  and  drinkinc,  they  amply  repay  the 
eonaamptiott  by  tne  good.feUowabip  of 
their  conversation  and  by  their  local  in- 
formation* Generally  speaking,  the  offer 
is  not  accepted;  it  is  always  declined 
with  the  sane  courtesy  which  prompts 
the  invitation, — '  Mudtoi  graeiai,  buen 
prweeho  k  haga  a  Fimd.'— .Many  thanks, 
much  good  may  it  do  you  (Vmd.  or  V. 
ie  the  abbreviation  of  <  vuiUra  mtrad* — 
your  worship,  and  is  the  civil  form  of 
'  yon '}.  These  cuatoms,  both  of  inviting 
and  declining,  tally  exactly,  and  even  to 
the  expressions  used  among  the  Arabs  to 
this  day.  £very  passer-by  is  invited  by- 
Orientals,  '  Bismillah  ya  $eedt4  7*  which 
meana  both  a  grace  and  invitation,.— In 
the  name  of  God,  sir,  t.  e.  Will  you  dine 
with  us  1  or  '  Tafud*  dal'^Do  me  the 
favour  to  partake  of  this  repast.  Those 
who  decline  reply, '  Heenee  an'.— May  it 
benefit*  The  supper,  which  is  their  prin- 
cipal meal,  is  seasoned  with  copious 
draughts  of  tiie  wine  of  tiie  country,  which 
is  drunk  from  whatever  jug  can  be  found 
—a  bottle  is  a  rarity  ;  more  frequently  it  is 
quaffed  from  the  leathern  bota,  with  which 
idl  travellers  should  be  provided,  because 
a  glaas  bottle  may  be  broken  ;  therefore 
it  M  well  to  note  that  au  earthenware  keg 
is  not  a  bota,  — '  Nota  que  el  Jarro  no  et 
baia*  Nota  brae,  that  no  man  who  has 
a  6e(a  ahould  ever  keep  it  empty,  especi* 
ally  when  he  falls  in  with  good  wine  :  ^- 

'  No  vayas  sin  bota  camino 
Y  quando  fueres,  no  la  lleves  sin  vino.' 

*'  Every  man's  Spanish  attendant  will 

always  find  out  bv  instinct  where  the  best 

wine  is  to  be  bad  ;  of  this  they  are  quite 

as  good  judges  as  of  good  water.    They 

rarely  mix  them.    It  is  spoiling  two  good 

things.     Vino  moro  means  wine  tliat  has 

never  been  baptiaed,for  which  the  As- 

turiana  are  infanunu-'^guan  el  agua.    It 

is  a  great  mistake  to  suppose  that  because 

Speniards  are  seldom  seen  drunk,  and 

because  when  on  a  jonrney  they  drink 

>  much  water  as  their  beasts,  that  they 

*i  any  Oriental  dislike  to  wine.    Thie 

'le, '  Agua  eomo  buey  y  vino  como  Rey* 

«tent  of  the  given  qnantity  of  wine 


whidi  tbey  will  alsrBjr«  nrallow,  rstber 
suggests  wat  their  babitnel  tesBpsiaDce 
may  in  some  degree  be  connected  mors 
with  their  poverty  than  their  will.    The 
way  to  many  an  honest  heart  lies  through 
the  belly — aperit  yrmcardia  Bacehvt ;  nor 
is  their  Oriental  blessing  nnconnccied 
with  some  '  savoury  food'  praviously  ad- 
ministered.    Our  experience  tallies  with 
their  proverb  that  they  prefer  *  cvrsed 
bed '  wine  to  hirfy  water  —  *Mmt  vale  wu 
maldito  que  no  agua  bandita,'    Good  wine 
needs  neither  bush,  her^,  nor  crisr,— 
'  al  vino  que  et  bueno  no  e$  mene$ter  pregr 
nero;*  and  independently  of  the  very  ob- 
vious reasons  which  good  wine  does  aud 
ought  to  afford  for  its  own  consumptibn, 
the  irritating  nature  of  Spanish  cookerr 
provides  a  oever>failing  inducemenr.    A 
ealt  fish,  ham  end  as  usage  diet,  creates 
thirst :  a  good  rasher  of  bncoa  oalls  loudly 
for  a  corresponding  long  nod  atroag  puU 
at  the  bota,^m*  a  iorretno  do  toeino  baen 
golpe  de  vine,*    Accordingly  nfker  supper 
the  bota  circulates  merrily  ;   cigars  are 
lighted,  the  rude  seaU  are  drawn  closer 
to  the  fire,  stories  are  told,  principally  oa 
robber  and  love  subjects,  jokes  are  given 
and    taken,    unextinguishable    laughter 
forms  the  chorus  of  conversation,  especi- 
ally after  good  eating  or   drinkiog,  to 
which  it  forms  the  dessert, — '  a  btten 
baeado  buen  grito.'    In  due   time  songs 
are  sung,  a  guitar  is  strummed,  '  ratgae- 
ado,*  dancing  is  aet  on  foot,  the  fatigues 
of  the  day  are  forgotten,  and  the  catohing 
sympathy  of  mirth,  extending  to  aU,  i« 
prolonged  far  into  the  night.     Then,  one 
by  one,  the  company  drops   off.    The 
better  classes  go  up  stairs,  the  humbler 
and  majority  make  up  their  bed  on  the 
ground  neor  their  animals ;  and,  like  them, 
full  of  food  and  free  from  cnre,  tbey  fall 
instantly  asleep  in  spite  of  the  noise  and 
disctMnlort  by  which  they  sree«rrounded. 
To  describe  the  row,  baffles  the  art  of 
pen  or  pencil.    The  roars,  the  dust,  the 
want  of  every  thing  but  mirth  in  their 
low-classed  veutas,  are  emblems  of  ihe 
nothingness  of  Spanish  life,  which  is, 
indeed,  a  jest. 

llavra  yiXtt  nai  eravra  a*n$,  tuu  ^ana 

**  There  is  no  undressing  or  morning 
toilette ;  no  time  or  soap  is  lost  by  biped 
or  quadruped  in  the  process  of  grooniaS 
or  lavation ;  both  carry  their  wardrobes 
on  their  back,  and  tmat  to  the  ahover 
and  the  sun  to  cleanse  and  bleach;  tH 
are  alike  entitled  to  the  epithete  bestowed 
by  Strabo  (iii.  234)  and  Justin  (xliv.  2) 
on  their  Iberian  predecessors,  who  partook 
of  the  wild  beast.  They  sleep  in  their 
cloaks.  '  Blessed  be  the  num  who  first 
invented  sleep,  it  covers  one  all  over  Uk^ 
a  cloak,'  said  Sancho  Fanza,  whose  sty« 


1846.] 


dftke  Spams  aiui  the  Spaniardi, 


393 


log*  and  doiagf  repvemt  the  tniMt  tad 
iiKMit  micliaoifed  type  of  Spanivda  of 
his  elsM.  Soma  subttiCnte  tlie  mantoj, 
mhukt  maal  Spaniards  carry  with  them 
oa  their  travels.  This  is  a  ffsy-coloiured 
Ofieotal-lookiog  striped  hlaaket*  or  rather 
plaid;  it  is  the  sitlsj^  of  Cairo,  the 
gaimaff  of  the  Spanish  Goth.  When 
riding  it  is  laid  across  the  front  of  the 
saddle,  when  welking  it  is  carried  on  the 
1^  shoulder,  hanging  in  draperiea  hehind 
and  before.  This  forms  the  had  and 
bedding,  fior  they  never  undress,  but  lie 
open  the  ground.  The  ground  was  the 
bed  of  the  original  Iberians,  ;^«/Mii»Mei 
(Strabo,  iii.  233);  and  the  word  csjim, 
bed,  has  been  read  quasi  ;^«/mm,  on  the 
ground.  Isidore  thought  the  term  wes 
iotrodueed  by  the  Carthaginians.  •  *  • 
Their  pillows  are  composed  either  of 
their  psck^addles,  alhardat,  or  of  their 
saddle-begs,  a^'orymi.  *  No  hay  taleama, 
eomo la  data  enjtama,'  There  is  no  bed 
like  the  saddle-cloth." 

All  this  is  graphic  in  the  extreme, 
and  'with  a  most  exciting  relish  of, 
as  it  were,  revived  antiquity.  Eveijr 
thin^  in  the  main  is,  no  doubt,  as  it 
was  m  the  days  of  the  Bomans ;  that 
it  is  so  in  well-nigh  all  the  details, 
might  probably  be  established  from 
the  works  of  Strabo,  Martial,  Athe- 
Dieus,  Silius  Italicus,  and  some  more 
modem  authorities.  The  sugges- 
tion of  an  accurate  comparison  of 
the  arrangements  of  a  Spanish  country 
venta  with  that  of  the  Roman  inn 
now  uncovered  at  the  entrance  of 
Pompeii,  and  its  exact  counterpart 
the  modem  "  osteria"  in  the  same 
district  of  Naples,  is  one  which 
all  gentlemen  must  feel  anxious  to 
see  carried  out  by  some  competent 
scholar;  but,  in  fact,  the  objects  of 
classical  analog*  and  antiquarian  re- 
search in  Spam  are  multitudinous; 
and  I  earnestly  hope  that  we  may 
yet  see  the  same  energy,  industry, 
and  learning,  applied  to  them,  which 
have  been  so  conspicuously  displayed 
in  the  land  of  Egypt.  Spain,  in 
almost  every  noint  of  view,  presents 
a  most  noble  neld  of  research  for  the 
man  and  the  scholar.  Mr.  Borrow, 
on  some  points,  has  done  a  good  deal. 
Mr.  Fora  has  done  still  more :  his 
Hand 'Book  of  Spain  is,  without 
comparison  or  approach,  the  best 
hand  -  book  of  any  country  for  all 
classes  of  travellers  that  was  ever  yet 
published ;  and  it  has  other  high  and 
peculiar  merits — it  is  most  entertain- 
ing 88  well  as  most  iostructive.    The 


oooiDonlion,  flenerall^  speaking,  is 
exottlent,  the  descariptions  of  life  am* 
mate  and  inaniBiate,  vivid  and  fas- 
cinating. The  narrative,  easy  and 
senial.  Deep  thouffht  and  deep 
leaming  are  constanUv  produced  at 
need,  but  never  obtruded ;  and  there 
is  throughout  a  heartiness  of  tone 
which  could  issue  only  fhwi  a  cfaeor* 
ful,  good  -  humoured,  courteous, 
pentle,  bold,  and  manly  breast,  that 
IS  quite  delightful.  Since  I  first  read, 
in  my  chikUnood,  the  works  of  Abys- 
sinian Bruce,  no  traveller  has  taken 
me  with  him  so  completely  in  the 
spirit  as  Ford.  He  is  exactly  the 
sort  of  fellow  I  would  rejoice  in  as  a 
travelling  companion,  and  especially 
in  Sjpain  or  amongst  the  North 
American  Indians,  or  in  some  of  the 
little  explored  regions  of  the  fiir 
East.  I  made  my  own  (miritud) 
aoq^naintanoe  with  him  last  long  va- 
cation, under  circumstances  favour- 
able to  a  lasting  friendship.  I  wsa 
myself  a  traveuer  in  a  region  in 
wnich  it  was  necessary  to  have  re- 
course to  the  use  of  your  own  feet  or 
a  horse's ;  and,  from  ^  mom  till  dewy 
eve,"  I  was  in  the  free  breeze  of  a 
most  picturesque  range  of  hilly 
country  on  horseback,  where  I  could 
ride,  and  on  foot  when,  for  the  time 
being,  it  answered  my  purpose  best 
to  walk.  At  nightfall  1  put  up  in 
some  village  inn,  where  tne  accom- 
modation, so  far  as  eatables  and 
drinkables  were  concerned,  was  a 
vast  deal  worse  than  in  any  decent 
Spanish  venta.  Here  I  dined  heartily 
on  very  inditferent  specimens  of 
bacon  and  cheese,  aided,  however, 
by  good  eggs  and  good  bread,  and 
washed  them  down,  as  it  might  be, 
with  bad  ale  or  worse  cider  (for  there 
was  no  wine  nor  any  spirituous  liquor 
to  be  had,  and,  fool  as  I  was,  I  nad 
no  bota  to  carry  the  one,  nor  any  flask 
to  convey  the  other,  to  supply  the 
want).  I,  however,  lit  my  cigar, 
and  took  my  place  merrily  in  the 
common  room  with  mine  nost  and 
the  neighbouring  miners  and  far- 
mers, and,  in  their  rough  company, 
had  the  satisfjaction  not  only  of  lauch- 
iog  gaily,  but  of  leaming  much  that 
was  useful  to  me  then,  and  may  be, 
I  trust,  more  so  hereafter.     This 

Srimitive  party  broke  up  at  an  er- " 
our,  I  t^todk  myself  to  my 
room  (where  the  arrangements 
cama^  however,  were  unexce 


0/tke  SptmU  and  ike  Spmtardt. 


able),  ud  pnUed  Fmd'i  Baml'Baok 

ont  of  1117  a^mytu,  and,  in  spite  of 
weviiKai,  lidd  channed  convene 
with  it  tmtQ  the  demaitdi  of  Death'* 
twin- brother.  Sleep  the  fihnj-eycd, 
became  imperatiTe.     In  thns  readin 


^ 


the  book  one  felt  ai  thoogh  he 
conveiviiig  oa  thentes  of  anrnHnng 
interest,  with  a  companion  endowed 

*•  Willi  all  good  grace  to  grace  a  gFoile. 

Tod  felt  that  there  waa  no  afieetation, 
no  hypocrisy,  no  base,  mean,  and 
vulgar  prejudices  about  him;  no 
hnnibug,  no  anobbery,  no  eUqmrie ; 
yiya  were  with  an  independent  author, 
and  not  with  a  lUtSratmr  of  a  league. 
In  his  tttak,  manly  narrative,  yon 
saw  that  there  was  no  straining  after 
effect,  no  contorted  phraseology,  no 

Jirepoaterous  similes  redolent  of  the 
amps  and  Mwdnst  of  Astley's  Circus, 
or  dnwn  from  the  fcetid  atmosphere 
and  the  things  and  chsracten  that 
appear  in  it  behind  the  acenes  of 
some  minor  theatre,  where  Cocknejrs 
do  congregnte  in  front  of  the  green 
curtain,  and  amateurs  half-crazed 
with  [lersonal  vanity  and  presump- 
tuous ignorance,  benind.  You  per- 
ceive, too,  that  in  Ford's  book  there 
is  never  the  slightest  depredatory 
touch  of  a  Smellfnngns ;  nothing 
of  the  mere  travelled  deriior  — 
the  most  despicable  bnffoon  of  hu- 
man kind;  none  of  those  lament- 
Btions  about  hardships  and  dis- 
comforts, which  no  man  of  manly 
feeling  would  make ;  none  of  those 
allusions  to  the  luxuries,  splendour, 
pomps,  &c.  &c. ;  not  forgetting  the 
toweJB,  and  such-like  curiosities  of  li- 
teraturalitism,  which  the  traveller  had 
left  behind  him  in  his  house  in  Lon- 
don; allusions  which  no  man  to  whom 
this  msgnilicence  was  not  new  aud 
strange,  and,  i[i  fact,  as  uneasy  as, 
except  from  Fortune's  jesting  ca- 
price, it  would  have  been  unknown 
in  the  way  of  toilette,  would  have 
dreamed  of  making.  But  S|Min  is 
no  land  for  Cockneys  errant  in  the 


Life  in  lbs  « 


nUjii 
Tba  ■ 


[Apn1, 


■  UritD- 


■»  dnlt  and  poTCrtjr  -  iiriekn. 
Madrid  jCkIC  ii  bat  a  dmr  aod  snohI- 
We  ioliaipiKble  city.  'J'lio  amiiim 
Bta.porti,  ai  ia  tba  East,  fnim  bsiiif 
more  frequented  by  (be  foreigacr,  m 
man  cosmi^linui,  more  ebwrfnl  i>d 
■■anting.  Gsoeially  apraking,  a  ia  tba 
East,  public  amnaementa  ire  rai«.  Tit 
c*ln  coDtemplatioD  of  a  cigar,  uid  1 
dolct/ar  kUhU  HBtdM-— quiet  iodohne. 
■ith  uneicitiug  liraddle,  sutBcei  vbili 

pleaaare,  to  (be  Spaniard  it  ii  a  plttwK 
10  be  oDt  of  pamful  exertion  [hwe  i»  ll« 
key  to  Ibe  Spanish  cbsrKter  and  to  ttul 
ofambecognalaCeiti.— M.R.].  U«« 
me,  leare  me  to  repoie  and  tobicco. 
Wben,  bowerer,  awake,  ibe  ibw'*  °r 
Cbureh-ibow,  and  (he  buU-figbl,  U*  iIh 
chier  rvlaialima.  'I'beac,  bowem,  viU 
be  belt  aajoyed  in  the  sontbeni  piorace, 
the  lind  aUo  of  tba  aoDg  and  diDM.M 
bright  luas  and  eyes,  and  not  tbe  lugi't 
Ifinale  feet  in  the  world." 

Such  is  Spain ;  but  the  last  remaik 
snggests  to  me  a  great  fact,  on  whien 
Ford  does  not  so  much  insist  11  all 
the  other  men  I  have  met  who  kne* 
Spain  well  were  wont  to  do;  aod 
that  i^  that  the  chief  and  real  buffl- 
ncBs  of  the  population,  high  and  lo'r 
rich  and  poor,  and  the  only  buainea 
that  ia  carried  on  with  any  awl  wii 
resolute  industry  and  devotion,  u 
making  love.  It  is  not,  of  course, 
every  traveller  who  ia  qualified  to 
take  bis  part  in  this  popular  amoK- 
meut,  or  would  care  to  run  the  rislu 
and  dangers  with  which  it  bristles- 
And  for  this,  amongst  other  ittaom, 
Spain  is  only  a  land  to  be  tcavcM 
"  through"  by  the  cavallgro.  Hfl 
who  can  use  his  weapons,  aod  rioc 
his  horse,  and  strum  his  guitar,  a^ 
woo  in  pure  Castiliao,  and  cheerfttllj' 
encounter  all  hardships,  and  P^i^** 
tions,  and  dangers,  will  not  uH  t" 
make  himself  very  happy  in  ^^ 
Spwns ;  and  if  he  be  also,  tUce  Borrow 
and  Ford,  a  scholar  and  a  msD  of 
lofty  thoughts  and  inspirations,  i^"* 
the  good  and  graceful  power  to  gi'.^ 
them  utterance,  he  may  make  malt'* 
tudea  happy,  as  these  gentlemen,  by 
their  wor^  have  oftentimes  and  foi 
hours  made  me. 

It  will  be  seen  that  in  this  p*P^ 
long  aa  it  is,  I  have  hardly  eut«w 
on  the  subject. 


MUly  £. 


395 


MILLY  L- 


A  TALB  or  FACT  IN  HU3IDLE  LIFE. 


It  does  occasionally  happen  in  the 
unheeded  vales  of  life  that  a  tissue 
of  facts,  outdoing  the  creation  of  the 
novellsf,  makes  up  the  web  of  a  real 
history.       Cottage     life    sometimes 
offers  a  moving  story,  or  might  do 
so  if  the  thick  veil  were  drawn  aside 
which   hangs   around  the  rich  and 
conceals  from  them  the  histories,  and 
the  doings,  and  the  passions  of  the 
poor  and  lowly.    When  some  such 
romance  of  real  life  has  its  scene  in 
the     cottage,   the   work-room,   the 
small  farm-house,  or  even,  unroman- 
tic  as  it  inay  sound,  behind  the  coun- 
ter, nnknown  and  unheeded  though 
it  be,  it  usually  contains  within  itself 
deep  and  sacred  interest,  because  the 
inward  feelings  which  conspire  with 
outward  circumstances  to  b^t  it  are 
simple,  real,  undressed,  and  of  soul- 
stirring  intensity. 

Amongst  the  well-bom,  education 
and  the  etiquettes  of  society  restrain 
much  that  is  native  and  induce  still 
more  that  is  artificial.  They  dis- 
guise and  half  chan^  the  nature  and 
chill  the  soul.  It  is  in  humble  life 
that  there  is  no  semblance  assumed, 
that  all  is  reality ;  that  passions,  both 
good  and  evil,  glow  in  unrepressed 
lervour;  that  words  represent  feel- 
ings, and  that  the  emotion  goes  be- 
yond the  power  to  express  it  in  lan- 
guage. 

It  is  a  tale  of  life  other  than  their 
own  that  we  arc  about  to  unfold  to 
the  inmates  of  the  saloon. 

Milly  L is  withered  now ;  she 

is  travelling  down  the  hill,  and  with 
no  *^John  Anderson**  at  her  side. 
As  you  look  into  her  face  you  see 
tbat  sorrow  has  worked  there;  but 
It  18  a  sweet  and  beaming  face  still, — 
it  speaks  of  patient,  unrepining, 
cheerful  endurance,  the  fortitude  of 
the  undistinguished. 

^Iilly*8  father  was  a  very  small 
farmer,  living  by  the  sweat  of  his 
own  brow  and  honestly  paying  his 
rent  the  very  day  on  which  it  fell 
uuc,  though  it  was  at  the  cost  of 
sharp  privation  sometimes  that  he 
manag^  to  do  so.  He  had  only  two 
children,  and  there  was  an  inten'al 
^^  ^  yean  between  them.  Hia 
VOL.  xjLua.  Ko.  cxcn. 


• 

eldest  daughter  went,  when  about 
fourteen  years  old,  to  supply  for  a 
time,  as  best  she  might,  the  place  of 

Lady  C ^'s  maid,  who  had  fallen 

sick  of  a  rheumatic  fever.  Mary  liad 
a  facetious  manner,  a  facile  temper, 
and  aptitude  to  learn.  She  so  well 
pleased  Lady  G that  on  the  re- 
covery of  the  maid  she  was  still  re- 
tained, and  by  degrees  crept  on  in 
favour,  till  at  lei^h  Lady  C— — ^ 
having  first  had  her  taught  some 
things  that  would  enable  her  to  pass 
in  a  station  above  that  of  her  birth, 
elevated  her  to  the  post  of  her  com- 
panion. She  treated  her  with  ten- 
derness, and  when,  some  years  later 
she  died,  left  her  5001,  a-year  for 
life.  The  heir  to  the  remaining  pro- 
perty, being  at  once  vexed  with  the 
annual  deduction  from  his  own  in- 
come and  pleased  with  the  girl,  com- 
promised tne  point  by  marrying  her. 

Mary  had  been  fortunate,  but  it  is 
a  question  whether  she  was  happy. 
She  had  no  heart.  Our  tale  abides 
with  Milly.  She  was  her  widowed 
father's  darling.  He  was  sixty  years 
old  when  she  was  born  to  him,  and 
her  mother  died  in  childbed.  A 
neighbour  nursed  her  for  the  first 
ten  months,  and  then  the  little  thin^ 
was  left  to  his  sole  care.  Never  haa 
child  been  more  gently  tended.  The 
old  man  sunned  himself  in  her  fond* 
ness.  She  gambolled  about  him,  re- 
ceived his  caresses  and  caressed  him 
again,  and  knew  as  much  light- 
heartedness  and  infant  joy  as  if  she 
had  been  bom  the  daughter  of  a 
palace.  Her  sister  had  lefl  her 
father's  house  when  she  was  four 
years  old;  then,  as  she  grew  older, 
and  his  hairs  whitened,  and  his  back 
gradually  bent,  she  in  turn  became 
the  nurse,  and  he  received  the  care 
which  he  had  bestowed ;  and  when 
she  left  him  for  a  few  hours  of  the 
day  to  attend  a  school  in  the  neigh- 
bouring  town  (for  which  her  sister 
found  tne  funds)  he  waited  with  fond 
anxiety  for  her  return,  and  the  sym« 
pathy  between  the  old  man  and  the 
young  girl  was  as  perfect  as  if  no 
chasm  of  years  had  intervened. 

But  the  day  came  when  she  must 

PD 


396 


Miily 


[Apnl, 


f 


lose  him ;  then  was  Milly*s  first  sor- 
row. The  allotted  threescore  years 
and  ten  of  human  life  had  indeed  run 
out  with  him,  and  five  ^ears  more 
had  been  added  to  their  nnmber; 
but  he  was  a  healthy  man,  and  pro- 
mised fair  to  live  to  the  full  limit  of 
the  days  of  man,  when  a  sudden  ill- 
ness snatched  him  from  her. 

She  nursed  him  fondly,  and  till  the 
last  breath  he  drew,  hope  nerer  left 
her.  If  a  tear  crept  mto  her  e^'e 
she  dried  it  hastily,  for  she  remem- 
bered that  the  doctor  had  said,  '^  You 
must  be  cheerful,  Milly,  for  his  sake." 
But  when  she  stood  by  the  bedude 
and  gazed  upon  the  corpse  she  felt 
that  now  all  that  made  life  happy 
and  dear  to  her  was  taken  from  ner, 
and  she  wished  to  die  too.  Then  in 
frantic  grief  she  called  upon  the  doc- 
tor to  say  if  it  might  not  be  a  swoon 
or  a  trance. 

**It  is  but  a  swoon,**  she  said. 
'^Surelv  the  breath   is  not    really 

5 one ;  he  is  not  dead — ^he  is  not  dead. 
Vy  something  more.  Tell  me  what 
to  do.  Oh,  do  not  stand  idle,  or  it 
will  be  truth !  You  can  save  my 
&ther  to  me  still.** 

But  it  was  truth,  indeed.  MUly 
vras  taken  from  the  room  and  put 
into  her  bed ;  her  reason  seemed  to 
reel.  In  the  madness  of  her  agony 
she  strove  to  disbelieve.  8he  sobbed, 
and  wept,  and  called  upon  her  father ; 
and  now  reproached,  and  now  im- 

Elored  the  doctor.  At  length  ex- 
austed  nature  sunk,  and  she  slept 
that  long  heavy  sleep  which  suc- 
ceeds to  the  violence  of  grief;  and 
then  came  the  waking  time,  and  with 
it  the  knowledge  of  the  truth — the 
sense  of  utter  desolation,  and  loneli- 
ness, and  woe. 

Who  have  known  the  waking 
af^r  the  first  deep,  rcsd  sorrow  of 
life?  They  only  can  tell  the  an- 
guish that  that  moment  of  recollec- 
tion and  realisation  brings. 

Poor  Milly,  she  sought  to  close 
ber  eyes  again,  and  annihilate  her 
thouglits,  and  crush  down  busy  me- 
mory ;  but  it  was  in  vaio.  Thought 
and  memory  were  too  powerful  for 
her,  and  grief  would  have  its  sway. 
To  grief  succeeded  torpor,  and  to 
torpor  grief,  till  the  funeral  was 
over,  and  several  weeks  had  passed 
away,  and  Mary  had  returned  to  her 
own  home  (tlie  tidings  of  her  fa- 
'ier*8  illness   had  brought   lier  to 


him,  and  slie  had  arrived  the  day 
before  his  death),  and  Milly  found 
herself  in  the  little  dwelling  of  a 
maiden  aunt  who  lived  in  the  village 
hard  by. 

That  aunt, — bless  her  worthy  soul  I 
— she  helped  all  the  ndgfaboon  round 
in  their  sorrows ;  she  was  like  the 
ministering  angel  of  that  village. 
She  waited  no  reqnests;  but  where 
she  could  soothe  or  aid  there  she  wai 
sure  to  be.  She  was,  indeed,  a  kind 
and  good-hearted  woman.  What 
things  went  smoothly  a  little  add 
was  apt  to  oose  from  her  temper^ 
and  distilling  in  her  words,  to  he 
sprinkled  on  those  around  her;  but 
when  suffering  or  sorrow  came,  oh ! 
how  tender  was  she  then. 

She  had  flown  to  her  brotfaer*^ 
siok-bed  and  helped  Milly  to  nune 
him.  The  dying  father,  when  he 
felt  himself  going,  bad  called  lier  to 
him,  and  said, — 

"Martha,  my  girl  will  soon  be 
left,  for  I  shall  not  get  oyer  this. 
Take  her  when  I  am  gone ;  it  is  the 
last  thing  I  shall  ask  of  ye,  md  do 
the  best  yon  ean  for  her,  and  give 
her  no  hard  words,  for  she's  nerer 
had  the  like  of  them  from  me;  sod 
be  ye  good  to  tl»e  fatherless.  God 
wUl  bless  ye  for  it.  There'll  be  a 
few  pounds  of  mine  left  when  all  » 
sold  up,  and  my  burial  and  the  rent 
is  paid;  and  maybe  Maiy'li  think 
to  help  her  poor  sister  a  bit.  Bu^ 
any  way,  ye  il  be  no  worse  in  ^^ 
other  world  because  ye*ve  stinfed 
yourself  something  in  this  that  ye 
might  help  along  the  orphan.  A 
good  girl  she  is  too,  Milly.  Shell 
pay  you  Inck  with  her  love  more 
than  yuu  can  do  for  her.** 

Probably,  Mrs.  Martha  mig/****^^ 
needed  no  asking;  sure  it  is  1^*°^^ 
being  asked,  she  promised,  and  kept 
her  word. 

For  a  time  she  was  hurt  tn» 
MiJlv  looked  coldly  upon  her,  and  that 
her  heart  seemed  buried  in  the  gra^^ 
with  her  fatlier,  for  her  eyes  would 
often  be  filled  with  tears ;  her  spnts 
and  gladness  were  gone.  She  talked 
very  little,  and  never  sang  (in  h^^ 
father's  days  she  had  talked  and  suog 
from  sunrise  to  resting- time).  B«* 
though  the  aunt  was  hurt  at  sU  tht9> 
she  did  what  in  her  power  lay  to 
make  the  poor  orphan  a  second  happX 
home. 

Milly  was  net  migratcfal  { she  few 


)  84d.l 


A  Tale  of  Fact  in  Bumble  Life. 


391 


thai  ber  ftdnt  wfts  both  kind  and  for- 
bearing, and  time   broueht  to  her 
that    relief  which    it   always   does 
bring  eren  to  the  sorest  sorrows.    It 
cannot  be  said  that  she  ceased  to 
mourn,  bnt  her  ^ief  was  more  un- 
der control  and  found  its  seasons  of 
respite,  and  she  awoke  by  degrees  to 
the  cares  and  duties,  and  even  to  the 
pleasures,  which  were  daily  scattered 
round  her.    Her  heart  was  open  to 
new  affections,  and  it  was  claimed  by 
new  aifectioDfl.    Her  sunt  grew  Te.7 
fond  of  her,  and  as  her  gaiety  by 
slow  d^^ees  returned,  a  youth,  who 
had  long  thought  of  her  with  par- 
tiality,  had  watched  her  gentle  auty 
to  her  &ther,  and  pitied  her  sorrow 
for  his  loss,  now  came  from  time  to 
time  to  her  aunt's  little  dwelling,  first 
on  one  plea  and  then  on  another,  till 
at  lengtn  all  pleas  were  dropped,  and 
John  S— •  came  without  excuse, 
but  always  welcome.    Sometimes  he 
brought  a  few  fresh  eggs  from  his 
mother's  little   farm,   sometimes  a 
bunch  of  flowers  that  he  had  ga- 
thered by  the  stream,  and  sometimes 
a  little  basket  of  mushrooms  to  make 
the  old  lady  and  her  nkce  a  savoury 
supper.     One  erening  when  he  had 
been  taking  tea  at  ALrs.  Martha's  he 
invited  MxTly  to  liave  a  little  stroll 
with  him,  and  she  did  not  refuse. 
The  son  was  setting  beautifully ;  the 
air  was  sweet  and  still,  it  was  fra- 
grant from  the  new-cut  hay.    It  was 
the  beginning  of  hay  season,  and  the 
wild  roses  and  vetches  were  in  blos- 
som. 

They  strolled  along  and  enjoyed 
the  beauties  round  them,  and  sniffed 
the  scented  air.  These  things  can 
delight  the  lowly  of  the  earth  as 
richly  as  Fortune's  children ;  they 
are  the  enjoyments  which  God  has 
given  indiscriminately  to  all ;  they 
cheer  old  age,  and  gladden  laughing 
childhood,  and  smile  upon  poverty, 
sending  a  stealing  sense  of  joy, 
though  it  be  but  fleeting,  into  the 
heait  even  of  the  poor  destitute. 
And  after  all  that  wealth  can  pur- 
chase, it  is  to  these  that  its  possessors 
must  come  at  last  for  their  highest, 
purest  pleasures. 

John  and  Milly  were  luxuriating 
in  the  fragrance  and  beauty  spread 
around  them.  Each  enjoyed  the 
scene  more  deeply  because  each  was 
enjoying  it  with  the  other.  They 
mt  down  upon  a  little  bank  and 


looked  upon  each  other,  and  listened 
to  the  rural  sounds.  Perhaps  if  the 
soft  sweet  notes  of  the  birds,  and  the 
cheerful  chirn  of  the  graahoppers, 
and  the  bubbling  of  the  stream,  had 
been  exchanged  for  the  rough,  rude 
sounds  of  a  busy  city,  those  sounds 
might  still  have  seemed  musie  to 
their  ears,  for  they  were  happy; 
there  was  magic  in  their  souls,  cast- 
ing its  spell  upon  all  around.  They 
had  wandered  far,  and  it  was  growing 
late ;  but  with  them  there  seemed  no 
distance  and  no  time.  They  were 
90  happy,  they  were  conscious  only 
of  the  sensations  within  themselves. 

At  length  John  looked  eamestlv 
into  Milly^s  face  and  said,  "  EngUmd  b 
a  fine  country,  Milly.** 

"<  That  it  is,  John,**  said  she ;  "  and 
Fm  glad  our  lot's  cast  in  it.  What 
a  pleasant  thing  it  is  when  one's 
done  the  duties  of  the  day  to  turn 
out  for  such  an  evening  as  this  I** 

"  Yes,  and  you  here  Milly,"  said 
he;  "and  that's  what  makes  it  so 
pleasant  to  me.  Fm  so  hapny  now, 
Tve  almost  forgotten  what  life  was 
like  before  I  knew  you.'* 

Milly*s  heart  beat  fast.  He  took 
her  hand  passionately  and  went  on. 

^^I'm  so  happy  now,  dear  Milly. 
I  think  of  you  by  day  and  dreani  of 
you  by  night ;  but  things  can't  go  on 
always  like  this,  you  luiow"  (Milly 
gasped  —  she  had  not  known  it^« 
**  Indeed,  I  suppose  we  should  nei- 
ther of  us  l^  content  that  thev 
should ;  and  if  it  were  not  for  what  s 
before  us,  Milly  dear,  I  should  have 
taken  courage  to  tell  you  lofig  ago 
1m>w  I  loved  you ;  but  I  couldn't 
find  heart." 

Milly  felt  sick,  very  sick.  She 
had  been  happy  in  the  present  and 
had  not  thought  of  the  future.  She 
did  not  understand  John ;  die  could 
not  speak;  she  was  about  to  draw 
away  her  hand.  He  held  it,  and 
went  on : — 

"No,  Milly,  leave  it  with  me," 
and  he  pressed  it  more  tightly^  "  and 
liear  me  on,  for  I've  more  to  say  to 
you  yet.  Now  I  have  got  courage  to 
begin,  Til  out  with  it  and  free  my 
mind,  and  see  what's  to  be.  England 
is  a  very  fine  country,  there's  no  de- 
nying tnat." 

MUly  was  all  wonder ;  still  throb, 
throb,  throb,  went  her  swelling 
heart.    John  continued  :— 

"  But  there's  other  fine  conntrka 


398 


mily  L 


[April, 


besides  England.  They  tell  me  that 
America  is  every  bit  as  fair  a  land  to 
look  upon  as  this,  and  a  deal  better 
to  live  in,  for  a  poor  man  may  make 
his  fortune  there  (which  is  a  thing, 
God  knows,  he  can't  do  here;  the 
rich  keep  it  pretty  close  in  their 

r>ckct8,  that  same).  Bless  tkem^  too, 
don*t  mean  no  ill  to  them.  They 
or  their  fathers  worked  for  it  like 
we  once,  and  it*s  fair  and  right  they 
should  enjoy  it  when  they  Ve  made 
it ;  and  there's  but  a  few  of  'em  that 
don't  warm  their  hearts  to  folk  not 
so  well  off  as  themselves  when  they 
come  in  the  way  of  'em.  But,  how- 
ever, let  alone  the  rich  and  bless  'em. 
To  come  to  the  short  of  it,  Milly,  a 
poor  man  lives  poor  to  the  end  of  his 
days  in  England ;  it's  harder  for  a 
poor  fellow  to  work  his  way  up  now, 
let  him  strive  as  he  may,  tnan  it  was 
when  the  country  was  not  stodged 
up  with  people,  like  rabbits  in  a 
warren,  that  can't  get  enough  to  live 
on.  My  brothers  nave  been  advising 
me  to  go  to  America  for  a  year  past 
and  more ;  for  you  see  they  two  is 
older  than  me,  and  they  arc  more 
than  enough  for  the  farm  and  to 
take  care  of  mother.  I  had  an  uncle ; 
he  went  over  there  sixteen  years  ago 
and  made  his  fortune ;  he  lived  like 
the  best,  and  when  he  died  two  years 
ago  he  lefc  his  wife  and  family  well 
to  do  after  him.  And  the  end  of  it 
all  is,  that  I  don't  suppose  I  could 
do  a  better  thing  than  go  there  my- 
self. But,  for  the  life  of  me !  I  can't 
go  alone,  Millv." 

And  now  he  grasped  her  other 
hand  and  looked  earnestly  and  im- 
ploringly into  her  face ;  and  her  look 
met  his,  and  then  it  turned  aside, 
and  the  big  tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks  and  chased  each  other  rapidly 
as  he  went  on : — 

"  For  I  love  you,  Milly ;  with  all 
my  soul  I  love  you.  There's  no 
woman  on  earth  that'll  make  me 
happy  but  you,  and  no  happiness  left 
for  me  but  with  ^ou;  and  as  to 
going  off  to  Amenca  without  you, 
I'd  go  to  my  death  as  soon." 

"  Oh  I  John,  dear  John,"  she  mur- 
mured, faintly. 

An  impulse  moved  him,  he  could 
not  cease  to  speak.    He  went  on : — 

"And  yet  it's  only  for  your 
sake  that  I  want  to  go  there, — to 
make  something  comfortable  to  keep 
you  on.    And  if  you'll  give  me  the 


word,  Milly,  that  yonll  be  my  ^e, 
I'll  go  where  hope's  the  brightest,  and 
labour  hau^  indeed  to  support  you 
decently  and  well.  What  inU  you 
say  to  me?  Be  mine,  be  mine, 
Milly,  and  you  shall  never  repent  it, 
for  rU  be  a  true  husband  to  you  and 
a  fond  one,  and  never  love  yoa  less 
than  this  day.  Nay,  more  and  more 
close  I'll  cleave  to  you  till  the  dark 
days  come  when  the  grave  parts  as." 

lie  paused,  and  his  very  soul 
looked  through  his  eyes  into  her 
face. 

She  was  covered  with  smiles,  and 
tears,  and  blushes ;  she  tried  to  look 
at  him  and  tried  to  speak  to  him; 
but  her  voice  was  choked,  the  tean 
gushed  faster  and  faster,  and  she 
could  neither  see  nor  utter.  Angrr 
with  the  drqps,  which  she  deemed  all 
ill-timed,  she  dashed  them  away,  but 
again  and  again  they  came.  He  ca- 
ressed her  and  said, — 

''I  took  ye  a  little  too  sudden, 
Milly ;  but  I  m  not  a  rough  heart  for 
all  that.  Ye  see,  when  a  man's  got 
his  courage  once  up,  and  his  hopes 
hang  all  on  a  thread  like,  he  should 

fet  pardon  if  he*s  something  too 
asty  to  make  all  sure.  Take  time, 
and  cheer,  and  speak,  when  you  can, 
for  it's  a  deal  to  me  that's  in  your 
answer — a  deal,  a  deal  it  is." 

No  affected  emotion  had  been 
Milly's ;  no  affectation  artificially  in- 
creased or  prolonged  it.  She  was  a 
creature  of  simple  reality — Nature's 
true  child.  She  made  effort  to  regain 
her  self-possession,  and  then  she 
said, — 

"John,   dear   John,  you   would 
have  made  me  so,  so  happy  if  P^ 
had  said  all  this  without  talking  of 
America.    If  you  had  been  for  stav- 
ing at  home,  John,  Fm  sure  I  should 
have  said  'yes'  in  a  minute,  ana 
thanked  you  for  your  love,  which  1 
do  any  way,  for  1  m  not  an  uiwrat^ 
ful  girl ;  but  thinking  of  that  ftr-off 
land,  John,  makes  me  down-hearted- 
To  go  and  leave  my  aunt  in  her  old 
age,  who  has  been  so  good  to  me, 
and  my  father's  grave,  it  is  hard  to 
think  of  that,  John.  And  then  there 
is  my  sister,  though  she  is  a  bit  finci 
and  not  very  hearty  to  me,  and  wc 
do   not  meet  often,  yet  she  is  ^1 
sister  still,  and  the  nearest  kin  1 
have.     And  then  who  knows  what 
might  happen  to  us  both  in  that 
strange  country,  and  the  wide  ^ 


1846.1 


A  Tale  of  Fact  in  Humble  Life. 


399 


between  us  and  home,  and  not  a 
friend  to  speak  cheer  to  us,  nor  a 
heart  to  warm  to  us?  Could  you 
not  stay  in  England,  John  ?*' 

John  answered  fondly  that  he 
could  do  any  thing  rather  than  lose 
Milly;  hut  that  he  did  not  know 
how  he  was  to  get  his  hread  in  £ng< 
land,  and  he  hoped  to  make  her  a 
better  fortune  "  over  yonder." 

"Well,"  said  Milly,  "then  we 
must  talk  to  my  aunt  about  it  and 
write  to  my  sister  and  hear  what  they 
Bay. 

Then  John  asked  her  "  What  it 
could  be  to  her  whether  other  faces 
smiled  upon  her  and  other  hearts 
warmed  towards  her  while  he  was 
there  to  lore  and  cherish  her  P"  And 
l^Iilly  was  almost  ready  to  think  that 
be  would  be  all  in  all  to  her,  and 
that  it  mattered  little  to  her  whether 
she  found  friends  in  the  rest  of  the 
world  or  not,  or  whether  there  ex- 
isted a  world  at  all  beyond  their 
little  home.  Then  again  her  thoughts 
flew  back  to  her  sister,  and  her 
aunt,  and  her  father's  grave.  In  this 
state  of  mind  they  walked  home, 
and  John,  "whose  courage,"  as  he 
said,  "was  up,"  and  his  impatience 
great,  resolved,  now  that  he  had 
once  broached  the  subject,  to  push  it 
through,  and  therefore  immediately 
openen  it  with  Mrs.  Martha. 

The  good  lady  at  first  was  cross — 
she  was  taken  by  surprise.  It  mat- 
tered not  that  she  had  little  cause  to 
be  surprised,  she  was  surprised. 

"  what  had  such  a  boy  and  girl 
as  they  to  do  with  such  matters? 
Milly  *d  do  better  to  nurse  her  doll 
and  leam  her  book.  She  did  not 
think  she  'd  been  so  foolish ;  no,  nor 
so  thankless  neither,  to  be  in  such  a 
hurry  to  fly  from  her."  The  good 
lady  was  growing  tender.  "  She  did 
not  know  how  she  should  live  without 
her  niece,  or  who  would  close  her 
eyes."  She  wept,  her  affections  were 
warming  fast.  "  Then  to  think  of 
Milly  wasting  herself  in  a  land  so  far 
away,  without  a  friendly  face  to  look 

Xn;  Millv,  that  had  received  an 
cation  that  would  flt  her  to  stay 
in  the  old  land  and  hold  a  better 
place  than  her  equals ;  and  then  she 
to  part  with  the  bonny  lass  to  see  her 
never  again!"  she  both  sobbed  and 
scolded,  and  scolded  and  sobbed. 

But  when  the  flt  had  subsided  a 
Uttle,  and  John  was  talung  his  Icaye, 


she  said,  affectionately  and  knowinglvf 
"  Well,  however  it  goes,  John,  I  uke 
thee  never  the  worse  that  thou  hast 
known  how  to  prize  a  good  girl  when 
thou  hadst  found  her ;  but  we  must 
tbink  over  the  matter,  and  write  to 
Milly*8  sister  about  it." 

So  the  sister  was  written  to ;  but 
the  sister  was  unpropitious,  was 
hostile,  her  own  rise  m  tne  world  had 
been  great ;  she  "was  not  troubled  with 
any  large  portion  of  sentiment ;  and 
the  chief  end  to  be  sought,  she  deemed 
to  be  the  improvement  of  condition. 
To  do  her  justice,  she  wished  her 
sister's  weal;  she  protested  strenu- 
ously and  effectively  against  the 
match ;  and  by  doing  so,  she  turned 
the  wavering  balance  in  the  aunt's 
mind  also. 

Milly's  father  had,  upon  his  death- 
bed, said  to  her,  "  My  child,  you  are 
young,  and  know  but  little  of  life ; 
when  I  am  gone,  consult  your  aunt 
and  your  sister,  and  be  led  by  their 
counsel."  These  words  were  often 
afresh  in  her  ears,  she  seemed  to  see 
again  the  pale  form  of  the  dying  man, 
and  the  look  of  love  which  was  on 
his  face  when  he  spoke  them :  if  she 
had  heard  them  anew  in  a  voice 
direct  from  heaven,  they  could  not 
have  been  more  sacred  to  her. 

So  John  S was  refused ;  and 

two  true  hearts  sighed  because  those 
who  stood  by  calculated  for  them  in 
another  arithmetic  than  the  arithme- 
tic of  love. 

Poor  Milly !  she  shed  many  a  secret 
tear  as  she  thought  what  a  kind, 
fond  heart  she  had  thrown  from  her; 
and  she  wondered  how  he,  too,  bore 
his  grief. 

But  her  rich  sister  was  not  supine ; 
she  persuaded  Aunt  Martha  that  it 
would  be  well  that  Milly  should  be 
for  a  time  away  from  the  village; 
that  it  would  b>e  well  also  that  she 
should  leam  a  business  on  which  she 
might  hereafter  depend  for  her  sup- 
port. Mrs.  Martha  gave  a  most  re- 
luctant consent  to  a  plan  which  would 
thus  take  from  her  a  niece  whom  she 
fondly  loved;  but  the  consent  teas 
given,  that  was  enough  for  Mary, 
who  immediately  proceeded  to  make 

an  arrangement  with  Madame  M , 

the  flrst  milliner  and  dress-maker  of 
the  fashionable  county  town  of 
G . 

By  this  arrangement  it  was  agreed 
that  Madame  M shpuld  receive 


400 


MiUff 


[Apnl, 


MHly  for  a  year,  and  teach  her  the 
biiaiiieas ;  that  she  should  board  her 
at  her  own  table,  and  allow  her  to 
pass  her  evenings  with  herself,  never 
reouiring  her  to  do  work  after  six 
o*cloek  in  the  afternoon,  for  which 
advantages  Mary  paid  down  at  once 
the  suni  of  50f. ;  she  farther  pro- 
mised to  her  sister  that  if  at  the  ex- 
piration of  the  year  she  should  desire 
to  begitt  badness  upon  her  own  ae- 
count,  she  would  again  advance  any 
nun  in  reason  to  set  her  up  in  it. 

All  this  was  kind ;  Milly  felt  it  so, 
and  she  submitted  with  the  l)est 
grace,  and  the  utmost  possible  con- 
cealment of  feeling,  to  the  blow  which 
had  been  inflicted  upon  her  heart. 

She   went  to  Madame  M — 


8. 


and,  as  she  learned  rapidly,  and  was 
of  a  sweet  and  obliging  temper,  she 
■oon  gained  the  ^ood  -  will  of  that 
lady,  notwithstanduig  that  she  looked 
pale  and  was  sometimes  caught  in 
the  fact  of  shedding  tears.  These 
iireumstances  did  a  little  depreciate 
from  her  merit,  for  they  made  Ma- 
dame M (who  was  a  truly  kind 

woman)  uncomfortable  and  anxious ; 
and  when  she  was  uncomfortable  and 
anxious,  she  was  very  apt  to  be  some- 
what irritable  also. 

Still  Milly  grew  in  her  favour, 
good- will  strengthened  into  affection, 
and  Milly  became  soon  quite  dear  to 
her  principal.  She  passed  her  even- 
ings with  her ;  often  cheered  her  with 
a  uttle  music  (for  Milly^s  education 
had  embraced  a  modest  attempt  at 
that  accomplishment) ;  she  read  to 
her,  or  played  with  her  children. 

Bo  things  went  on.  Milly  could 
not  but  attach  all  about  her;  her 
winning  and  unselfish  disposition  made 
her  a  most  valuable  inmate.  She 
grew  happy  to  find  herself  beloved, 
and  she  nad  satisfaction  in  the  con- 
sciousness that  she  was  improving 
in  her  knowledge  <^a  business  which 
would  hereafter  procure  her  a  com- 
fortable, perhaps  a  luxurious  liveli- 
hood. Sue  still  thought  upon  poor 
John,  but  the  tears  that  his  memory 
brought  were  now  less  Arequcnt  and 
never  witnessed.  In  the  secret  of 
her  bedroom  she  would  still  some- 
time passionately  weep;  but  even 
then  sne  would  rememlK^r  her  sister's 
cornful  words,  "  Would  you  throw 

lur  lot,  Milly,  with  a  tramping  man 

ho  has  not  a  shilling  in  his  pockets ; 

It  must  go  and  dig  the  Selds  or 


break  the  stones  ia  Ameriea,  heense 
he  can  find  nothing  to  do  here?  I 
wish  you  better  luck  than  that  at 
the  worst  that  can  fid!  to  yon!  ICo, 
no!  stay  by  your  old  friends,  and 
your  tried  friends,  and  aunt  and  I 
will  help  you  on  one  way  or  an- 
other.'' 

Now,  hail  not  her  sister  already 
in  some  sort  made  good  her  words  ? 
Then  time,  with  this  second  sorrow 
as  with  her  first,  was  woriLing  its 
effects.  T^me  can  soothe,  and  can 
harden,  too.  Poetry  may  deny  that 
H  has  power  to  heal  deep  wounds,  or 
to  weaken  deep  affections,  or  to 
render  callous  where  the  soul  was 
all  alive,  but  truth  and  fact  tell 
other  tales.  Certain  nt  is  that,  » 
week  by  week  passed  away,  ^liUy 
thought  witli  less  acuteness  of  grief 
of  the  love  which  had  been  torn 
fVom  her.  Possibly  she  drew  a 
mental  picture  of  some  strange,  »- 
vage,  uncleared  ground  in  the  lock 
settlements,  with  a  log  dwelling, 
endirining  herself,  her  late  lovers 
tools,  bacon,  and  smoke ;  and  con- 
trasted that  picture  with  her  actual 
circumstances,  living  as  she  was,  sur- 
rounded with  many  of  the  comforts 
of  life ;  she  might  glance  at  the  song 
little  parlour  in  which  she  passed  her 
evenings,  with  its  carj)et,  and  sofa, 
aud  mirror,  and  pictures ;  she  might 
think  of  the  decent  meals  decently 
served,  and  the  cheerful  ikccs  which 
so  often  peeped  in  upon  them;  sh^ 
might,  too,  have  added  to  the  former 
picture  the  thought  of  a  day  of  lan- 
guishing when  no  doctor  and  no 
neighbour  should  be  near,  and  not 
the  fondest  kindness  of  the  most  ten- 
der husband  could  minister  to  her 
needs. 

Doubtless  such  matters  were  not 
unthought  of;  whether  this  mental 
contrast  had  or  not  its  effects,  vre 
need  not  inquuie.  Then  her  fsthei^* 
grave,  and  the  two  living  ties  which 
bound  her  to  her  land  were  present 
to  her  mind ;  and  if  she  still  remeni' 
bered  John  with  tenderness,  she 
became  by  decrees  at  least  reconciled 
to  the  step  which  she  had  been  in- 
duced to  take. 

Thus  things  were  with  Millv 
when,  one  evening,  Madame  M- — 
gave  a  party.    Amon^t  the  guests 

t  here  was  a  Mr.  P ,  tlie  fkshionfthle 

shoe  and  boot-maker  of  the  town, 
who  engrossed  all  the  genteel  0S^ 


18^4 


A  Tale  of  FiHii  in  Humble  Life, 


401 


for  many  miles  tfonnd,  and  empk>7ed 
eighteea  men  at  conatant  work.  He 
WHS  not  joniigv  but  he  waa  handBome, 
and  a  great  beau ;  and,  being  a  rich 
and  flourishing  bachelor,  was  a  per- 
son of  weighty  eoninderation  amongst 
the  daughters  of  the  chief  shopkeepers 
of  the  place,  whose  parents  sought 
to  do  him  honour :  disinterested  at- 
tempt! 

Then  there  waa  a  widow  lady,  who 
had  retired  on  the  proceeds  of  a 
lucrative  huainess  which  her  husband 
had  carried  on  as  a  chemist.    She 

had  long  kept  her  eye  on  Mr.  V 

(she  was  in  the  second  year  of  her 
widowhood ;  she  had  begun,  poor 
disconsolate !  to  feel  that  she  must 
relieve  the  desolation  of  her  solitude 
when  her  affliction  dated  three 
months  old)  ;  she  had  made  cautious 

advances  to  Mr.  F ,  siush  advances 

as  she  hoped  might  escape  further 
observation  than  that  of  the  indi- 
vidual whom  they  were  intended  to 
invite.  In  fact,  muTUf  advances  were 
made  towards  him  from  many  quar- 
ters ;  but  he  had  hitherto  stood  proof, 
and  kept  his  own  counsel  or  his  own 
heart. 

The  ladies,  somewhat  exasperated, 
marvelled  to  find  him  iuvuluerable. 
Surely  he  was  a  strange  man ;  for  it 
was  strange  that  a  man  so  rich  and  so 
eligible  as  he,  should  appear  to  have 
no  thought  of  matrimony!    Would 
he  live  and  die  a  lorn  bachelor? 
Well,  so  he  might,  if  that  suited  his 
fancy;  so  he  might,  for  what  they 
cared.     But  it  waa  rather  provoking 
that  he  was  so  polite;  that  in  the 
bc^nning  of  an  acquaintance  you 
might  fancy  him  smitten  with  your- 
self; and  then  when  time  disabused 
you  of  that  flattering  idea,  he  was 
still  so  polite  that  he  would  allow 
nobody  a  plea  to  quarrel  with  him. 
On  the  night  of  which  we  speak, 

however,  the  watchful  Mr.  V 

seemed  thrown  off  his  guard.  He 
had  not  before  seen  Milly.  lie  long 
looked  at  her  from  across  the  room ; 
then  he  placed  himself  by  her;  he 
talked  with  her,  and  listened  to  her, 
and  asked  her  to  plav;  and  when 
she  played,  he'  said  he  had  never 
before  heard  such  music,  no,  not 
in  the  concerts  of  G or  of  Lon- 
don  (for    Mr.    P had     com^- 

menced  business  in  that  great  city). 
lie  never  left  her  side;  in  facU  he 
was  b^ioMA    Ih  bad  d«ted  plots 


and  thwarted  achemen ;  bet  the  art- 
less girl,  free  from  dissign^  whose 
thoughts  had  never  till  that  evening 

wandered  from   John    S ^   for 

whom  there  had  seemed,  so  fiur  as 
affection  was  concerned,  to  exist  no 
other  man  than  him  and  her  deceased 
parent ;  slie,  all  simple  as  she  was, 
had  cast  her  spell  u|)on  him ;  and  it 
bound  him  fast,  so  last  that  his  secret 
eonsciouaness  of  an  unhappy  fact  with 
the  whispers  of  prudence  and  of 
danger  which  it  inspired,  could  not 
breuc  it. 

Fairies  and  witches  may,  in  mo- 
dern days,  have  lost  tlieir  power; 
but  it  should  seem  that  the  spells 
which  fancy  casts  are  still  as  strong  as 
those  which  thev  once  threw.  The 
rich  widow,  and  tke  expectant  parents, 
and  the  several  daughters  of  the 
several  prospering  firms,  felt  them* 
selves  bafiied;  and,  seeing  that  idl 
hope  was  over,  retreated  from  the 
ground.  But  what  was  to  Milly  the 
advantage  she  had  gained?  Was 
it,  indeed,  an  advantage?  Of  the 
fftct  that  she  had  captivated  the  ad- 
miration of  the  fashionable  shoe- 
maker of  G ^  she  could  not  but 

be  conscious ;  but  what  was  that  to 
her  ?  Had  she  not  loved  and  wept 
for  John ;  and,  when  prevented  from 
uniting  her  lot  to  his,  had  she  not 
felt  that  her  heart  was  dead  to  every 
other  affection?  Had  she  not  cherished 
a  vague  secret  hoiMS,  that  the  day 
might  come  when  John,  a  rich  and 
thriving  man,  returned  with  his  for- 
tune in  his  hand,  might  once  again 
claim  her  for  his  own  ;  and,  being  rich 
and  prosperous,  find  no  opposition 
from  her  eldest  sister?  She  had  a 
shrewd  consciousness  that  John,  rich 
and  prosperous,  tpoultl  find  no  oppo- 
sition from  that  quarter.  But  air- 
built  castks  crumble  down  when  set 
in  contrast  with  the  vivid  interest  of 
present  circumstances,  and  old  affec- 
tions weaken  under  the  exciting  fer- 
vour of  new  emotions. 

Let  no  reader  exelaim,  ^'Fickle, 
faithless  girl!"  when  we  tell  that 
Milly  did  not  contemplate,  without 
a  secret  satisfaetion,  the  conquest  that 
she  had  made ;  for,  readers,  the  same 
elements  which  composed  her  nature 
exist  in  yours  also.  Still,  if  she  felt 
satisfaction,  it  was  vague ;  it  brou^^ht 
no  purpose,  and  stimulated  no  wish. 
If  Milly  at  that  moment  had  been 
mk^i  to  warry  hie*  P ^  i^  * 


403 


MUlyL- 


[April, 


» 


bable  thsi  she  would  have  refined, 
and  that  the  proposal  and  refusal 
would  have  served  to  call  into  re- 
newed  vigour  her  teDdemess  for  John 

S^ .     The  experiment  was  not 

tried. 

The   next   morning    Mr.  F 

called  on  Madame  M .    She  took 

him  into  her  own  private  work-room ; 
he  sat  long  talking  with  her  and  with 
Millj,  who  was  her  companion  there. 
He  talked  of  much  that  he  had  seen, 
of  life  in  London,  of  his  run  down 
to  the  lakes  in  the  summer  (to  com- 
plete the  pleasure  of  which,  a  com- 
panion only  had  been  wanting  to 
Aim);  of  the  mountains  and  the 
water-fiills,  and  the  lake-trcut ;  and 
when  at  last  he  went,  after  having 
spent  the  morning  in  that  little 
work-room,  Mill/s  heart  fluttered. 
8he  thought  he  was  an  agreeable 
man ;  she  thought  also  it  was  pleasant 
to  be  rich. 

"  Well,"  said  Madame  M ^  who 

had  looked  at  her  good-naturedly 
for  the  last  few  minutes,  whilst 
Milly,  unconscious  of  the  gaaee,  had 
been  lost  in  her  own  contemplations, 
**  well,  what  are  you  thinking  of, 
Milly  ?" 

mUly  blushed. 

"  I — I — I  wonder  whether  this 

will  fit  the  dress,  Madame  M ?" 

said  she,  holding  up  the  cape  which 
she  was  trimming. 

''Ah,  yes,  it  wUl  fit!"  said  that 
lady,  with  a  smile.  "  Well,  well,  I 
will  not  trouble  you  to  tell  me  your 
thoughts;  but  TU  tell  you  mine, 
Milly.  *Tis  clear  you  have  made 
your  fortune,  and  a  lucky  girl  you 
are;  you  came  to  me  to  learn  a 
business,  and  besides  the  bargain  I 
have  found  for  you  a  husband ;  and  I 
am  right  elad  for  you,  Milly,  for  he 
is  a  worthy  man,  and  bears  an  ex- 


cellent name,  as  well  as  being  rich ! 
''  Oh,  nonsense,  Madame  M 


I 


I  have  only  seen  him  twice.    Pray, 
pray,  do  not  talk  in  that  way;  I  b<^ 

Sou  not  I  He  has,  it  seems,  taken  a 
ttle  fancy  to  me,  but  it  will  wear 
off  again.  He  knows  that  I  am  a 
poor  girl,  not  suited  to  him.** 

''  My  dear  Milly,  be  careful ;  see 
how  you  are  crumpling  that  cape. 
There,  now,  put  your  work  down  a 
little.  Here,  let  me  smooth  it ;  that 
will  do.  No,  do  not  take  it  again 
just  yet;  you  forget  what  you  are 
doipg  with  your  finger?.    Well,  well, 


my  dear,  you  do  riglit  not  to  he  too 
certain ;  but  I  see  now  it  will  be,  and 
I  thank  Heaven  for  sending  the  poor 
orphan  to  me,  if  it  was  to  ^d  in  such 
a  turn  of  fortune  as  this !"  and  Ma- 
dame M laughed  in  her  delight 

and  kissed  her  heartily,  and  laughed 
again,  and  promiaed  to  say  noUung 
more  about  the  matter. 

From  that  time  Mr.  P became 

a  fireauent  visitor  at  the  milliner's; 
usually  in  the  evening,  but  sometimes 
in  the  morning  also.  He  was  well 
dressed  and  handaome,  had  much  to 
sav,  and  had  a  particular  delight  in 
addressing  himself  to  Milly  and  hear- 
ing her  replies. 

Now,  as  he  sat  in  eager  listening 
for  her  voice,  and  she  felt  henelf 
admired  and  loved,  ia  it,  reader,  Tery 
marvellous  that  pleasure  stole  into 
her  soul,  and  that  the  image  and  the 
memory  of  John  were  fiMling  last 
before  the  constant  presence  of  her 
new  and  ardent  lover  P 

One  morning  Mr.  P betook 

himself  to  the  street.  He  came  in 
sight  of  the  millinery  establishment, 
and  there  he  loitered.  Now  and  then 
he  cast  a  furtive  glance  in  that  direc- 
tion ;  he  put  on  the  air  of  a  man  who 
was  waitmg  in  expectation  of  a  per- 
son who  dfl  not  arrive.  What  was 
he  loitering  there  for  ? 

It  was  Saturday.    He  knew  it  was 

a  habit  with  Madame  M >  when 

her  home  employment  was  not  so 
pressing  as  to  prevent  it,  to  go  on 
that  morning  to  the  school  where  her 
children  daily  attended,  to  hear  them 
para  through  their  little  weekly  ex- 
amination. Did  he  desire  to  hear  it 
also?  Was  he  waiting  to  sue  for 
that  favour  ?    It  seemed  not ;  for  b» 

soon  as  he  had  seen  Madame  M 

leave  her  door  and  fairly  turn  the 
other  corner,  he  advanced  to  the  rei7 
door  from  which  she  had  issued,  and 
knocked  himself.  K  there  had  been 
a  prying  listener  just  within  hun, 
that  listener  might  have  heard  him 
say  to  himself,  *^  Lucky  thing  that 
tbere*s  not  enough  work  to  keep  her 
at  home  to-day ;  I  should  have  grum- 
bled to  lose  my  second  watch.  Now, 
children,  stammer  and  bungle,  snd 
take  double  time,  and  suaar-pluois 
to  the  slowest  amongst  you T*  How- 
ever, when  the  door  was  opened, 

Mr.  P said,  **  Madame  M ^ 

homer 

^'  Nq,l  sir,**  a{^d  the  bo^. 


1846.1 


A  Tale  of  Fact  w  Humble  Life. 


403 


U 


^UnfoTtnnate!  but  I  willleaTe  a 
for  her  with  Misg  L— — . 
—  at  home?** 
sir;  would  yoa  please  to 
walk  in  ?'' 

When  Milly  heard  that  Mr.  P 

desired  to  see  her,  and  was  waiting 
with  that  object  in  the  parlour,  she 
felt  a  palpitation  under  her  chest- 
bone;  moreover,  the  blood  rushed 
quickly  to  her  cheeks  and  temples, 
and,  giving  one  ghince  into  the  work- 
room  glass,  she  saw  that  she  must 
wait  a  few  minutes  before  it  would 
be  expedient  to  descend.  In  those 
few  minutes  she  had  time  to  ask  her- 
self, fifty  times  at  least, ''  AVhat  does 
he  want?  Why  does  he  ask  for 
me?**  Something  within  whispered 
an  uncertain  coy  reply;  yet  that 
inward  voice  seemed  to  please  her, 
for  it  brought  a  smile.    She  went 

down.     Mr.  P accosted  her : — 

^*  I  have  taken  the  liberty.  Miss 

L J  to  ask  to  see  you,  in  order 

that  I  might  leave  a  little  mcssa|;e 

with  you  for  Madame  M .    Will 

you  please  to  convey  it  for  me  ?" 

''  Oh,  indeed !  that  is  all,**  thought 
Milly ;  ^'  how  vain  and  foolish  I  have 
been!** 

She  listened  to  his  charge,  which 
concerned  a  poor  woman,  about  whom 

both  he  and  Madame  M had 

taken  interest,  and  promised  to  de- 
liver it.  But  that  was  not  all.  He 
went  on : — 

"  Will  you,  my  dear  Miss  L , 

allow  me  the  opportunity  which 
finding  you  alone  affords  me,  and 
for  which  I  bless  my  luck,  to  speak 
to  you  on  a  matter  which  deeply 
concerns  myself?  I  need  not  tell  you 
the  tale  of  my  love ;  you  must  long 
have  known  that  I  love  you  passion- 
ately. A  few  words  must  tell  you 
what  I  have  to  say.  I  am  too  much 
in  earnest  and  too  anxious  to  lengthen 
out  vaj  speech.  In  short,  then,  I 
desire  you  to  be  mine;  I  love  you 
to  such  a  point  that  I  can  no  longer 
live  vrithout  you.  Will  yon  bless 
my  wishes  and  be  my  wife?** 

lie  looked  deadly  pale,  his  knees 
were  trembling,  and  his  voice 
trembled :  his  manner  was  wild.  Oh, 
Milly  I  unsuspecting,  innocent  Mill^ ! 
had  you  known  a  little  more  of  life 
and  man,  you  might  have  seen  some- 
thing like  a  determination  to  brave 
a  desperate  venture  in  that  strange 
perturbation ;  a  salutary  doubt  might 


have  arisen  to  save  von ;  but  no»  no 
ill-surmisings  troubled  vour  con- 
fiding heart ;  you  saw  only  in  these 
things  proofs  of  your  lover*s  fond- 
ness, and  you  faltered  your  reply, 
that  you  **  would  consult  your  sister 
and  your  aunt,  without  whom  you 
could  not  act.** 

*^  But  will  you  not  give  me  one 

word.  Miss  L ^  one  word  only 

that  may  tell  me  what  your  own 
heart  says?  Are  you  to  be  quite 
ruled  by  others  in  your  most  per- 
sonal affairs?  Have  you  no  will, 
no  choice  for  yourself?  I  will 
make  you  a  kind  husband,  in- 
deed ;  and  as  to  comforts,  I  can  give 
you  not  much  less  of  them  than  a 
lord  gives  his  lady ;  for  I  am  rich,  as 
you  know,  and  my  business  is  in- 
creasing every  year.  I  have  esta- 
blishments in  three  towns  besides 
this,  and  here,  you  know,  I  keep 
eighteen  men  at  constant  work.** 

Idilly  saw  the  dazzling  prospect 
held  out ;  she  felt  the  charm  of  hav- 
ing a  man  whom  she  deemed  her  su- 
perior at  her  feet ;  the  faint  thought 

of  John  S was  banished  by  the 

question,  '*  Am  I  always  to  live  sin- 
gle because  I  was  prevented  firom 
marrying  him?**  and  she  spoke  the 
truth  when  she  answered, — 

^  If  I  were  to  act  upon  my  own 
wish  without  consulting  my  friends, 
I  should  accept  your  proposal,  Mr. 

P .    I  gratefully  tnank  you  for 

it ;  but  I  received  my  dying  father*s 
charge  to  take  no  step  lilce  this  with- 
out consulting  my  sister  and  my 
aunt.  You  will  then,  I  am  sure, 
consent  that  I  should  do  so  ?** 

Mr.  P could  hardly  stammer 

out  his  thanks  to  her  for  that  ex- 
pression of  her  own  wish ;  his  pale- 
ness had  been  exchanged  for  flush, 
and  that  had  died  away  into  a  livid 
blue ;  the  cold  sweat  stood  upon  his 
brow,  and  he  had  sense  of  suffoca- 
tion. Milly  saw  that  he  was  ill,  and 
in  perplexity  and  alarm  was  doubt- 
ing how  to  act  when  he  relieved 
her. 

"The  air,**  he  said,  **will  revive 
me.  I  am  a  little  faint  ;**  and  he  ab- 
ruptly cut  short  the  interview  and 
retirra. 

For  some  moments,  however,  after 
he  reached  the  external  air,  he  did 
not  feel  himself  revived,  a  mist  bur 
before  his  eyes,  his  head  swam  row 
be  leaned  against  the  hoiue  or 


404 


Mill^  L , 


[Ajwil. 


would  have  Mktn.  Graditaliy  these 
sensatioiis  dcereased ;  and  as  he  be- 
gan to  recollect  where  he  wb!>,  and 
what  he  bad  been  doing,  he  looked 
around  to  see  if  he  had  been  ob- 
served :  it  aeemed  not ;  for  all  the 
passers  up  and  down  were  intent  each 
upon  liis  separate  affairs,  and  no  one 
was  near  him.  lie  struck  his  clenclied 
fist  upon  his  brow.  ^*  There  is  judg- 
ment in  it,"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
'^  there  is  judgment  following  it-^ 
dare  I  carry  it  through  ?  And  why 
should  I  ?  Fool  or  madman  that  I 
am,  to  thrust  my  own  neck  into  tlie 
net,  and  all  for  a  penniless  girl  with 
a  pretty  face !  But  I  will  write  to 
her  and  say,  that  I  did  not  offer  to 
lier  aunt  and  sister ;  and  as  it  is  by 
them  that  I  am  to  be  accepted  or  re- 
fused, I  will  decline  the  bargain." 

For  an  hour  or  two  he  kept  in 
that  resolution,  but  it  was  vain  ;  the 
purpose  faded  before  it  had  been  fully 
forined ;  and  the  haunting  ghost  that 
liad  troubled  his  memory  was  driven 
forth  by  mad,  intoxicating  delight. 
That  evening,  too,  he  drank  to  in- 
toxication ;  not  in  the  exciting  guest- 
room, but  in  his  own  ouiet  parlour, 
deliberately,  and  slowly,  and  with 
the  purpose  to  banish  thought. 

AVhen  Milly  found  herself  alone 
after  his  abrupt  departure,  and  re- 
flected on  the  scene  that  had  passed, 
the  crisis  and  tunung  point,  as  it 
seemed  to  her,  in  her  little  histoiy, 
the  circumstance  which  determined 
and  opened  to  her  knowledge  its  fu- 
ture, ^le  was  neither  ehited  nor 
happy — a  sinking  of  heart,  indeed, 
came  upon  her.  Yet  she  was  satis- 
fied, it  had  happened  to  her  accord- 
ing to  her  wish;  ambition  was  at 
work  within  her.  Ambition  is  a 
craving  passion;  if  it  be  not  early 
crushed— absolutely  crushed  in  tlie 
breast  in  which  it  springs,  it  will  de- 
mand its  gratiiicntion,  though  it  be 
at  the  cost  of  happiness.  Milly  would 
not  have  the  case  other  than  it  was. 

Strange,  she  thought,  that  now  of 
all  times  John  S should  stub- 
bornly dwell  upon  her  mind,  and 
that  every  little  circumstance  that 
happened  on  that  summer  night, 
when  he  declared  to  her  his  love, 
would  come  crowding  on  her  me- 
mory with  vividness  which  made 
the  whole  scene  pass  again  within 
her.  She  could  wish  tlut  she  had 
0eT«r  iuAwn  him{  but  bis  afi^r  wm 


settled  long  sinee,  and  her  sister  bad 
done  right  Was  she  tlien  always  to 
remain  single  because  she  had  been 
prevented  from  marryhig  him' 
Surely  not.  And  what  a  proviskn 
for  a  poor  orphan  was  that  whivh 
had  opened  before  her!  Yes,  »he 
was  contented,  gratified:  eonteiktal 
and  gratified,  but  not  happy. 

Madame  ^I returned.    Mil(v 

told  her  what  had  passed. 

^'  You  are  a  lucky  ^irl,  indeed," 
said  that  warm-hearted  lady.  ''  (tod 
bless  you  I  who  would  have  tboni^bt 
it  P  Dear  me,  I  am  so  gbd — so  gl^l 
my  child  ;'*  and  she  kissed  her,  a&! 
chuckled,  and  kissed  her  again ;  a»il 
to  see  her  face  irradiated  with  pita* 
sure,  one  might  have  fairly  snppuKii 
that  it  was  herself  who  had  received 
a  most  satisfactory  proposal,  or  \hu 
she  had  just  received  the  tidings  of 
a  fortune  leil  to  Iter,  or  that  sontt 
high  honour  had  fallen  unon  hu. 
or  that  some  important  and  long-Wil 
plan  had  just  met  complete  soeciA. 

They  chatted  for  some  time  over  \\^ 
affair,  and  then  both  sat  down  to  mthc 
to  Milly*s  aunt  and  sister.  Millj,  t-^ 
state  the  case,  and  seek  their  coaseat: 

and  Madame  M ,  to  assure  tb«.ia 

that  Milly *8  reprcsentattous  were  n)t 
made  couleur  de  ro$e^  but  that  Mr. 

p ^  as  a  mau  of  high  rospectaliil* 

ity  of  character  and  of  aasurea  weslth. 
would  make  a  most  eligible  psrtiKr 
for  the  orphan. 

Mrs.  Martlta  and  her  elder  nktf 
communicated  together  on  the  tw^\^ 
of  these  letters,  and  then  wrott;  ^o 
congratulate  Milly  and  to  exprts^ 
their  hearty  approbation  of  her  ms- 

riage  with  Air.  P ;  they  wn»4f. 

also,  to  thank  IMadame  M fortk 

kind  part  which  she  had  taken  io 
the  affair. 

Milly^s  spirits  rose ;  and  nve  that 
Mrs.  Martha,  in  the  roidat  of  her  «•- 
tisfaetiout  was  somewhat  irritated  ^ 
tlte  thought  of  losing  her  nieci'it|^' 
darling  of  her  old  age,  all  \An^ 
M'ere  in  high  good-humour  with  ea^h 

other.  Mr.  P was  to  be  foruwil} 

accepted,  and  Madame  M wn  '^ 

a  little  note  on  pink  paper,  fra^raat 
of  v(»rbena,  to  request  hun  to  pi^ 
that  everting  at  her  house. 

He  came.  A  tvie-u-tilt  with  ^Itilv^ 
settled  the  aflair,  and  the  t'\tninx 
pa.<«ed  with  hilarity  and  joy. 

Madamo  M siivetheni  her  Tt** 

Ijt'italkma,  shook  la^m  both  *iU'C- 


1846.] 


A  Tale  of  Fact  in  Bumble  Life. 


405 


tionately  by  tlie  hand,  and  kisaing 
MillVf  said, — 

^  She  is  like  a  child  to  me,  ^fr. 

P .    I  love  her  almost  as  well  as 

one  of  my  own ;  and  as  you  made 
ytHir  first  acquaintance  here,  I  invite 
you  heartily  to  finish  the  matter 
liere,  and  to  be  married  from  my 
house.  I  will  write  to  Milly*s  sister 
and  aunt  to  come  over  and  spend 
tlic  wedding  week  with  us." 

Both  cordially  thanked  her,  and 
the  arrangement  was  made. 

And  now  the  betrothed  met  daily ; 
presents  poured  in  upon  Milly ;  a 
thousand  little  marks  of  love  sur- 
rounded  her;  she  forgot  the  past, 
threAv  her  soul  into  her  circum- 
stances; and  her  life  for  the  next 
few  weeks  was  one  of  intoxicating 
delight. 

The   same  time  with  Mr.  P 

was  spent  in  the  alternation  of  high 
spirits  with  fits  of  murky  gloom. 
Sometimes  his  sleep  would  be  broken 
by  a  atart,  or  in  a  waking  dream  he 
wonld  strike  his  forehead,  muttering, 
^^  Fool !  infatuated  fool  that  I  am,  to 
let  a  fair  face  beguile  me  into  ruin ! 
I  might,  too,  have  some  pity  on  her, 
BO  lovely  and  confiding;"  but  then 
he  wottla  answer  to  himself,  ^*  I  must 
onward  now,  at  any  risk ;  the  price 
may  never  be  demanded.  Yes,  I  will 
take  the  present  pleasure,  and  leave 
the  rest  to  fate." 

But  no  ear  heard  these  soliloquies, 
and  no  eye  saw  this  gloom,  unless,  in- 
deed, the  spirits  who  surround  us  in 
the  air  are  cognisant  of  our  doings, 
ay,  and  of  our  thinkings,  too.  Thev 
may  see  portions  of  that  of  which 
the  Great  Spirit  sees  all. 

But  Milly  saw  her  lover  only  in 
his  glee,  and  found  her  ignorance 
her  bliss.  Then  came  the  weddingr 
week.  The  aunt  and  sister  arrived 
three  days  before  the  one  appointed, 
to  help  the  preparation. 

Milly  haci  many  questions  to  ask ; 
and  Mrs.  Martha  much  to  tell  about 
the  village  and  their  neighbours.  At 
last  tlie  latter  said,  (the  words  came 
not  smoothly  but  laliouring  forth), — 

"And  there's  John  S ,  too. 

You  know,  Milly,  he  was  like  to  hear 
what's  to  lie ;  so  he  came  to  mv  hou% 
last  night,  and  went  sore,  and  would 
not  leave  it  till  1  had  promised  to 
carry  his  message  to  you :  *  Take 
jny  duty  to  her,"  he  said;  *and  my 
W«t  wishes  fox  her  bappioeM:  and 


tell  her  I  shall  pray  God  to  bless  her, 
though  mv  heart's  breaking  the 
while.'  Well,  Milly,  and  he's  gone 
now ;  he  went  off  this  morning  for 
Bristol,  and  by  this  time  he*s  sailed ; 
and,  my  girl,  my  best  wish  for  ye  is, 
that  ye  may  have  as  fond  a  heart  as 
his  with  a  better  fortune." 

Milly  could  make  no  reply.  She 
hail  left  her  work  up- stairs,  she 
hastened  for  it,  shut  herself  into  her 
room,  and  the  tears  fell  profusel}'. 
Angrily  she  asked  herself,  "What 
have  I  to  do  to  weep  for  any  thing 
that  John  could  say?  1  that  am 
three  days  later  to  be  the  wife  of  an- 
other man?"  Still  the  tears  fell. 
**  It  was  so  tender,  so  generous,  that 
message.  God  help  him,  and  pros- 
per him,  and  make  him  happy  an- 
other way,"  thought  she;  and  then 
she  rose  and  washed  her  eyes,  and 
looked  at  her  wedding-dress  in  pro- 
gress of  making ;  and  was  sure  she 
had  wci>t  at  the  kindness  of  the  mes- 
sage, and  by  no  means  at  thought  of 
him  who  sent  it ;  and  then  she  drove 
the  thing  altogether  from  her  mind, 
and  went  down-stairs  again  and  spent 
a  gay  evening  in  that  gay  narty. 

The  morning  da wned—tnat  morn- 
ing which  was  to  make  Milly  a  bride. 
The  bridegroom  was  at  her  side,  and 
the  service  commenced.  The  solemn 
charge  was  read :  "  I  require  and 
charge  you  both,  as  ye  will  answer  at 
the  dreadful  day  of  judgment,  when 
the  secrets  of  all  hearts  shall  be  dis- 
closed, that  if  either  of  you  know 
any  impediment  why  ye  may  not 
be  lawfully  joined  together  in  ma- 
trimony, ye  do  now  confess  it.  For  be 
ye  well  assured  that  so  many  as  are 
coupled  together  otherwise  than 
God's  word  doth  allow,  are  not 
joined  together  by  God,  neither  is 
their  matrimony  lawfVil.** 

Milly's  eye,  which  had  wandered 
firom  tne  pavement  of  the  church  to 
her  bridegroom,  and  from  her  bride- 
groom to  the  pavement  of  the  churchy 
was  held  and  fixed  now  by  observ- 
ing upon  his  face  that  blue  and 
giiastly  look — that  look  of  terror, 
which  she  had  once  before  seen  it 
wear ;— that  was  the  moment  of  sus- 
pense when  he  made  his  proposal  and 
waited  for  her  reply ;  now  all  was 
fixed  and  sure.  "NV^hat  could  it  mean  ? 

Others,  also,  saw  the  trace  of  some 
strange  and  deep  emotion,  for  thf 
clergyman  bad  seen  it  $  and  be  ma^ 


406 


Milly  L^ 


a  pause— a  aolemn,  lengthened  pause, 
wnich  called  every  eye  first  to  him- 
self, then  to  the  bridal  pair.  No 
word  was  spoken,  and  he  resumed. 
Doubtless  some  thoughts  of  wonder 
had  been  raised,  but  they  subsided 
soon.  The  service  was  affecting,  the 
lover  ardent — was  not  that  enough 
to  account  for  emotion?  Surely  it 
was. 

The  service  was  concluded.  It 
was  recorded  in  the  parish-registers 

that  Edward  F ,  bachelor,  had 

married  Milly  L ^  spinster,  on 

the  5th  of  Alay  in  the  year  18 — ; 
and  the  signatures  were  formally  af- 
fixed and  formally  witnessed. 

In  the  carriage  which  bore  them 

back  to  Madame  M ^'s,  Mr.  P 

embraced  his  wife,  laughed  hvsteric- 
ally,  shed  tears  of  joy,  and  declared 
himself  the  most  happy  man  living. 
So  he  seemed.  Amidst  the  blessings 
and  congratulations  of  their  friends 
they  set  out  for  a  wedding -tour. 
They  passed  a  month  in  Scotland. 

Mr.  P was  all  tenderness  and 

affection  to  Milly :  he  watched  her 
every  look,  and  was  beforehand 
almost  with  her  very  thoughts,  and 
procured  her  many  a  pleasure  that 
she  never  dreamed  to  ask.  Even  her 
father*s  tenderness  in  the  days  of  her 
happy  childhood  had  not  equalled 
his.  As  before  her  marriage,  so  still, 
it  was  a  dream  of  intoxicating  de- 
light. 

At  length  they  returned  to  home, 
and  business^  and  family  cares.  All 
had  prospered  in  their  absence ;  the 
foreman  nad  been  faithful,  the  con- 
cern was  flourishing;  the  cares  of 
business  did  not  in  the  least  abate 
the  tenderness  of  the  husband,  though, 
of  course,  they  occupied  a  portion  of 
his  time.  Aully  helped  him ;  she 
kept  accounts,  made  out  bills,  wrote 
orders,  inspected  work.  In  short,  M 
went  well ;  and  very  happy  were 
the  married  paur. 

Yet  Milly  had  her  secret  uneasi- 
ness :  for  breaking  upon  their  dream 
of  love,  there  would  come  by  times 

upon  Mr.  P fits  of  moodmess, — 

true,  the  fit  soon  passed  off ;  and  after 
it  he  would  usually  appear  more  gay 
and  elated  than  before.  In  sleep, 
too,  he  would  sometimes  suddenly 

rt  and  wake  as  if  some  dreadful 

^n  passed  before  him ;  then  Milly 

d  express  concern ;  but  he  gently 

^.  at  her  fears^  and  told  her  that 


[April, 

he  had  always  been  subject  to  night- 
mares in  sleep,  and  to  occanonal  fits 
of  lowness  by  day ;  and  Milly  was 
fain  to  appear  at  ease. 

Surely,  surely,  he  oovdd  not  have 
some  crime  upon  his  conscienoe ! — thst 
thought  was  too  dreadful  to  be  held 
a  moment.  "Oh  no,  no,  no,"  she 
said  to  herself,  **  whiit  wrong  I  do 
him!  High  and  low  through  the 
whole  place  give  him  a  fair  xuune, 
and  shall  his  wi/e  suspect  him  ?*" 

Could  it  be  a  thieatenins  of  in- 
sanity ?  that,  also,  was  too  dreadful 
an  idea;  she  thrust  it  fVomher.  Was 
not  his  own  explanation  enough? 
Why  make  herself  wretched  with 
fancied  sorrows?  Was  she  not  sure 
before  life  was  out  to  find  leal  ones  f 
She  would  not  be  thankless  and 
faithless.  So  she  stifled  the  fean 
which  yet  from  time  to  time  arose 
again. 

Yet  the  occasions  exciting  tbem 
were  few  and  far  between  ;  and  not- 
withstanding their  occurrence  Milly** 
life  was  happy— yes,  happy,  niuch 
beyond  the  general  lot.  Her  sister 
had  visited  her,  and  her  aunt  had 
made  a  long  stay  with  her ,-  and  she 
had  been  with  her  husband  to  Lon- 
don, that  he  might  make  some  pur- 
chases for  his  business,  and  shew  her 
sights. 

She  clung  to  him  with  fond  affec- 
tion. Then,  after  the  business  of  the 
day,  they  passed  their  evenings  to- 
gether, so  pleasantly,  so  peaceful/^* 
They  would  stroll  out  together  m 
the  summer  sunset ;  or  at  omer  tim^ 
she  would  play  to  him ;  or  be  would 
read  to  her  whilst  she  made  the  tiny 
garments  for  the  infant  that  they 
now  expected.  Seldom  she  thought 
had  there  been  happiness  like  theirs. 
They  had  been  married  now  nearly 
two  years. 

One  sunny  morning  after  break' 

fast  Mr.  P ordered  his  horse. 

He  was  going  to  see  a  distant  cus' 
tomer,  and  to  engage  a  nurse  for 
Millv's  prospective  need.  He  kiss^ 
her  before  ne  went.  "  It  will  take 
me  three  hours,  love.  Do  not  think 
Jetty  has  thrown  me  if  I  am  no( 
here  tUl  one."  Still  he  hung  about 
her,  played  with  her  ringlets,  stroked 
her  neck,  arranged  her  book  and 
implements  of  work  upon  her  little 
table,  and  then  fondly  imprinting 
another  kiss  upon  her  forehead,  ran 
dowi^-stairs* 


1846.] 


A  Tale  of  Foci  in  Hutnble  Life. 


407 


2^w,  why  was  Milly  oppressed 
ivith  TCiue  of  sadness  P  Sne  was 
iw^cU ;  the  morning  was  bright ;  her 
liiisband  Was  kind— most  kind ;  their 
affairs  were  prospering.  Why  then 
did  Milly  feel  a  sinking  of  heart,  a 
foreboding  fear  of  ill  ? 

Is  therein  the  curious  and  delicate 
mechanism  of  man  some  fine  and 
bidden  sense  leaded  in  mysterious 
sympathy  with  his  destiny  ?  Is  there 
some  subtle  fluid  within  him  which 
bcxximes  agitated  or  congealed  as  the 
meshes  of  fate  draw  around  him? 
some  animal  mercury  which  shrinks 
-within  its  sensitive  tubes,  as  the 
storm  of  adversity  gathers?  Some 
sad  presentiment,  some  vague  fore- 
knowledge of  impending  doom  P 
Why  el^  was  Milly  sad  when  all 
around  was  gay  P 

But  she  was  sad;  and  as  she  sat 
listlessly  unemployed,  the  servant 
entered, — 

*•  There's  a  person  at  the  door, 
ma'am,  asking  for  master.  I  told  her 
he  was  out,  but  she  says  she  will  not 
go  away;  she  will  wait  for  his  re- 
turn, for  she  must  see  him." 

**  ril  go  to  her  myself,"  said  Milly ; 
*'  you  need  not  wait." 

She  went,  and  accosting  the  stran- 
ger, said,— 

"  Mr.  P is  not  at  home ;  but 

if  you  like  to  leave  a  message  with 
me  I  will  deliver  it  to  him,  or  you 
can  call  again." 

**  Who  are  you  ?"  said  the  woman. 

"  I  am  Mrs.  P .  I  do  not  wish 

to  receive  your  message  if  you  do 
not  like  to  leave  it." 

A  look  of  indignation  and  con- 
tempt overshot  the  features  of  the 
stranger  as  she  said, — 

"  xou,  Mrs.  P 1  you,  his  wife !" 

It  seemed,  however,  to  melt  in  pity, 
as  she  added,  "  Poor  young  creature  I 
and  he's  had  the  heart  to  be  that 
villain !" 

•*  What  do  you  mean  P"  said  Milly, 
with  a  look  of  an^er  not  unmixed 
with  terror.  "  Is  it  of  my  husband 
that  you  speak  to  me  in  such  terms  P 
If  you  came  here  to  insult  me  you 
liad  better  go;"  and  she  was  about 
to  close  the  door. 

"No,"  said  the  visitor,  stepping 
within  it,  and  placing  her  hand  upon 
the  handle,  "  In  o,  I  am  not  so  easily 
to  be  disposed  of  as  that  neither.    I 

shall  wait  here  for  Mr.  P ;  but 

there's  more  between  us  than  you 


think.  Pd  be  inclined  to  pity  you, 
for  there's  a  black  page  before  you ; 
and  it's  none  of  your  own  fault  I 
Some  sin  and  suffer,  and  some  suffer 
without  sinning ;  but  you  must  give 
me  civil  words. 

Milly  now  thought  her  insane. 
She  assured  her,  that  for  herself  she 
was  a  very  happy  woman,  and  in  no 
need  of  pity ;  that  she  desired  to  be 
civil  to  all  ner  fellow-creatures ;  that 
if  the  stranger   had  business  with 

Mr.  P f  she  had  certainly  better 

call  again,  for  he  vnB  out  for  several 
hours. 

"  No,"  said  the  woman,  resolutely ; 
"I  wait  here  now:  shew  me  into  a 
room." 

Milly  made  a  movement  in  retreat. 
She  was  about  to  call  help  from  the 
work-room  of  the  shop. 

The  visitor  made  a  movement  in 
advance,  laid  her  hand  upon  Milly's 
arm,  and  said, — 

"  Be  wise ;   you  will  hurt  both 

yourself  and  Mr.  P if  you  make 

a  commotion.  Your  fate  nangs  on 
my  business.  I  am  his  wife ;  and  his 

real  name  is  Edward  K ."    She 

held  a  paper  before  Milly's  eyes, 
still  firmly  retaining  it  in  her  own 
hands.    It  was  a  certificate  of  the 

marriage    of  Edward  K with 

Elizabeth  N ,  in  the  parish  church 

of ,  in  the  city  of  London,  on 

the  4th  day  of  February,  18—.  It 
was  signed,  and  appeared  perfect. 
Milly's  brain  reeled ;  her  eyes  fixed ; 
for  a  few  moments  she  neither  saw, 
nor  heard,  nor  remembered.  The 
stranger  was  alarmed,  she  thought  a 
fit  was  coming  on;  she  supported 
Milly  by  her  arm,  and  knocked 
again  at  the  open  door. 

The  servant  appeared  and  brought 
a  chair  and  water.  Milly  soon  re- 
vived ;  and  remembering  the  dread- 
ful fact,  she  said  to  the  servant, 
"  It  was  only  a  little  faintnew ;  it  is 
gone  now.  Tliis  person  will  wait 
for  Mr.  P .  I  will  take  her  up- 
stairs with  me;  and  as  I  am  not 
quite  well  you  need  not  shew  in  any 
visitors  this  morning." 

The  suddenness  and  violence  of 
the  shock  had  for  a  moment  upset 
her ;  but  there  was  true  courage 
about  that  simple  character— courage 
to  meet  a  trying  emergency — cou- 
rage to  sustain  adversity  and  change. 

When  they  were  alone,  and 
door  was  closed,  Milly  said, — 


408 


Milly  L- 


[April, 


«*  If  the  tak  which  that  eertificate 
pretends  to  tell  were  true,  mine 
would  be  indeed  a  dreadfol  case ;  but  I 
trust,  and  I  believe  that  it  will  prove 
a  forgery.  No  nian*s  character  stands 
higher  than  Mr.  P 's.    I  do  not 


beTieve  him  capable  of  this  crime ! 
Now,  consider  what  will  be  the  vi- 
sitation on  jou  if  it  is  proved  that 
you  have  made  this  tale,  and  forged 
that  paper.*' 

'^Ikse  metal  may  shine  for  gold 
till  the  li|[ht  comes,"  said  the  strangA*. 
"My  evidence  is  strong  and  clear. 
I  have  means  to  prove  the  talc  I  tell ; 

but  you  will  see  Mr.  P will  not 

put  it  to  that ;  he  dare  not.  From 
my  heart  Pm  sorry  for  you,  poor 
thmg  1  but  I  cannot  help  your  fate ; 
and  of  the  two  Pm  the  greatest  suf- 
ferer. Now,  if  you  could  bear  to  hear 
it  I  would  tell  you  all  about  my  mar- 
riage with  him,  and  how  it  happened 
that  we  separated." 

There  was  a  manner  about  the 
stran^r  that  told  Milly  that  the 
tale,  mdeed,  would  prove  too  true; 
and  though  she  strove  to  wear  the 
air  of  incredulity,  it  was  with  sink- 
ing heart  and  blanched  cheek  that 
she  listened  to  the  history. 

The  stranger  told  how  she  was 
wooed  and  won,  who  formed  the  wed- 
ding-party—it was  large  and  gay — 
who  married  them,  how  eleven  of 
the  fourteen  persons  who  had  been 
with  them  at  church  were  living 
still,  accessible  and  credible  wit- 
nesses {  how  the  rector  had  done 
them  the  honour  to  return  and  break- 
fast with  them ;  how  happily  they 
had  lived  for  some  time  after  mar- 
riage, till  a  quarrel  arose  which  en- 
gendered bitterness,  and  after  a  time 
ended  in  separation ;  how  she  had  still 
loved  her  husband,  and  had  several 
times  proposed  to  return  to  him,  till, 
one  mornmg,  calling  upon  him  to  re- 
new that  proposition,  she  found  the 
shop  closed  and  he  gone,  after  which, 
for  some  snl)8cquent  years,  she  could 
learn  no  tidings  whatever  concerning 
him ;  how,  at  length,  almost  accident- 
ally, she  had  found  a  clue  which  she 
had  followed  u  p  till  she  had  ascc  rtaincd 
he  fact  that,  under  the  altered  name 

r  Mr.  P ,  he  was  living  at  G , 

lid  carrying  on  a  flourishing  busi- 
ess;  and,  lastly,  how  she  had  full 
^idence  to  prove  the  identity  of 
f   Edward    P with    Edwaid 


Milly*s  hop6  that  the  tak  was 
false  had  sunk  to  the  lowest  ebb; 
she  could  only  answer, — 

^*  If  this  is  true,  God  help  us  both ! 
I  desire  to  be  alone ;  but,  if  ym 
choose  to  wait  here,  you  shall  know 
when  Mr.  P returns." 

She  sought  her  room,  locked  her- 
self in,  and  threw  herself  upon  tbe 
ground  crying,  ^  Liost !  lost !  disgraced 
for  ever !  Oh,  that  I  had  died  before 
my  father  in  those  days  of  innocence 
and  joy  1 "  Then  a  throb  of  fondness 
struck  up  in  her  heart — ^fondness  for 
the  guilty  man  who  had  crushed  and 
blasted  her.  "Sureljr  he  will  yet 
clear  himself,"  she  said;  *' or,  if  not, 
how  strong  the  love  that  tempted 
him  to  this!"  Then  indignation  rose 
8^ain,silencingaffection,  as  she  jod^ 
him  guilty  and  herself  the  victim. 
At  length  she  roused  herself. 

"  I  nave  no  time  to  lose  in  vain 
lamenting,"  said  she ;  "  I  must  take 
my  resolution ;  I  hare  need  of  all  my 
spirit." 

She  sat  down  before  the  table,  her 
head  pressed  against  her  hands,  and 
thoiignt. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  within  herself, 
"  he  may — he  may  be  guiltless,  and 
this  is  a  fabrication.  God  grant  it! 
If  so,  we  are  happy  still,  and  this 
will  be  forgotten  like  a  dream ;  but 
if  it's  true" — slie  drew  a  gasping 
breath — "there  is  one  only  course 
for  me  to  follow,  and  I  will  not 
flinch!" 

Her  head  was  resting  yet  ujwn 
her  hands,  and  the  question  wliich 
she  had  mentally  asked  a  hnmlred 
times  was  yet  again  demanded  tlicrc, 
when  she  heard  her  husband's  key 
oi>cning  the  house-door.  She  went 
to  meet  him  :  he  was  coming  gaily 
up-stairs,  \vith  a  lx>iiquet  of  bwutiful 
greenhouse  (lowers  in  his  hand. 

"  See  what  I  have  brought  you, 
love ! "  he  said,  presenting  them ; 
*'  but  how"  (looking  at  her)— **ichai 
is  the  matter  ? — what  is  the  matter, 
my  own  Milly?" 

She  took  the  flowers,  put  her  arm 
within  his,  and  drew  him  into  a 
room. 

"  Edwartl,"  she  raid,  "  I  t^all  be- 
lieve you  innocent  and  true,  till  yo" 
tell  me  with  your  own  lips  that  yo" 
are  false ;  but  I  have  heard  a  dread- 
ful tale:  there  is  a  woman  waiting 
for  you  here,  who  says  that  she  i» 
your  wife." 


1B46.] 


A  Tale  of  Fact  in  Humble  Life. 


409 


He  looked  co&fennded,  but  an- 
swered only, — 

"Let  me  go  —  kt  me  tee  her; 
I  will  return  immediately  and  clear 
it  all." 

He  went:  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
pawed, — another  tquarter,  and  he  did 
not  return.  Milly  went  now  to  the 
door  of  the  room  where  he  and  the 
stranger  were  tc^^ther.  It  was 
bolted.  She  returned  to  her  own. 
Another  half-hour  passed.  She  heard 
her  huaband^s  step ;  trembling  seized 
her.     He  entered,  and  said, — 

^*  Grod  forgive  me,  Milly ;  you 
nerer  will  I  I  have  deceived  jon ; 
she  is,  indeed,  my  wife.  I  had  hoped 
she  never  would  appear  again.  I 
had  no  care  for  her,  and  when  I  saw 
you,  I  loved  you  with  such  a  love 
that  no  power  of  mine  could  stand 
against  it.  Now,  base  as  I  have  been 
to  you,  I  pray  you, — with  all  my  soul 
I  pray  you,  not  to  leave  me!  I 
hope  I  shall  be  able  to  buy  her  off. 
Do  not  hate  and  loathe  me,  Milly  1-^ 
Do  not  forsake  me ! — Be  mine  still  !** 
He  wept  and  knelt — wept  as  £flau 
might  have  wept  when  he  had  sold 
his  birthright,  as  the  burdened  heart 
has  ever  wept  from  Esau^s  dajs  to 
these. 

Milly  wept  too,  but  she  answered, 
firmly, — 

'^  I  will  not  tell  you  that  I  hate 
you,  I  will  give  yon  no  reproach  to 
add  to  what  your  own  conscience 
must  feel;  I  will  pray  to  God  to 
forgive  you,  but  stay  with  you  I  will 
not.  I  am  disgraced  and  wretched, 
but  I  vrill  not  be  guilty.  She  is 
your  wife :  I  am  a  poor,  deceived, 
unhappy  woman,  who  must  s^^end 
the  rest  of  her  sad  days  hidden  and 
alone.  Go,  and  tell  her  that  1  yield 
to  her  lier  rights." 

He  prayed  yet  more  earnestly,  but 
it  was  vain ;  then,  with  a  curse  upon 
himself,  a  curse  upon  the  woman 
^vhose  chains  were  thrown  aronnd 
him — ay,  and  in  the  agony  of  that 
moment,  a  curse  upon  Milly  too,  he 
left  the  room. 

Milly  rang,  and  ordered  wine  and 
biscuits:  they  came.  She  helped 
herself.  Then  she  opened  her  desk, 
and  burnt  some  letters.  Next  she 
took  from  it  such  money  as  it  con* 
tained — 461,  within  a  few  shillings : 
it  had  been  recently  paid  in  upon 
seyoral bills.  Slle paused.  ''I would 
lain  leave  it,"  ^e  murmured,  *'  bat 


it  is  the  rocaoB  of  life ;  I  muit  take  it." 
Acain  she  paused ;  ^^ — The  means  of 
life  to  myself  and  to  my  unborn 
child— I  mmst  take  it."  She  placed 
the  purse  in  her  pocket.  Next  she 
collected  together  several  ornaments 
which  had  been  given  to  her  before 
her  marriage.  "These,"  said  sfaci 
"  with  the  money,  will  save  me  from 
starvation  till  my  baby's  bom  and 
grown  a  little,  and  I  can  get  my  own 
livelihood."  She  took  from  her 
drawers  such  two  or  three  articles  of 
wearing  apparel  as  she  could  make 
into  a  small  bundle.  She  opened 
that  drawer  in  which  she  kept  the 
little  garments  which  she  had  pre- 
pared for  her  expected  infant.  She 
shook  her  head  mournfully,  and  shut 
it,  taking  nothing  from  it  "He 
shall  see  that  left,  thought  she,  "  as 
I  shewed  it  him  last  night."  She 
then  sealed  up  her  keys,  ami  directing 
the  packet  wnich  contained  them  to 
Mr.  P— — ,  laid  it  on  the  table,  put 
on  her  bonnet  and  cloak,  and  went 
quietly  down  stairs. 

How  she  dreaded  to  meet  a  servant 
on  the  way,  or  a  messenger,  or  a 
visitor!— but,  most  of  all,  how  she 
dreaded  to  meet  her  husband  I  She 
met  no  one.  She  nassed  softly 
through  the  door  and  closed  it  softly 
after  her,  and  spoke  no  farewell,  ami 
gave  no  second  look.  She  strove  to 
quiet  her  throbbing  heart,  and  to 
still  her  maddening  thoughts.    She 

Easaed  hurriedly  up  the  street,  her 
ead  unturned,  her  eye  upon  the 
pavement,  lest  she  should  meet  the 
salutation  of  any  of  the  friends  of 
her  past  happy  days,  or  catch  the 
glance  of  any  human  eye ;  and 
thou<i;h  her  downcast  look  saw  no 
one,  she  fancied  every  gaze  was  turned 
npon  her,  and,  under  the  suppositious 
scrutiny,  she  almost  screamed.  At 
that  moment  she  was  very  near  to 
madness. 

At  the  first  turning  she  shot  off 
into  a  byc-^street,  and  following  the 
lanes  and  alleys  to  which  it  led,  slie 
reached  the  suburbs  of  the  town. 
She  continued  her  course  upon  the 
highroad  for  half-a-niile  farther,  and 
then  a  return  post-chaise  bound  for 
the  town  of  C ,  twelve  miles  dis- 
tant, overtook  her. 

She  glanced  round,  and  observing 
no  person  within  sight,  she  beckoned 
the  post-boy,  and  engaged  him 
carry  her  thither.      Then,  hf 


410 


Milfy 


[April, 


behind  the  sereen  of  those  wooden 
walls,  she  wept, — ^bitterly,  bitterly 
she  wept. 

At  length  a  beggar  on  the  road 
brought  back  her  courage.  The 
post-boy  had  stopped  to  water  his 
norses,  and  a  poor  woman — ^herself 
blue  with  cold,  and  hunger,  and  sor« 
row,  with  a  child  strapped  upon  her 
back,  another  hanging  at  her  breast, 
and  a  third  shivering  at  her  side — 
came  up  to  the  chaise-door,  and  told 
her  sad  tale.  Her  husband  had  for- 
saken her;  she  had  no  home,  no 
hope,  no  friends;  ^'and  that  IVe 
brought  these  children  into  the  world 
to  share  my  misery  with  me,**  said 
she,  "  that  makes  it  harder  still  to 
bear." 

Milly  gave  her  half-a-crown  (such 
a  benefaction  the  poor  obiect  had 
not  received  for  many  a  day) ;  never 
before  had  she  felt  such  an  earnest, 
thrilling  sympathy  with  sorrow. 
"•  God  help  you,**  she  said,  "  and  help 
me  too  I  iJet  me  tell  you,  poor  soul 
— for  it  may  solace  you  to  know — 
that  there  are  people  covered  with 
decent  clothes  wno  carry  under  them 
as  deep  a  heart*s  grief  as  yours.** 

Milly*8  thoughts  had  been  drawn 
from  herself— that  did  her  service; 
and  when  they  fell  back  asain  to  her 
own  case,  she  felt  that  there  were 
some  sharers  of  her  nature  visited 
with  sorrows  even  deeper  than  her 
own,  and  something  like  a  sense  of 
mitigation  stole  into  her  heart. 

As  it  was  her  object  to  secure  con- 
cealment, she  left  the  chaise  before  it 
reached  the  inn  for  which  it  was 
bound,  and  made  her  own  way  to 
another.  There  she  learned  that  a 
coach  taking  the  direction  of  Wales 
would  pass  at  nine  in  the  evening. 
By  this  she  took  her  place  to  one  of 
the  towns  of  the  principality,  where 
she  arrived  at  two  in  the  morning. 

A  boots  was  still  up  at  the  inn  at 
which  the  coach  stoppra.  He  shewed 
her  into  a  parlour  where  she  might 
remain  till  morning,  and  left  her  with 
a  flickering  light  She  threw  herself 
upon  a  sofa,  and  tried  to  sleep.  It 
was  vain.  Sleep  courts  the  happy 
and  flies  from  sorrow.  A  short,  un- 
easy doze  was  all  she  could  procure. 
As  she  roused  herself  from  that  for 
a  moment,  she  hoped  she  dreamed  I 
The  events,  so  dark,  so  new,  so  rapid, 
-^-could  they  be  the  sleeping  creation 
of  the  brain  ?    Ob,  that  it  had  been 


bo!    "  But  it  18  real,"  she  ezdaimed, 
— «*it  is  real,  and  this  is  I,  late  the 
happy,  happy  wile,  bat  now  diagnoed 
and  wretched  P     She  pressed  iier 
face  violently  i^ainst  the  hard  frame 
of  the  sofa,  as  if  from  the  rude  con- 
tact she  hoped  to  draw  relief  for  her 
sad  soul ;  and  thus,  ill  in  body  and 
afflicted  in  spirit,  she  waited  for  the 
day.     **  I  shall   die,  perhaps,**  she 
thought,  "for  I  feel  very,  very  iU ; 
and  if  I  may  find  mercy  from  my 
God,  how  I  could  wish  to  be  taken 
now  I    but  if  I  live,   I  will  live  a 
Christian,  not  a  rebel.**    Then  she 

Eut  up  a  fervent  prayer  to  Him  who 
ad  sent  upon  her  this  sorrow,  to 
give  her  strength  to  bear  it  with 
fortitude  and  submission. 

When  the  soul  bv  real  prayer 
comes  into  contact  with  her  God,  she 
must  grow  calm.  In  that  awfol  pre- 
sence she  dare  not  chafe  and  storm. 
As  Milly  long  remained  upon  bcr 
knees,  the  wild  madness  of  her  spinfi 
received  a  check,  and  she  already  fdt 
something  of  the  submission  for  which 
she  cravra. 

Hers  was  not  the  idle,  ostentatioas 
prayer  of  the  hypocrite ;  it  was 
the  very  language  of  her  inmost  soul, 
and  her  conduct  was  the  tally  of  her 
prayer.  From  that  time  forward 
she  exercised  the  patience  and  the 
fortitude  for  which  she  asked. 

At  eight  she  mne  for  breakfast; 
then  asked  to  see  the  landlady.  That 
worthy  made  no  hurry  to  attend  her 
call.  The  young  person  come  in  by 
the  night-coach  could  wait  her  lei- 
sure. The  leisure  came  at  length, 
and  a  portly  dame  with  a  harsh  face 
entered  her  parlour.  ,, 

"  Pardon  me  for  disturbing  vou  I 
said  MUly.    '« I  wish  to  ask  for  in- 
formation which  you  may  better  afford 
me  than  your  servant.**  „ 

A  stem  look,  and  *'  Oh,  indeed ! 
were  all  the  answer. 

Milly  went  on,— 

"  I  desire  to  pass  a  few  months* 
perhaps  longer,  m  this  neighboar- 
nood,  and  to  find  some  respectabte 
farm-house  where  I  may  be  receiv- 
ed. Can  you  recommend  me  to 
one?** 

The  hostess  glanced  at  Mill  v.  *'  ^ 
comprehend  the  case,**  thought  she* 
Milly  writhed  under  the  glance,  but 
remained  silent. 

**  lam  acauainted  with  the  people 
at  a  decent  lann  two  miles  off,   said 


J  846.] 


A  Tale  of  Fad  in  Humble  Life. 


411 


she;  "but  wbeUier  they'd  be  will- 
ing-:— "    She  stopped  abruptly. 


ii 


I  wiU  try,"  said  Milly.  "  Per- 
haps you  might  be  good  enough  to 
give  me  a  few  written  words  to  sav 
you  sent  me  to  the  house,  and  I  shall 
be  glad  to  take  a  gig  or  light  cart  and 
go  directly?" 

The  landlady  hesitated. 

**  Why,  you  see,  miss — ^hem " 

Milly  blushed.  How  the  "miss" 
wounded  her  ear  I  Her  eyes  swam 
in  tears.  "Fortitude,  fortitude!" 
she  said  within  herself.  The  other 
went  on, — 

"  Why,  you  see,  miss,  I  can  write 
a  few  words  to  say  that  being  that  a 
lady  was  asking  me  after  lodgings,  I 
told  her  that  they  had  time  past  let 
them  there;  but  being  that  Mrs. 
Jones  is  a  yery  respectable  woman, 
and  she*s  acquent  with  me  goins 
twelve  year  and  more,  I*m  bound 
to  say  that  I  know  nothing  of  the 
case. 

''  That  is  all  I  ask,"  said  Milly. 
"  Then  that's  what  I'U  do/'^said 
the  hostess. 

So  the  light  cart  was  prepared, 
and,  an  hour  later,  Milly  found  her- 
self at  the  door  of  a  yery  neat  but 
small  fimn-house,  the  bearer  of  a 
note  addressed  to  "Mrs.  Jones  of 
Llandyvy  Farm." 

To  Mrs.  Jones  she  was  fain  to  tell 
her  tale;  it  was  her  only  hope  of 
procuring  admittance  into  a  house  of 
respectability  and  virtue.  She,  how- 
ever, gave  only  her  Christian  name, 
and  concealed  tne  name  and  residence 
of  her  betrayer. 

Her  tale  met  credit.  She  paid  a 
month  in  advance,  promised  to  do  so 
constantly,  and  at  once  took  up  her 
quarters  at  Llandyvy  Farm.  From 
tlience  she  wrote  to  her  sister  and 
ber  aunt,  telling  them  of  her  heavy 
grief.  Her  aunt's  reply— misspelt 
and  blotted,  but  legible— to  Milly 
was  the  following :  — 

"  My  Poor,  dere  Child,— Wy  did  jou 
go  anny  wares  hut  To  met  Did  you 
think  my  Hart  wood  grow  Kold  to  you 
because  your  lot  grow  Dark  1  You  can 
Do  no  beter  now  than  give  up. your 
Lodgings,  and  cum  as  Kwick  as  may  bee 
to  your  Poor  old  Ant's  home,  and  she'll 
do  ber  best  to  cumfut  ye.  Kepe  up  yur 
spiruts,  my  girl ;  tliere's  trubbles  in  life 
to  all,  moor  than  *s  beknownst  to  yon  nor 
me  :  it's  Likewise  shure  to  have  trubbles 
Wicb  it  Is  to  drore  bretb.  ^'0W  It  hurts 
VOL.  XXXIU.  HO.  CZCVI. 


me  to  think  that  Ewer  I  stud  betwickst 
you  and  Jbhn,  but  it  hurts  me  roost  To 
think  that  you  didn't  stay  with  me  and 
keep  dere  of  em  all,— John  as  was  so 
poor,  and  him  as  pruves  such  a  Tillon, 
But  com  home,  lur,  and  we'll  do  the 
best  we  can,  and  ye  may  be  a'most  like  a 
mery  maiden  agen.  I  am  your  affectionate 
Ant,  and  a'most  belike  yr.  Mother, 

Martha  L        , 

"  P.S.  John 'shack  from  America ;  he 
came  back  3  week  gone,  findin'  it  not  sO 
easy  to  make  way  there  as  folk  talk." 

Uer  sister^s  letter,  a  day  later,  en* 
closed  the  certificate  of  her  marriage, 
which  she  had  already  procured,  and 
ran  thus : — 

"  My  dear  Milly,— What  a  shocking 
tale  you  teU,  and  how  dreadfully  you 
have  been  treated  !  I  cannot  (ell  whether 
I  am  most  sorry  for  you,  or  angry  against 
him, 

"  Now  yon  must  clear  your  honour 
and  the  honour  of  your  family,  and  have 
your  revense  upon  bim  all  in  one.  Take 
your  fill  of  revenge  upon  the  villain,  it 
will  be  your  best  cure  in  your  sorrow. 

"  You  must  begin  the  prosecution 
direoHy,  and  I  will  find  you  funds ;  and, 
instead  of  hiding  your  head  in  Wales, 
you  cannot  do  better  than  go  direct  to 
aunt,  who  will  be  very  glad  to  have  you 
back  again.  As  soon  as  I  hear  that  yoa 
are  safe  with  her,  1  shall  come  and  see 
you,  and  bring  a  lawyer  with  me,  who 
will  direct  us  how  to  proceed.  But  keep 
up  your  heart,  poor  child ;  and  never 
sink  to  the  earth  because  a  bad  man  has 
wronged  you ! " 

Milly*s  replies  were  the  follow- 
ing:— 

<'  My  dear,  good  Aunt,— .Your  kind 
letter  touches  me  very  much,  and  you 
may  be  sure  how  glad  I  should  be  to  see 
you ;  but  I  can  never  shew  my  face  in 
that  village  more.  1  could  not  even  if 
John  were  not  there.  My  spirit  is  broken, 
and  I  shall  never  look  up  again.  Be 
secret  about  my  sorrow,  and  never  think 
to  reproach  yourself  for  the  past.  1  am 
your  very  attached  and  grateful  niece, 

«•  Milly  L_.." 

"  My  dear  Sister,— You  are  very  good 
to  be  sorry  for  roe,  and  to  ofifer  me  money 
for  the  purpose  that  you  say*  But  I 
cannot  prosecute  him.  I  have  called  him 
my  husband,  and  he  is  father  to  the 
child  that  I  shall  bear.  Neither  can  I  go 
back  to  my  aunt.  1  shall  never  shew 
my  head  again.  1  hope  your  honour 
wul    not   suffer   for   my    misfortunes* 

ES 


412 


MiUf 


WttMag  jroq  happimM  that  I  than  neT«r 
kaow  agaio,  I  am  your  alTectiooata  titter, 

•«  Willy  L ." 

When  Mi]ly*0  atint  found  that  her 
niece  could  not  be  Induced  to  return 
to  her,  she  began  to  make  up  her 
little  matters  to  go  and  end  her 
days  in  Wales.  But  the  thought  of 
the  poor  girl,  and  of  her  departed 
brother*s  fondness  for  his  chilu,  were 
too  much.  "  It's  enough  to  call  him 
from  his  grare,**  she  would  say.  It 
was  enough  to  send  her  to  hers. 
The  blood  mounted  to  her  head, 
apoplexy  ensued,  and  she  died  within 
twelve  hours  of  the  attack. 

When  the  sister  found  that  Milly 
declined  to  prosecute,  she  wrote  again 
to  say,  that  it  was  due  to  herself  and 
to  her  family  to  take  that  course, 
and  that,  unless  she  would  consent  to 
do  so,  she  must  not  expect  to  be 
longer  acknowledged  or  further 
helped  by  her  (Mary),  for  that  she 
would  be  held  a  disgraced  and  guilty 
woman,  unless,  by  the  rerdict  of  a 
fair  trial,  she  proved  herself  to  have 
been  an  innocent  victim  to  the  vil- 
lany  of  another. 

Milly  could  not  bring  herself  (o 
prosecute.  Had  she  any  lingering 
affection  to  the  man  who  had  be* 
trayed  and  ruined  her?  That  was 
never  told.  But  already  the  mother 
spoke  within  her  soul,  and  she  had 
all  the  sensitWe  delicacy  of  a  shrink- 
ing woman.  She  could  not  come 
into  open  courts  she  could  not  fix 
that  dreadful  charge  upon  the  man 
whom  she  had  once  called  husband ; 
she  could  not  publicly  brand  her 
unborn  child  a  bastard.  "  Jjct  me 
live  hidden  and  alone,"  she  said,  *^  and 
seek  to  win  my  way  to  heaven." 


[Apra, 

Bbe  resol  uf  ely  and  deoidtdly  dedimd 
to  act  upon  her  sister's  requisitwD. 

Msxykept  her  word,  and  rsnountcd 
faer. 

In  one  short  nxmtb,  Milly  bsd 
lost  husband,  onnty  and  sBter,— had 
fallen  from  afflocnoe  to  povertT,— 
from  a  condition  where  riie  was  held 
in  honour,  to  one  in  which  she  lived 
by  sufferance  and  bltiilicd  to  shew 
her  face.  •*  Such  may  be,  such  are  to 
tome,  the  cfaanoes  and  chaagas  of  this 
mortal  life  I** 

Bat  the  fortitude,  rea^nation,  sod 
patient  endurance  of  that  sorrow- 
stricken  wontan,  surely  they  wJl 
find  reward  in  heaven !  Perhaps,  m 
the  eyes  of  the  Searcher  of  betrt^ 
the  Judge  of  virtue,  Milly  never  hsd 
stood  so  nigh. 

Near  four  months  rolled  away, 
and  her  child  was  bom.  Then  once 
aaain  she  knew  a  troubled,  saddened 
pleasure,— yes,  even  under  her  cir- 
cumstances, she  found  a  joy  in  mo* 
ternity  I  Was  that  Jast  solace  siso  to 
be  abridged  ?  Yes,  ao  it  nidst  be. 
She  must  quit  her  child ;  her  purse 
was  growing  low.  She  must  Kck 
the  means  to  maintain  herself  sno 
him.  She  heard  of  a  lady  at  sonie 
distance  who  was  inquiring'  for  « 
maid.  She  offered  herself,  told  her 
affecting  talc,  produced  the  certificate 
of  her  marriage,  and  was  accepted. 

Under  that  lad/s  kind  protection, 
and  cheered  by  her  true  sympathy, 
the  poor  blij^hted  Milly  still  lives. 

llcr  son  18  provided  for:  she  sees 
him  twice  in  every  year.  ^"V'* 
resigned  and  cheerful,  and,  in  her 
little  wny^  a  benefactress  to  the  poor 
around*  JMany  a  cottage  suflen^r 
pours  blessings  upon  Milly  L — ^* 


1846.]         Principal  Campaigns  in  tk€  Rise  of  Napoleon. 


413 


PRINCIPAL  CAMPAIGNS  IN  THE  RISE  OF  KAPOLEOK. 


No.  IV. 


TAB  ITALIAN  CA1CPAIOR8. 


Chaptsb  VI. 


Fourth  Attempt  to  reli«T«  Miuntiia.— Bettlea  of  Rif oli  and  the  FftTorita. — Sunettdor 
of  Mnntua.— The  French  mareh  against  Kome :  peace  ef  ToUeutino.-«Proj«ets 
of  Napoleon,  and  Conduct  of  the  British  OoTernment  during  the  Campaign. 


And  now  again  to  the  field,  for  we 
are  following  in  the  footsteps  of  him 
who  "  strewed  our  earth  with  hostile 
bones ;"  whose  career  was  little  more 
than  a  succession  of  battles,  the  thun- 
der of  which  burst  upon  Europe 
with  such  stunning  rapidity,  as  efl!ec- 
tually  to  hinder  any  event  uncon- 
nected with  their  fierce  and  fatal  re- 
sults from  fixing  itself  in  the  minds 
of  men,  during  the  brief  intervals  of 
occasional  repose.  !Kapoleon*s  bat- 
tles constitute  not  only  his  own  his- 
tory, but  the  great  landmarks  in 
the  history  of  his  time, — a  circum- 
stance which  renders  a  just  under- 
standing of  the  character  of  these 
actions  indispensably  necessary  to  a 
proper  appreciation  of  the  period  in 
which  they  were  fought,  and  of  the 
ruling  powers  who  then  infiucnced 
the  destiny  of  millions. 

The  last  battle  of  Arcole  had  been 
fought  on  the  17th  November,  and  on 
the  5th  December  Marshal  Alvinzy 
already  received  a  letter  from  the  Em- 
peror of  Austria,  asain  commanding 
liim  to  proceed  fortnwith  to  the  re- 
lief of  Mantua.  This  order  the  field- 
marshal  communicated  to  the  gene- 
rals of  his  army,  requesting  their 
opinion  of  its  practicability,  together 
with  their  advice  as  to  the  best 
mode  of  carrying  it  into  effect.  All 
wci'e  unanimous  in  declaring  it  im- 
practicable. The  army,  they  said, 
counted  only  37,000  men,  was  greatly 
disorganised  in  consequence  of  the 
loss  of  officers,  and  of  the  sufierings 
and  privations  it  had  undergone  du- 
ring the  last  operations ;  it  was,  be- 
sides, in  want  of  provisions,  money, 
clothing,  carriages,  and  materiel  of 
every  cfescription.  The  elements  had 
also  added  to  tho  difificultics ;  snow 
had  fallen  in  such  quantities  in  the 
mountains  of  the  Tyrol  and  the  Ve- 
netian Terra  Fimia,  as  to  render 
them  in  »  great  measure  impassable ; 


and  the  possession  of  the  road  across 
Monte-lBaldo  was  deemed  indispen- 
sably necessary  to  the  success  of  every 
attempt. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  accounts 
from  Mantua  were  of  the  most  af- 
flicting nature.  Marshal  Wurmser 
declared,  indeed,  that  there  could  be 
no  thoueht  of  surrender  as  long  as  a 
single  **hor8e,  cat,  or  rat,  remained 
unconsumed  within  the  walls  of  the 
fortress;"  but  the  power  of  endur- 
ance was  rapidly  giving  way.  Whole- 
some food  naa  long  been  wanting ; 
l\iel  also  failed ;  and  the  troops  were 
exposed  without  fire  to  all  the  in- 
clemencies of  a  severe  winter.^  The 
hospitals  were  destitute  of  medicines, 
and  unchecked  sickness  crowded  the 
lazar-houses  of  woe  and  suffering  in 
all  the  ghastly  forms  impressed  by 
famine  ;  death  alone  was  busy  in 
Mantua,  from  which  hope  itsen  had 
almost  fled. 

The  cabinet  of  Vienna,  well  aware 
of  the  distressing  state  of  aflTairs, 
made  generous  efforts  to  strengthen 
Marshal  Alvinzy's  army.  Provisions, 
money,  clothing,  carriages,  and  pon- 
toons were  forwarded.  Recruits  and 
dmfls  were  sent  from  the  interior  by 
forced  marches,  and  by  the  begin- 
ning of  January  the  army  again 
mustered  48,000  men  ready  for  the 
field ;  but  these  men  liad  been  has- 
tily collected,  were  insufllciently  or- 
ganised, and  the  old  soldiers,  from 
whom  the  young  were  naturally  to 
take  their  tone  and  feeling,  were 
bending  beneath  the  recollection  of 
their  late  disasters.  The  order  for 
their  immediate  advance  was,  how- 
ever, imperative. 

The  French  army  had  received 
reinforcements  to  the  amount  of 
7000  men  from  France,  and  the 
Italian  levies  had  also  rendered 
some  of  their  garrisons  and  de- 
tached corps  disposable  for  servi^ 


414 


Principal  Campaigns  ih  the  Rise  of  Napoleon,       [April, 


in  tbe  field.  Their  return  strength 
at  this  moment  was  57,000  men,  of 
whom  48,000  were  effective  with  the 
array :  deducting  as  usual  10,000 
men  for  the  blockading  corps,  and 
2000  for  other  detached  purposes, 
which  we  find  specified,  it  leaves 
36,000  disposable  for  active  opera- 
tions. Of  these  forces,  12,000  under 
Joubert  occupied  Rivoli,  the  Corona, 
and  the  passes  of  Monte -Baldo: 
Massena,  Augereau,  the  reserve  and 
the  cavalry,  observed  the  line  of  the 
Adige  from  Verona  to  Legnano. 
Major,  afterwards  Colonel  AVeirotter, 
chief  of  the  staff,  vras  the  ofHcer  who, 
when  generals  and  marshals  paused, 
projected  the  plan  which  was  now 
to  be  pursued  for  the  relief  of  Man- 
tua. The  project  was  to  deceive  the 
French  respecting  the  real  point  of 
attack,  and  to  fall  with  the  principal 

5 art  of  the  army  on  the  division  of 
oubert,  which  was  farthest  from  as- 
sistance, and  to  destroy  it  entirely 
before  it  could  be  supported.  The 
severity  of  the  season,  tne  quantities 
of  snow  which  had  fallen,  and  the 
difficulties  of  attackiujg  the  Corona, 
the  most  commanding  point  of  Monte- 
Baldo,  under  such  circumstances, 
would,  it  was  concluded,  help  to 
make  the  French  think  themselves 
secure  in.  their  mountain -fastness. 
To  confirm  them  in  this  belief,  two 
corps,  one  of  9000  under  Provera, 
the  other  of  5000  men  under  General 
Bayalish,  were  to  advance  towards 
Verona  and  Legnano,  as  if  intending 
to  force  the  passage  of  the  Adige ; 
both  were  to  turn  their  feint  attacks 
into  real  ones  if  the  opportunities 
offered,  and  Frovera  in  particular, 
was  commanded  to  force  tne  passage 
of  the  river,  and  proceed  to  Mantua. 
If  this  project  was  too  complicated, 
perhaps,  for  a  military  operation, 
which  should  always  be  as  simple  as 
possible ;  if  it  depended  too  much  on 
the  punctual  and  exact  performance 
of  duty  by  detached  corps  and  com- 
manders ;  we  are,  nevertheless,  bound 
to  allow,  that  it  was  devised  with 
great  ability  and  calculated  with 
singular  accuracy;  and  its  ultimate 
want  of  success  must  be  ascribed 
more  to  the  severity  of  the  season, 
and  the  misconduct  of  the  troops, 
than  to  its  o.vn  demerits.  But  when 
the  soldier  is  wanting  in  nerve,  con- 
fidence, or  goodwill,  when  the  elastic 
nring  whicu  must  hurl  him  against 


the  foe  18  onoc  relaxed,  then  stnte- 
gists  and  tacticians  exert  their  ^kiU 
in  vain,  and  find  their  best  efforts 
tend  only  to  disappointment  and  de- 
feat ;  a  good  reason^  it  might  be  sup- 
posed, for  bestowing  more  fostering 
care  and  kindness  on  the  labourer  in 
the  humbler  ranks  of  war,  on  whom 
so  much  is  ultimately  made  to  de- 
pend. In  the  British  army  it  bap- 
pens  that,  owing  to  some  gallant 
quality  which  our  people  derive  from 
the  land  of  their  fathers,  personal 
courage  has  never  been  found  want- 
ing :  we  have,  therefore,  thonghtonr- 
selves  entitled  to  cast  science  entirtly 
overboard ;  and  so  completely  haTC 
we  succeeded  in  this  laudable  task, 
that  we  do  not  possess  a  single  vo- 
lume of  strategy  in  the  lan- 
guage. What  progress  any  science 
can  make  without  the  aid  of  letters 
it  is  needless  to  say ;  and  yet  is  the 
value  of  science  illustrated  on  every 
page  of  military  history.  And  ifj 
small  ijortion  only  of  the  skill  evinced 
in  projecting  the  operation  we  are 
about  to  describe,  had  been  dis- 
played during  the  enterprises  of  Cas- 
tigiioni  and  Arcole,  it  is  almost  im- 
possible, considering  how  nearly  the 
results  were  balanced,  notwithstand- 
ing the  mismanagement  on  the  part 
of  the  Austrians,  to  see  how  tbcy 
could  have  failed  of  success. 

The  Austrian  flanking  corns  ad- 
vanced to  the  Adige,  and  on  the  8th 
already  drove  in  the   French  out- 
posts: an  attempt  to  surprise  Leg' 
nano  failed;  but   thougn  Provera 
lingered  with  his  movements,  Baya- 
lish acted  with  so  much  spirit  as 
completely  to  deceive  his  opponents. 
On  the  nth  Marshal  Alvinzy  com- 
menced operations :  his  army,  reduced 
by  detachments  to  28,000  effective 
men,  was  divided  into  six  colunms: 
of  these,  one  advanced  on  the  lett 
bank  of  the  Adige ;  a  second^  wi^ 
which  was  all  the  cavalry  and  artil- 
lery, followed  the  hish  road  leading 
along  the  right  bank  of  the  river; 
with  the  other   four   the   marshal 
ascended  the  huge,  steep,  and  gloomy 
masses  of  Monte-Baldo,  which,  co- 
vered with  snow,  now  presented  to 
the  eye  a  trackless  and  seemingly 
impassable  Alpine  barrier.    The  dii' 
iicultics  of  the  road  were  found  far 
greater  than  had  even  been  antici- 
pated :  the  narrow  paths  and  moan- 
tain-ladders  were  covered  with  snoWi 


1846.] 


Th«  Italian  Campaigm. 


415 


the  breaks  and  openinga  between  the 
rocks  throDgh  which  tbe  best  of  them 
passed,  were  comp)etelj|  filled  up,  anil 
hundreds  of  the  heavily  laden  sol- 
diers, who,  besides  their  arms,  am- 
munition, and  accoutrements,  had  to 
cartT  sevcml  days'  provisiona  in  tra- 
versing these  dreary  and  inhospita- 
ble regions,  already  failed  and  drop- 
ped down  beforethcy  came  in  sight  of 
tbe  enemy.  The  French  were  found 
posted  about  the  Corona,  on  the  most 
CommandiDg  part  of  the  mountain ; 
and  here  it  was  intended  that  they 
should  have  been  attacked  on  the 
1 2th  January,  but  the  first  Austrian 
division,  which  under  Count  Lusig- 
nan  formed  the  flanking  corps,  hwl 
been  unable  to  proceed  along  the 
upper  ridges  of  the  mountain,  was 
forced  to  seek  a  more  sheltered  path, 
and  did  not  arrive  in  time  to  take  its 
proper  share  in  the  action.  The  con- 
seqnence  was,  that  the  other  corps 
^uy(4  tbe  onset:  mght  came  on, 


and  Joubert,  learning  that  a  UrM 
force  was  turning  his  left  flank, 
retired  before  day -break,  and  took 

Ct  at  Itivoli.  The  Austmns  fol- 
ed  slowly,  tbev  bad  lost  a  day, 
and  had  to  fight  tneir  battle  a  day's 
march  nearer  tbe  French  reserves ; 
but  success  was  still  fairly  within 
their  reach. 

Tbe  position  of  Rivoli  is  one  of 
great  strength,  owing  less  to  the  fea- 
tures of  the  ground  than  to  the  cir- 
cumstance of  its  bein^  only  assail- 
able by  infantry,  which  can  alone 
cross  Monte-Baldo,  whereas  cavalry, 
infantry,  and  artillery  can  all  be 
brought  from  the  south  to  act  in  its 

Tbe  succession  of  gently  elevated 
bill-Iemces  which  lean  on  the  Adige 
near  Rivoli,  and  constitute  the  so- 
called  plateau  of  that  name,  are  se- 
Cted  from  the  lofty  ranee  of 
lU-Baldo  by  tbe  broad  valley  of 
Capriuo,  which,  ascending  from  the 


I-ake  of  Garda,  penetrates  BO  far  into  nnd  to  the  high  road  which  muf 

the  mountains  as  to  leave  the  higher  along  its  banks.    This  ridge  joins 

branch  no  commanding  influence  over  the  plateau  of  Itivoli  at  a  point  where 

the  low-er,  which  it  only  joins  by  a  stands  achapcl  dedicated  to  St.  Mark, 

nnrrow  ridge  called  Monte- Magnone,  and  which  is  of  consequence,  as  coni- 

that   runs   nearly  parallel    to    the  manding  the  road  just  m*^ 

Adigc,  and  presents  an  almost  per-  the  only  one  leading  from  ' 

Pedicular  wall  of  rock  to  tberiver,  toItiTolithatiapracticable' 


416 


Principal  Caimipaigni  in  ike  Rise  of  Napoleon*       [Apra, 


and  ftrtfllerf.  Thk  road  aaoendi 
the  bill  or  terrace,  behind  the  right 
of  the  aotual  poaitioii,  at  the  haimet 
of  Osterio,  above  which  the  French 
had '  thrown  up  redoubti  to  defend 
the  opening.  It  was  necessary,  there- 
fore, that  the  aasailants  should  cany 
the  hill  of  St.  Mark,  drive  back  the 
defenders  beyond  the  opening  of  the 
road  above  Osteria,  and  capture  the 
redoubts  raised  there :  gain  a  half  vie* 
torjr,  in  fact,  before  they  could  bring 
their  cavalry  and  artillery  into  ac- 
tion. The  right  of  the  French  rested 
on  Uie  Adige,  but  the  front  of  their 
position  o&red  no  particular  obsta- 
cles to  attack ;  the  left,  following  the 
bend  of  the  hill,  was  rather  thrown 
back :  it  had  no  appMi\  and  could 
easily  be  turned  by  a  superior  force, 
the  isthmus  from  the  river  near 
Kivoli,  to  the  nearest  point  on  the 
Lake  of  Garda,  being  at  least  six 
miles  in  breadth,  and  the  French 
poiitum  hardly  extended  three  miles 
from  the  Adigc. 

Napoleon  was  at  Bologna  when 
he  learned,  on  the  10th  January,  that 
the  Anstrians  were  advancin|f  to- 
wards Legnano.  He  immediately 
hurried  into  Verona,  the  central  post 
of  his  army,  where  he  arrived  on  the 
12th,  just  after  Bayalish  had  fought 
a  sharp  action  with  Massena's  ad- 
vanced corps.  Anxious  to  discover 
the  movements  of  the  enemy,  be  sent 
out  a  stronff  recounoisiance  under 
General  Clarke,  who  was,  however, 
defeated  with  loss,  and  brought  no 
satisfactory  tidings.  The  reports  from 
Legnano  spoke  of  three  strong  corps 
as  moving  on  that  point :  so  far,  at 
least,  the  assailants  had  well  con- 
cealed their  object.  But  Provera  had 
been  five  days  inactive,  or  only  skir- 
mishing, in  fWint  of  a  vigilant  and 
observant  foe;  and  on  the  evening 
of  the  13th,  Augereau  reported  that 
^he  enemy  were  only  making  a  feint 
id  trying  to  deceive  him.  At  the 
me  time  when  this  despatch  reached 
erona,  came  a  letter  Irom  General 
mbert,  saying,  that  he  had  been 
tacked  by  a  large  force  at  the  Co- 
jna,  and  obliged  to  fall  back  on 
iiivcdi,  which  he  should  also  evacu- 
ate unless  he  received  orders  to  the 
contrary.  The  Austrian  plan  of  ope- 
ration was  now  clear,  but  had  to  be 
quickly  met,  for  danger  was  pressing, 
and  Napoleon  was  certainly  not  slow 
in  his  measures  for  counteracting  it. 


Leaving  a  garrisoo  m  VeraBS,  and 
directing  Angerean  to  watch  the 
banks  of  the  Adige,  he  instantiy  set 
out  for  Bivoli,  followed  by  Maascna's 
division,  the  whole  of  the  cavalry 
and  the  reserve  nnder  General  Key ; 
in  all  abont  22,000  men. 

It  was  late  at  night  and  raining  hard 
when  the  troops  were  pat  in  motion, 
but  they  were  expected  to  reach  the 
plateau  by  day-break.  Napoleon  him- 
self arrived  on  the  ground  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  iuat  in 
time  to  mievent  Joubert*s  further  re- 
treat. The  night  had  cleared;  and 
from  the  highest  point  of  the  position 
he  saw  the  whole  of  the  surround- 
ing valleys  filled  with  hostile  watch- 
fires.  While  the  French  coanmandcr 
was  collectine  his  troops  on  one  side, 
Alvinzy  on  the  other  was  giving  oat 
the  dispositions  for  next  day's  battle. 
The  attack  was  to  be  made  in  five 
columns.  The  first,  under  Coont 
Lusignan,  was  to  march  completely 
round  the  left  of  the  Frenco,  and 
take  possession  of  the  hills  exactly  in 
rear  of  Rivoli ;  the  second,  third,  and 
fourth  divisions  were  to  attack  the 
front  of  the  position,  carry  the  hill 
of  St.  Mark,  the  redoubts  above  the 
Osteria,  and  enable  the  fifth  division, 
the  cavalry  and  artillery,  to  ascend 
from  the  valley  of  the  Adise,  and 
join  in  the  action :  the  sixth  oivision 
was  to  aid  these  efforts  by  opening  a 
fire  of  artillery  on  the  fxench  from 
the  left,  and  rather  commanding 
bank  of  the  river.  We  shall  see  pre- 
sently what  were  the  errors  of  this 
disposition. 

The  skirmishing  along  the  front 
had  commenced  long  Mere  day- 
break, and  at  the  first  dawn  of 
morning  the  columns  advanced  to 
beffin  the  work  of  death.  The  French 
d^nded  the  ground  with  their  usual 
gallantry,  but  were  gradually  forced 
hack  at  all  points,  except  near  Trom- 
balero,  where  Massena  was  still  hold- 
ing part  of  his  ground.  On  the  right, 
the  hill  and  chapel  of  Saint  Mark 
were  carried  after  a  severe  struggle : 
on  the  left,  Lusignan  was  seen  mov- 
ing round  the  French  position :  troo))s 
were  sent  against  him,  but  were  de- 
feated, and  unable  to  check  his  pro- 
gress. The  redoubts  above  the  Os- 
teria were  taken  by  storm,  and  the 
road  thrown  open  to  the  march  of 
the  fifth  division;  while  from  the 
left  bauk  of  the  river  the  shot  of  the 


1846.] 


Tk0  Italian  Camfai§n$. 


417 


Anatrkii  gviui  iwtt  already  atrikiii^ 
ainan£[  the  Franeh  massM  that  were 
crowdiog  hack  in  oondiMon  upon 
liivoli.  The  impcrkJisUi  thought 
theniselvea  victorious  infantry  alone 
had  fought  and  gained  these  ad  van- 
iagefl,  and  now  1700  cavalry  were 
to  bring  their  lightnii^  speed  and 
strength,  seventy  pieces  of  artillery 
their  tower-shaking  force,  to  com* 
plete  the  ruin  of  those  whose  fate 
appeared  sealed;  for  Lusignan  waa 
already  in  rear  of  their  army.  A 
battobon  of  infiintiy,  and  three  s^ua* 
drons  of  cavalry  of  the  fifth  division, 
had  already  ascended  the  hill,  and 
were  drawn  up  to  cover  the  opening 
of  the  road  and  the  formation  of  their 
comrades;  one  half-hour  more  and 
10,000  additional  men  would  strike 
in  against  the  foe.  But  Fortune  for- 
bade; she  had  oUen  baffled  the  ef- 
forts of  the  brave,  and  was  now  to 
shew  tlmt  it  was  easier  still  to  mar 
the  combinations  of  the  wise. 

Napoleon  seeing  Viars  brigade  re- 
tire in  great  confusion  from  before 
the  assailants,  sent  General  I^asalles 
with  200  horsemen  to  take  up  and 
cover  the  retreat  of  the  fugitives. 
The  unexpected  appearance  of  this 
body  of  cavalry  surpripcd  the  Aus- 
trian skirmishers,  who  were  hurrying 
after  the  French  in  disordered  and 
uucounocted  bands.  Some  halted, 
some  rctii'ed ;  the  causeless  panic  aug- 
mented, then  spread  like  wild-fire 
from  one  end  of  the  line  to  the  other, 
till,  without  being  attacked,  or  even 
threatened,  the  ^-hole  swarm  rushed 
back  upon  the  columns  of  the  third 
and  fourth  divisions,  who  were  still 
advancing  in  good  order.  Glad- 
ness ruled  the  hour ;  and  these  troops 
seeing  French  cavalry  in  their  front, 
the  infantry  of  Massena^s  division 
that  still  held  the  ground  near  Trom- 
balero  far  in  the  rear  of  their  right 
ilauk,  thought  themselves  turned  and 
doomed  to  destruction,  and  instantly 
joined  the  wild  and  disgraceful  flight, 
Xo  stop,  no  stay  ;  vain  were  the  ef- 
foi*ts  of  their  officers,  vain  the  exer- 
tions and  despair  of  theur  timc-ho« 
noured  commander,  nothing  could 
arrest  the  career  of  this  insane  mul- 
titude. The  troops  of  the  fifth  divi- 
sion that  had  ascended  the  hill  were 
hurled  down  again  by  their  own 
countrvmen,  the  captured  redoubts 
were'iorsaken,  the  post  of  St.  Mark 
abandoned,  and  it  was  only  in  the 


▼alky  of  Caprfao,  tad  tehuid  the 
Ta08o  rivulet,  that  the  fuflkivee  were 
halted  and  reformed,  l^e  French, 
unprepared  for  such  a  turn  of  for- 
tune, puraiied  feebly  and  briefly; 
and  having  regained  their  former 
ground  halted,  and  allowed  the  Aus- 
trians  to  collect  their  battalions  be- 
hind the  streamlet. 

It  was  while  thus  engaged  that 
Alvinzy  had  the  deep  mortidcatiau 
to  hear  the  signals,  wliich  told  tliat 
Lusignan*8  corps  had  completed  its 
marcn,  and  carried  the  hills  exactly 
in  rear  of  the  French  army.  A  bri^ 
space  sooner  and  these  clad  aoundi 
would  have  announced  the  eertainty 
of  a  splendid  victory,  and  now  they 
boded  only  additional  disaster. 

The  second  Austrian  division  per- 
ceiving the  flight  of  their  country- 
men, desisted  from  the  attack  oa 
Massena,and  retired  into  the  valley; 
and  Napoleon  ftndii^  his  front 
clear  of  foes,  turned  his  attention 
towards  Lusignan^s  corps,  which  waa 
now   completely  cut   off.     Fifteen 

Eieccs  of  aitillcry  were  brought  to 
car  upon  these  troops,  who,  aissailed 
also  by  cavalry  and  infantry,  natu- 
rally fought  to  great  disadvant^e. 
As  the  count  expected,  however,  that 
the  attack  on  liivoli  would  be  re- 
newed next  day,  he  thought  it  his 
duty  to  hold  his  ground  tiii  Alvinzy 
should  return  to  the  onset ;  and 
tried,  therefore,  to  find  some  strong 
i)osition  in  which  he  could  maintain 
liimself.  But  modern  infantry  can 
hold  no  position  against  the  combined 
power  of  cavalry,  artillery,  and  in«« 
fantry;  and  the  count  was  driven 
successively  from  one  post  to  another, 
lie  then  deterniined  to  retire,  and 
directed  his  march  on  Garda ;  it  was 
already  in  possession  of  some  French 
troops,  who  had  arrived  in  boats  from 
the  opposite  side  of  the  lake.  The 
Austrian  commander  disappointed 
here,  turned  to  the  right,  and  again 
ascended  Monte«lialdo,  where  for  the 
fourth  night  he  encamped  upon  the 
snow  with  his  half-famiHhed  soldiers, 
who  had  been  almost  fort^-eiglit 
hours  without  food.  Exhausted  by 
famine  and  fatigue,  numbers  had 
already  fallen  to  the  rear.  A  baud 
of  thcHC  stragglers  arriving  at  Rocca 
di  Garda,  finding  it  occupied  by  the 
French,  and  having  no  lon^" 
strength  to  fl^ht  their  way 
laid  down  their  arms,  ana 


418 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.       [April, 


to  one  of  the  many  idle  tales  related 
of  these  campaigns,  and  which  de- 
scribes 1200  Austrians  as  surrender- 
ing to  fifty  Frenchmen.  On  the 
morning  following  this  fourth  night 
of  cold  and  suffering,  Lusignan  found 
the  remnant  of  his  corps  still  further 
reduced,  whole  swarms  of  soldiers 
having  descended  the  hill  in  search 
of  food  and  shelter.  The  dismal 
march  had  not  continued  long  before 
it  was  discovered  that  French  troops 
bad  crossed  the  lake,  and  occupied 
the  passes  of  the  mountain:  thu 
served  as  a  last  signal  for  the  rem- 
nant of  the  Austrian  corps  to  disband 
itself;  each  man  took  his  ovsm  direc- 
tion, and  Lusignan,  with  ten  officers, 
was  left  to  escape  as  best  he  might. 
For  two  nights  the  party  lay  con- 
cealed in  a  remote  country-house, 
on  the  third  a  boat  carried  them 
across  the  lake  to  Torbolo ;  and 
when  they  reached  Roveredo  it  was 
found,  that  of  nearly  5000  men  who 
a  few  days  before  had  left  that  place 
in  all  the  pomp  of  war,  only  six  offi- 
cers and  300  privates  had  assembled : 
the  whole  corps  was  thought  to  be 
lost ;  but  in  a  few  days  almost  1800 
again  collected  round  their  colours. 

We  mention  these  particulars  as 
contrasts  to  the  extravagancies  of 
Napoleon^s  statements,  and  to  shew, 
also,  how  much  might  have  been 
learned  by  the  catastrophe  of  Lusig- 
nan*s  corps,  had  the  French  general 
possessed  a  mind  capable  of  profiting 
by  the  lesson  his  foes  had  received. 

Field-marshal  Alvinzy,  ignorant 
of  the  fate  of  his  first  division  and 
anxious  to  ensure  its  safety,  as  well 
as  to  facilitate  the  movement  of  Fro- 
vera,  which  he  knew  to  be  in  pro- 
gress, determined  again  to  attack 
Kivoli  on  the  following  morning. 
He  had  more  chances  in  his  favour 
/ban  he  was  aware  of;  Frovera  had 
breed  the  passage  of  the  Adise  du- 
ing  the  previous  night;  and  Napo- 
eon  havmff  left  orders  with  Joubert 
to  attack  tne  Austrians  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  was  already  in  full 
march  towards  Mantua,  accompanied 
by  the  reserve  and  Massena's  divi- 
sion. Alvinzy,  on  his  part,  con- 
cluded the  dispositions  for  the  re- 
newed attack,  by  informing  the 
troo]^  "•  that  the  safety  of  the  first 
division,  of  Provera's  corps  and  of 
Mantua  itself,  depended  on  their 
gallantry  and,  ezertio^.**    The  aj^- 


peal  was  vain;  the  action  commenced 
with  the  earliest  dawn,  and  it  was 
evident  from  the  first  that  the  sol- 
diers fought  without  nerve  or  resolu- 
tion. Aivinzy  exposed  himself  ia 
the  most  generous  manner;  it  was 
the  old  man's  last  field,  and  he 
strove  nobly  and  gallantly  to  awaken 
the  depressed  spirit  of  the  troopts 
and  to  give  them  a  bold  forward  im- 

Eulse.  But  his  efforts  were  fruitless; 
ands  of  soldiers  broke  from  the 
ranks  in  all  directions ;  and,  instead 
of  carrying  the  French  position,  the 
Austrians  were  soon  driven  back  to 
the  very  foot  of  Monte-Baldo.  Here 
it  become  apparent  that  hostile  par- 
ties were  already  turning  their  flank ; 
this  served  as  the  signal  for  a  gene- 
ral rush  towards  the  paths  of  the 
mountain :  each  hurried  on  to  secure 
his  own  safety— a  complete  rout  was 
the  consequence ;  and  as  the  Freneh 
followed  the  chase  more  vigorously 
than  they  had  done  the  day  before, 
a  vast  number  of  prisoners  fell  into 
their  hands. 

The  left  win^  of  the  vanquished 
army  escaped  with  little  loss,  though 
not  with  much  honour.     The  ^fth 
division  was  preparing  to  ascend  the 
road  above  Osteria,  and  again  to  as- 
sail the  redoubt  captured  and  aban- 
doned the  day  before;  but  the  front 
attack  having  failed,  they  were  or- 
dered to  fall  back,  and  retired  at  first 
in  good  order,  till  some  fugitives 
from  the  other  corps  found  their  way 
into  the  valley  of  Adige,  and  com- 
municated then*  panic  to  their  coun- 
trymen.   The  soldiers  of  the  leading 
regiments  then  began  to  fire  without 
object;  those  in  the  rear  followed 
the  example;  order  was  soon  lost; 
infantry,  cavalry,  and  artillery,  all 
mixed  together,    hurried    along  in 
wild  confusion  towards  the  bridge  of 
Belano;  absolute  exhaustion  alone 
brin^^  the  terrified  bands  to  the 
conviction  that   they    were   fiy^ 
from  the  mere  phantoms  of  their 
own  imagluatiouy  the  Austrian  gons 
on  the  left  bank  of  the  river  having 
here  prevented  all  pursuit  on  the 
part  of  the  victors.    Thus  ended  the 
battle  of  Rivoli,  the  most  memorable 
which  had  yet  been  fought  during 
the  revolutionary  war :  it  decided  the 
fate  of  Mantua  and  of  the  campsi^ ; 
and  helped  to  confirm  and  difi'u'^ 
the  vague  and  undefined  idea,  which 
was  already  b^;iiming  to  gain  gronnai 


1846.] 


•  • 

The  Italian  Campaigns. 


419 


that  Napoleon  was  destined  b^  fate 
to  effect  8ome  great  changes  m  the 
world,  and  the  mere  diffusion  of 
such  an  idea  among  the  vulgar  tended 
in  some  measure  to  forward  its  realis- 
ation. 

As  the  French  had  probably  lost 
few  men  on  this  occasion,  compared 
to  what  they  had  done  on  others, 
the  glory  was  of  course  so  much  the 
greater,  and  was  ascribed  to  the  mas- 
terly skill  supposed  to  have  been  dis- 
played by  the  general  in  the  condnct 
of  the  battle.  The  historians  who 
tell  us  of  this  science  and  ability  are, 
as  usual,  totally  deficient  in  their 

I  proofs  of  the  existence  of  these  bril- 
iant  attributes ;  for  on  examination 
we  find  nothing  but  the  utmost  gal- 
lantry on  the  part  of  the  troops,  and 
the  readiness  of  all  hands  to  fi^ht 
bravely  and  to  stop  at  no  exertion 
capable  of  ensuring  success ;  and 
these  mighty  elements  of  military 
strength  are  already  more  than  suffi- 
cient to  account  for  the  victory 
achieved.  On  the  other  hand  it  may 
be  a  question  whether  there  was 
not  a  great  want  of  skill  displayed  in 
BO  placing  an  army,  that  it  was  within 
half  an  hour  of  absolute  destruction, 
— a  catastrophe  from  which  nothing 
could  have  saved  the  French,  had 
the  enemy  persevered  with  ordinary 
conduct  much  longer. 

The  Austrians  ascribe  their  de- 
feat to  the  imperfect  state  of  organ- 
isation in  which  their  arm^  was 
when  hurried  hastily  into  action,  as 
well  as  to  the  sufferings  and  priva- 
tion the  men  had  undergone  in  cross- 
ing Monte -Baldo.  These  circum- 
stances may,  no  doubt,  have  produced 
their  effect ;  but  stress  should  be  laid 
on  the  erroneous  ideas  the  Austrians 
of  that  period  entertained  in  regard 
to  organisation.  Their  soldiers,  al- 
ready depressed  by  so  many  defeats, 
had  nothing  to  fight  for ;  the  French, 
on  the  contrarv,  had  acquired  skill, 
confidence,  ana  alacrity  by  success. 
The  Republican  army,  drawn  by  con- 
scription, contained  in  its  ranks  thou- 
sanos  of  the  best  men  that  France 
could  furnish ;  and  many  of  these 
still  believed  that  they  fought  for 
freedom  and  national  independence, 
while  the  worthless — and  all  armies 
contain  such  characters — knew  from 
experience  that  they  were  fighting 
for  s^il  and  plunder.  Alvinzy^ 
dispositions  seeiA  also  to  have  been 


faulty  in  the  extreme.  The  fifth  and 
sixth  divisions,  consisting  of  10,000 
men,  coiild  only  come  into  action 
after  the  battle  should  have  been 
half  gained,  but  could  not  help  to 
achieve  this  success;  and  as  chance 
happened,  never  took  any  share  in 
the  combat.   The  next  error  was  the 

freat  circuitous  round  made  by  the 
rst  division,  for  the  purpose  of 
taking  the  French  in  revei'se,  by 
which  4500  men  were  prevented 
from  joining  the  onset ;  tnough,  as 
the  case  stood,  a  mere  fiank  move- 
ment striking  in  with  the  front  at- 
tack of  the  other  divisions  would 
here  have  answered  just  as  well.  Al- 
vinzy  might  easily  have  made  his 
first  attack  with  24,000  men,  in  which 
case  he  would  have  been  superior  to 
the  French,  and  would  probably  have 
gained  the  battle :  as  it  was,  he  only 
brought  14,000,  exactly  half  his 
army,  into  action ;  and  had  not  only 
to  contend  against  superior  numbers, 
but  also  against  cavalry  and  artillery, 
of  which  he  was  totally  deficient. 
His  overthrow  need  not  surprise  us ; 
the  wonder  only  is,  that  he  was  not 
overthrown  at  a  much  earlier  period 
of  the  combat. 

The  14th  of  January  proved  fatal 
to  Austria  on  more  pomts  than  one ; 
for  Marshal  Provera  having  lingered 
during  six  days  on  the  left  bank  of 
the  Adige,  forced  the  passage  of  the 
river  at  Anghieri,  between  Verona 
and  Legnano,  on  that  unhappy  day, 
and  commenced  his  march  towards 
^lantua  at  the  very  time  when  the 
real  fate  of  the  fortress  was  about  to 
be  decided  in  the  fields  of  Rivoli. 
Bravely  and  ably  as  the  passage  of 
the  river  was  effected  in  the  face  of 
an  opposing  enemy,  evil  fortune  at 
least  attended  every  other  step  of 
the  enterprise.  One  rearguard  re- 
mained on  the  left  bank  of  the  river, 
certain  to  be  separated  from  the 
main  corps;  another,  composed  of 
1500  men,  was  cut  off  near  Anghieri, 
and  forced  to  surrender.  Frovera, 
with  about  6000  men,  arrived  oppo- 
site Mantua  on  the  evening  of  the 
15th,  and  immediately  proceeded  to 
attack  the  suburb  of  St  George,  si- 
tuated at  the  head  of  one  of  the 
causeways  leading  across  the  lake. 
The  post  having  been  for  six  months 
in  possession  of  the  French,  wp 
strongly  fortified,  and  easily  resiste 
Miannal  Wunnser  though  appriw 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Site  ^  ftapoletm.      [Apd, 


that  optntioni  van  In  progrc**  &>' 
hii  relief,  mwle  no  cnorC  to  aid 
liii  coiiDlrymen,  fttne^iog,  itrangcly 
enough,  that  the  flnng  round  bt. 
Oeurge  wu  wunc  feiot  alteniptud  by 
tbc  eaeiay.  When  at  last  b  cununu- 
nicaliiMi  took  place  between  bim  luid 
I'rovcra,  the  evening  was  far  ad- 
vanced, and  it  ivaa  determined  to  de- 
fer Ihc  joint  atlaclt  on  tbc  1^'rcnch 
posts  tliat  intervened  between  tlic 
citulel  and  tbc  relieving  corps  till 
next  DtomiDgi  and  delay  bruughl 
not  only  danger  bnt  ruin  aUo. 
AVurniser  made  a  sally  fhim  the  eila- 
del,  though  only  witli  3000  uieu, 
while  Truvera  adt'anced  from  tbo 
other  aide  with  hi*  whole  corps;  but 
the  lituation  of  affair*  bad  greatly 
chuiged  durbg  the  ui|;bt;  tor  Na- 
poleon had  arrived  with  Uawcna's 
division  from  Hivoli,  and  Augci'cuu 
with  hii  troops  had  conic  up  from 
l.egoano.  Wurnuer  was  soou  driven 
boek  into  the  furtress,  and  rrovcm, 
surrounded  on  all  aides  by  superior 
numbers,  was,  after  a  eliarp  coiulmt, 
obliged  to  surrender,  with  aoaut  5000 
men  that  still  remained  with  htm : 
a  few  hundreds  only  had  been  able 
to  joiu  Wurmser  and  reach  the  cita- 
del. Five  couipaiiics  of  Vienna  vo- 
luntccm,  fur  ^vtiom,  it  b  said,  the 
enmrcss  had  embroidered  a  standard 
witn  her  own  bauds,  accomjuiuied 
thiscorjM,  and  »cre  taken  pnsonei-s 
along  with  the  rest.  'I'bc  French 
statements  augniciiicd  this  weak  band 
to  three  battaliona, 

This  was  the  last  efliirt  made  for 
the  relief  of  IkUutua,  and  the  last 
scene  of  tlie  drama  wna  surely  as  un- 
fortunately conducted  as  any  of  those 
by    which    it   had    been   preceded. 
Whether  any  good  could  have  K- 
suited  from  Trovera's  junction  with 
Wurmser  at  so  Ute  a  period,  uuiy, 
perhaps,  be  questioned;  but  that  it 
ve  been  effected  can  hardly 
»d.    When  Trovcra  arrived 
antua  on  the  evening  of  the 
French  could  not  have  had 
n  6000  men  of  their  block- 
ny  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
and  it  is  not  easy  to  see 
lid  have  saved  them  from 
tshed  between  the  garrison 
viog   forcj?s,   had   ordinary 
»s  and  energy  been  nscu. 
J.U  uvx/  the   attack  was  sure  to 
bring  dsngcr;  for,  tliough  NnjMleon 
mi^ht  be  detained  at  Bivoli,  Auge- 


reanwMa... 
of  Provera.  But  if  we  cannot— foe 
«-ant  of  knowledge,  perh^—ny 
much  iuQivour  of  ute  Anstriancom- 
manders,  it  is  almoat  imponhk  u 
speak  of  the  r'rciich  troopaintenM 
of  BufficiiAt  prmiae.  Maweua's  divi- 
sion arrived  at  Ivivoli  afler  a  long 
night's  march  from  ^'erona,  fuugU 
there  during  the  da^,  and  without 
tukiiig  any  {"est,  sgam  set  furvird 
in  the  evening  oa  a  march  of  twenty 
miles,  which  was  performed  by  tlic 
morning  of  the  16tb.  If  we  only 
calculate  by  miles  and  hour^  there 
was  time  enough  for  this,  no  doubt, 
but  it  was  uohlc  soldiership  nevi^- 
theless. 


when  they  conimciicctl  their  opera- 
tions, down  to  the  J7tli  of  the  same 
month,  amounted  to  :20,000  men  iu 
killei),  wounded,  iniseiog,   or  takin 


main  army  having    lironglit    uoue 
with  ibeiu  over  Monte- Boluo. 

The  unhappy  Marslial  A^'umwcr 
was  soon  made  aware  that  (he  bat- 
tle of  Itivuli  had  decided  the  fate  of 
Mantua,  but  he  promised,  iicverilie- 
less,  to  delay  the  surrender,  in  order 
to  facilitate  the  retreat  of  the  army. 
On  the-JOth  of  January,  all  puufruf 
further  resistance  having  vanislit^ 
Count  Klenau  was  scut,  under  tonie 
secondary  pretence,  witli  a  flag  of 
truce  toGenural  Serrurier,  ivhocom- 
nuindcd  tbc  blockading  corpo.  i'^ 
was  not  to  si>cak  about  a  caprlul^' 
unliss  the  French  gencnd  en- 


tered of  his  own  accord 
ject.     Serruricr   did 


the  Buh- 
and  the 
conversation  led  to  an  immediate  oar' 
respondence  with  Wunnaer,  wbjcli 
ended  in  leims  being  agreed  ujkh> 
on  the  3d  of  February.  The  story 
related  by  Napoleon  of  his  baling 
I.ccn  present  incognito  at  tbc  inler> 
view  between  Klenau  and  Serruricr, 
and  writing  down  the  eondiiiuns 
which,  in  consideration  of  his  gallant 
conduct,  should  be  granted  to  tbc 
Austrian  maralial,  "whether  bcsc- 
ceptud  them  in  a  day,  a  week,  s 
month,  or  in  two  mouths,"  is  but  3 
poor  and  foolish  invention  of  lii^ 
own ;  for  at  the  very  time  the  term* 
were  arranging  at  St.  Antonio,  w 
the  1st  of  tebriury,  be  wrote  frwn 


1 846.] 


Th€  Italion  Campaigm. 


421 


Bolognft  to  Crenend  Serruriar,  mj- 
ing,  *^  If  Wurmser  does  not  surreu- 
der  by  the  3d  instant,  I  slmll  retract 
the  terms  offered  to  him,  and  insist 
on  his  being  a  prisoner  of  war  along 
>vith  his  whole  garrison."*  How 
highly  this  pretended  act  of  gene- 
rosity towards  a  vanquished  enemy 
has  been  lauded  it  is  needless  to  say, 
since  the  world  have  so  oiten  heard 
of  it  both  in  prose  and  verse.  We 
now  see  at  least  what  it  is  worth. 

By  the  terms  of  capitulation 
Wurmser  was  to  withdraw  from  the 
fortress,  and  to  take  with  him  an 
escort  of  200  cavalry  and  500  in- 
fantry, together  with  six  pieces  of 
artillery.  The  rest  of  the  garrison 
were  to  march  out  with  all  the  ho- 
nours of  war ;  but  were  to  lay  down 
their  arms  on  the  glacis,  and  to  be 
considered  as  prisoners  till  duly  ex- 
changed. From  the  first  investment 
the  fortress  had  resisted  nearly  eight 
months,  during  which  time  the  de- 
fenders lost  16,000  men  bv  sickness 
and  the  sword :  12,000,  including  in- 
valids, convalescents,  and  followers 
of  the  army,  marched  out,  and  3000 
remained  in  the  hospitals.  600 
pieoes  of  artillery  fell  into  the  hands 
of  the  Hepublicans;  but  of  these  179 
were  guns  which  they  had  themselves 
left  in  their  battenes,  when  forced 
to  raise  the  siege,  as  formerly  related. 

It  is  said  that  the  French  inter- 
cepted an  order  sent  to  Wurmser, 
directing  him,  in  case  the  last  relief 
failed,  to  destroy  the  fortification  of 
Mantua,  and  to  force  his  way  across 
the  1*0,  and  join  the  papal  troops 
then  assembling.  If  such  were  the 
intentions  of  the  court  of  Vienna,  it 
is  curious,  considering  how  ol\en 
messengers  entered  the  fortress,  that 
no  duplicate  order  ever  reached  the 
field-marshal. 

It  is  due  to  history  to  repeat  here 
what  the  well-known  Colonel  Mas- 
aenbach  relates  in  his  memoirs,  '^That 
Marshal  Wurmser,  though  once  a 
brilliant  commander  of  hussars,  was 
already  looked  upon  by  the  officers 
of  his  staff  as  mentally  deaf  and 
blind  during  the  previous  campaigns 
on  the  Rhine."  But  it  must  still  be 
confessed  that  fortune  dealt  harshly 
with  the  gallant  old  soldier  in  the 
last  trying  scenes  of  an  honourable 
career.    Count  Thuget,  the  Austrian 


prime  mioistar.  received  ham,  never- 
theless, in  a  flattering  manner  on  his 
arrival  at  Vienna.  ^'CsBsar,"  said 
the  statesman,  "  conquered,  and  was 
conquered,  but  was  still  Caesar."  It 
was  a  kind  and  generous  speech,  and 
therefore  meritorious ;  but,  alas,  the 
"  world's  ^reat  victor"  would  not 
have  remamed  a  distant  and  irreso- 
lute spectator  of  combats,  on  which 
the  world's  fate  was  depending. 

We  have  dwelt  at  length  on  the 
events  of  this  campaign,  because  they 
formed  the  very  nedestal  of  Napo- 
leon's fortune.  Tne  world  in  gene- 
ral look  only  to  results,  without 
much  examinmg  the  causes  by  which 
they  are  produced,  and  naturally 
ascribe  the  rapid  succession  of  such 
splendid  triumphs  as  these  we  have 
related  to  the  superior  and  splendid 
genius  of  the  conqueror.  France,  at 
all  times  easily  dazzled  with  military 
glory,  was  enraptured  by  success  so 
much  more  brilliant  than  any  yet 
achieved  by  her  republican  arms, 
and  liad,  therefore,  little  hesitation 
in  placing  the  laurel-crowned  leader 
in  so  many  battles  fur  above  the  ob- 
scure and  unknown  Directors  who 
presided  over  her  destinies  by  favour 
of  a  constitution  for  which  no  one  felt, 
or  ever  had  felt,  the  slightest  regard 
or  afi^ection.  This  single  campaign 
made  Napoleon  the  superior  of  his 
employers,  and  tlie  imperial  sceptre 
itself  was  little  more  than  the  ga- 
thering in  of  the  harvest  reaped 
in  the  stern  combats  of  Italy.  But 
great  as  the  ultimate  reward  of 
these  actions  x>i^ve(],  and  great  as 
was  the  astonishment  which  they 
naturally  excited  at  the  time,  we 
doubt  whether  they  will  stand  the 
test  of  much  critical  examination. 
As  formerly  shewn,  the  fair  chances 
of  battle  were  in  Napoleon's  favour 
from  the  very  first;  and  though  the 
many  combats  fought  and  victories 
gained  during  the  eight  months' 
blockade  of  Mantua  raised  his  fame 
to  a  fiir  greater  height  than  the  early 
reduction  of  the  fortress  by  the  ordi- 
nary rules  of  science  could  have 
done,  impartial  history  is  still  bound 
to  say,  that  the  latter  mode  of  pro- 
ceeding was  the  one  which  he  was 
called  upon  to  pursue.  The  man  of 
real  genius  would  have  reduced 
Mantua  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks 


T  CorrespondttDce  ia^dite,  vul.  ii.  p.  438. 


422 


Principal  Campaigm  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon,        [AprU, 


wonld  have  joined  Jourdan  and 
Morean  long  before  the  disasters 
of  the  German  campaign,  and  would 
probably  have  dictated  the  peace  of 
Leobcn  eight  months  sooner,  without 
the  intervention  of  the  combats  in 
which  so  much  blood  was  spilt  and 
in  which  the  whole  fortunes  of  the 
campaign  were  risked  on  the  cast  of 
every  die.  The  reckless  soldier, 
trusting  to  the  bravery  of  his  troops 
and  callous  of  their  fate  and  sufferings, 
played  a  different  game  —  played  it 
difl^rently  from  what  Turenne  or  Eu- 
gene would  have  done ;  but  his  having 
won  it  is  no  proof  of  his  merit :  the 
value  of  victory  must  not  be  measured 
by  success  alone ;  but  rather  by  the 
power  and  conduct  of  the  vanquished 
enemy. 

And  here  we  have  another  heavy 
reproach  to  bring  against  the  cabi- 
net of  Vienna.  Between  the  Ist 
of  August,  when  Marshal  Wurmser 
caused  the  siege  of  Mantua  to  be 
raised,  down  to  the  16th  of  January, 
when  the  capture  of  Provcra  decided 
the  fate  of  tne  fortress,  the  Austrian 
government  hurried  forward  three 
successive  armies  to  relieve  a  city 
that  was  only  blockaded  and  in  no 
particular  danger.  These  armies 
were  all  hastily  collected,  loosely 
organised,  and  but  little  superior  to 
the  French  even  in  numbers,  and 
were  all  defeated.  Now  the  question 
is.  What  would  have  been  the  con- 
sequence if  the  court  of  Vienna  had 
rationally  calculated  and  employed 
the  time,  which  the  resisting  power 
of  Mantua  placed  at  its  disnosal ;  and 
instead  of  hurrying  three  ill-assorted 
armies  of  40,000  men  into  the  field, 
it  had  nursed  its  resources,  and  when 
danger  pressed,  sent  a  well-organised 
force  of  70,000  or  75,000  efficient 
soldiers  forward  to  the  fight,  as,  from 
the  number  raised  and  equipped,  we 
know  that  it  might  have  done  ?  As 
the  French  barely  withstood  the 
feeble  assailants  on  two  occasions,  is 
it  not  natural  to  conclude  that  they 
would  have  been  overwhelmed  by 
the  efforts  of  a  more  numerous  and 
better  appointed  host  ? 

The  defeat  of  the  Austrians  and 
the  fall  of  Mantua  lefl  Buonaparte 
ample  time  to  pour  the  long-sus- 
pended  vial    of  republican    wrath 

-^n  devoted  Rome.    We  have  seen 

the  insulting  demands  of  the 

iTj  had  obliged  the  pope  to 


break  off  all  negotiations  with  Fnmee, 
and  to  raise  troops  for  his  protection. 
General  Colli,  with  some  Austrian 
officers,  undertook  to  discipline  his 
army ;  but  the  indolent  and  unwar- 
like  character  of  the  people,  the  want 
in  Italian  society  of  a  class  from 
which  efficient  officers  can  alone  be 
formed,  and  the  absence  of  all  the 
qualities  which  give  strength  to  sub- 
ordination, rendered  the  task  a 
hopeless  one.  His  holiness  never 
assembled  even  20,000  men,  and  the 
battle  of  Rivoli  was  fought  and  lest 
before  the  modern  Romans  were 
ready  to  strike  a  blow.  It  is  need- 
less to  repeat  the  causes  which  the 
French  assigned  for  the  rupture  of 
the  armistice;  Buonaparte  and  the 
Directory  were  both  hostile  to  the 
pontifical  government,  and  deter- 
mined not  to  lose  the  opportunity  of 
effecting  its  overthrow  or  humilia- 
tion. Both,  indeed,  had  determined 
on  its  destruction,  and  the  causes 
which  obtained  a  short  respite  for 
the  poi)e  have  never  been  very  clearly 
explained.  On  the  Ist  of  February, 
the  Directory,  in  their  letter  to 
Buonaparte,  call  for  the  "  occupation 
of  Rome,  and  the  destruction  of  the 
Catholic  religion,"  which  they  de- 
clare *'  will  ever  be  hostile  to  them 
and  their  government.**  On  Uie 
very  same  day,  Buonaparte,  whose 
troops  were  already  in  motion,  writes 
from  Bologna,  proposing  that  the 
^*  city  of  Rome  should  be  given  to 
Spain  in  exchange  for  Parma,  which, 
with  Lombardy,  might  then  be  ceded 
to  Austria,  in  order  to  obtain  the 
peace  so  anxiously  desired  by  the 
Directory."  Even  the  despicable 
Cacault,  the  French  ambasador  at 
Rome,  had  a  project  for  dividing  the 
territory  of  the  imperial  city,  once  the 
capital  of  the  empire  of  which  France 
formed  only  a  barbarous  province, — 
a  proof  that,  under  the  protection  of 
victorious  armies,  the  meanest  hands 
can  play  with  states  and  sovereignties. 
Tne  war  against  Rome  is  soon  told. 
Buonaparte  destined  only  10,000 
men,  including  3000  of  the  new  Italian 
levies,  for  the  expedition, — ample 
evidence  of  the  contempt  which  he 
entertained  for  the  modem  Romans. 
A  corps  of  the  papal  army,  consisting 
of  8000  men,  had  taken  post  in  an 
entrenched  camp  behind  the  Senio,  a 
small  fordable  stream.  They  were 
attacked  by  Lannes  on  the  3d  of 


1846.] 


The  Italian  Campaigni. 


4!2d 


Februaiy,and  entirely  dkpened,  with 
a  loss  to  the  French  of  only  forty 
men  killed  and  wounded, — &  proof 
how  justly  Buonaparte  had  estimated 
these  new  adversaries.  The  attempt 
to  defend  Ancona  failed  completely ; 
the  Roman  levies  every  where  dis- 
persed on  the  appearance  of  the  in- 
vaders, and  the  important  fortress 
was  abandoned  without  offering  the 
slightest  resistance.  Loretto  with  its 
shrine  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
victors,*  and  Napoleon  sent  the 
wooden  ima^e  of  the  Virgin  to  Paris, 
unaccompamed  by  any  treasures, 
which  had  probably  been  removed. 
The  circumstance  tnat  no  wealth  was 
found  might  have  furnished  him  with 
a  good  opportunity  for  exposing  the 
folly  and  rapacity  of  the  Directory, 
who  had  written  to  bios,  at  the  very 
outset  of  the  campaign  in  April,  re- 
commending that  10,000  men  should 
be  ** secretly"  marched  from  the 
Riviera  of  Genoa,  where  the  army 
then  was,  across  the  whole  breadth  of 
Italy,  a  distance  of  150  miles,  to 
Loretto,  in  order  to  seize  the  Santa 
Casa  and  the  treasures  which  super- 
stition had  amassed  there  during  fif- 
teen centuries,  and  which,  as  the 
Directory  say,  ^'are  valued  at  ten 
milhons  sterling."  The  idea  of  10.000 
men  sUaUng  a  march  across  a  whole 
country  to  perform  what  the  Direc- 
tory term  *^  a  brilliant  financial  ope- 
ration," could  only  have  originated 
with  men  whose  little  judgment  was 
completely  obscured  by  avarice. 

Rome  was  in  consternation;  the 
w^thy  fled  the  city,  and  the  pope 
himself  was  prepared  to  follow  the 
example,  when  Cardinal  Mattel,  who 
had  oeen  sent  to  the  Repjiblican 
head-quarters  with  a  letter  from 
Pius  V  I.  to  Buonaparte  himself,  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  a  truce  for  this 
unhappy  pontiff.  A  peace  was  al- 
ready signed  at  Tolentino  on  the 
19th  of  February,  by  the  terms  of 


which  the  pope  ceded  Avignon,  the 
Venaisson,  Bologna,  Ferrara,  and  the 
Roma^na.  He  also  allowed  the 
French  to  retain  possession  of  Ancona 
till  the  settlement  of  a  general  peace, 
lu^reed  to  pay  15,000,000  livres  more 
tnan  the  previous  armistice  had  im- 
posed upon  him,  and  confirmed  the 
promisea  surrender  of  the  stipulated 
works  of  art. 

Immediately  after  the  signature  of 
the  treaty,  Napoleon  wrote  a  very 
courteous,  and  what,  from  a  Catholic, 
might  be  termed  a  very  delightful 
letter  to  the  pontiff,  in  which  he 
congratulates  himself  on  having  been 
instrumental  in  brinnng  about  a 
peace  between  his  hoBness  and  the 
French  Republic,  which  he  is  sure, 
he  says,  '^  will  always  prove  a  firm 
friend  of  Rome."  His  real  motives, 
however,  for  altering  his  resolution 
in  regard  to  the  states  of  the  Church 
are  not  mentioned;  nor  is  it  hkely 
that  he  ever  had  any  very  distinct  or 
well-defined  views  on  the  subject. 
To  the  Directory,  which  was  greatly 
displeased  with  the  peace  of  Tolentino, 
he  gives  very  fair  grounds  for  sparing 
the  pontifical  government ;  but  these 
m>unds  had  been  as  clear  when  he 
determined  on  its  destruction  three 
weeks  before  as  tbey  were  then,  and 
as  they  had  been  from  the  commence- 
ment of  the  campaign. 

ProjectfoUowed  project  in  shadowy 
and  undefined  succession  through  his 
mind.  At  one  time,  Spain  is  to 
furnish  an  auxihary  corps  of  10,000 
men,  and  receive  Rome  and  Civita 
Yecchia  in  return;  Sardinia  is  to  give 
an  equal  number  of  troops,  also  for 
an  accession  of  territory;  in  which 
case  it  is  expected  that  Venice,  already 
half  at  war  with  France,  will  assist 
the  hostile  Republic  by  the  aid  of 
her  10,000  Slavonian  soldiers.  At 
another  time  it  is  proposed  to  with- 
hold the  territorial  grants  by  which 
the  assistance  of  the  two  monarchs 


*  The  treasures  of  this  shrine,  the  most  venerated  in  the  Cetbolic  world,  had  either 
been  removed  io  time,  or  had  been  yaetlj  exaggerated  in  regard  to  value.     We  may 
mention  here  that  the  great  wealth  supposed  to  have  belonged  to  the  monasteries,  and 
to  the  Catholic  Church  generally,  has  been  vastly  and  ridiculously  overrated.    The 
Church  possessed,  no  doubt,  extensive  domains ;  but  the  monks  were  lenient  and  easy 
landlords.    That  there  were  some  idle,  useless,  and  even  worthless  persons  among  the 
inmates  of  convents,  cannot  well  be  doubted.     Where  are  such  characters  not  found  ? 
In  the  Peninsula,  the  monks  were  not  of  a  high  caste  of  character,  nor,  indeed,  Wf* 
informed  men  ;  but  they  were  a  mild,  gentle,  kind,  and  hospitable  body.     Tbey  v 
the  friends  of  the  poor,  their  physicians  in  sickness^  their  advisers  and  com  forte 
trouble  and  adversity  ;  and  the  prespnce  of  a  convent  in  s  retired  part  of  the  cot 
Was  a  source  of  happiness  to  the  whole  districtt 


424  Principal  Campaigm  in  ihe  Rise  of  Napoleon.        [Aprils 


was  to  be  purebased,  and  to  obtain 
the  troops  for  a  mere  guarantee  by 
France  of  the  stability  of  their  go- 
rernments, — a  guarantee  that  Buo- 
naparte himself  declared  to  be  totally 
useless,  ^  as  these  monarchies  cannot 
long  continue  to  exist  as  neighbonrs 
and  allies  of  the  great  Republic." 
To  say  nothing  of  tne  want  of  prin- 
ciple evinced  in  most  of  these  projects, 
we  may  safely  assert  that  tne  deep 
political  and  military  sagacity  of 
which  they  are  generally  supposed  to 
bear  proof,  can  &  as  little  discovered 
in  the  reasons  assigned  for  discarding 
one  set  as  for  proposing  the  other. 

A  number  of  the  French  clergy, 
who  had  refused  to  take  the  revo« 
Intionary  oath,  and  been  obliged  to 
leave  France,  had  found  shelter  at 
Rome.  These  unhappy  fugitives 
were,  fVom  the  fate  whicn  had  befallen 
so  many  of  their  class,  in  great  dread 
on  the  advance  of  the  Kepubiican 
army ;  and  it  has  really  been  brought 
forward,  as  a  proof  of  Buonaparte*s 
great  generosity,  that  he  refrained 
from  oppressing  or  destroying  them. 
It  shews  to  what  an  extent  the 
habitual  adulation  of  this  man  has 
been  carried,  when  he,  who  w»s  a 
gentleman  by  birth  and  education, 
who,  in  the  early  part  of  liis  career, 
when  serving  in  tne  artillery,  had 
associated  with  gentlemen,  was  ac- 
tually laitded  for  not  claiming  and 
butcnering  some  poor  emigrant  priests, 
subsisting  on  the  charity  of  a  foreign 
land!  The  unhappy  writers  who 
praise  such  forbearance,  seem  not  to 
Know  that  a  man  may  be  far  above 
Jean  Cou|)e-t€te,  Collot  d'llerbois,  or 
Carr^re  of  Nantes,  without,  therefore, 
possessing  one  particle  of  real  gene- 
rosity. It  shews  clearly,  however, 
say  biographers,  that  Napoleon  had 
ceased  to  be  a  Jacobin  of  the  Ro- 
bespierre school ;  but  the  fact  is,  that 
he  never  had  fixed  principles  of  any 
kind :  he  was,  from  first  to  last,  a 
selfish  and  ambitious  man.  lie  began 
as  a  Jacobin,  because  it  was  the  best 
and  most  likely  road  by  which  mean 


men  oonld  then  ascend  to  power ;  lod 
the  \Qfy  causes  which  made  him  a 
Jacobin  when  out  of  power,  made 
him  a  despot  when  he  obtained  it. 

We  cannot  condnde  the  history  of 
a  campaign  which  produced  snch  vast 
influence  on  the  destinies  of  Europe, 
without  specify ing    the    aM  which 


England  lent  her  sole  remaining  ally 
in  a  contest  fought  almoat  for  fife 
and  death.  England  had  been  three 
years  at  war  with  France,  and  had 
already  acquired  the  most  perfect 
mastery  of  the  sea,  so  that  her  hands 
were  free,  she  could  direeC  her  blows 
to  any  quarter  \  bnt,  though  it  was 
perfectly  evident  that  the  battle  for 
continental  supremacy  was  fighting 
in  the  plains  of  Italy^  Britain  sent 
only  three  battalions  oT  IJesBC- 
Darmstadt  troops,  which  happened 
to  be  in  her  pay,  to  assist  her  sole 
remaining  continental  ally!  ITiCpe 
troops,  however,  were  so  well  pro- 
tects! by  diplomatic  arrangementA, 
.that  they  could  neither  aid  the  pope, 
'who  asked  for  them  to  defend  An- 
conn,  nor  could  they  fight  forAvu^nB^ 
to  whose  succour  it  was  belieyed  that 
they  were  sent!  They  renmincd 
idle  at  Trieste,  drawing  English  pay 
and  doing  nothing. 

Corresponding  with  this  direct  as- 
sistance, two  diversions  in  favour  of 
Austria  must  also  be  mentioned. 

In  September,  when  Iluona|isrfc 
was  engaged  with  Wunnser  on  the 
Brenta,  the  English  landed  600  men 
in  the  Tuscan  Maremma  near  Castjg- 
lione.    This  feeble  detachment  na- 
turally embarked  again  on  the  first 
approach  of  a  French  column.     Tn 
November,    during   the    operations 
round  Arcole,    the   Englisli    a/?*"" 
landed  in  Piombino,  and  this  time  to 
the  number  of  1600  men.    Havinc 
failed  to  capture  the  small  Frenen 
garrison  of  Castiglione  della  Fescajfi 
these  forces  also  returned  to  their 
ships.      It    was  by  such   ftuiH^ 
and  unworthy  enterprises  that  the 
military  fame  and  renown  of  England 
was  so  seriously  injured. 


Chapteb  VII. 

Nnpoleon  at  the  termination  of  the  Cnrnpsign.  —  Tlie  Archduke  Charles  assumes  tlie 
Commnnd  of  the  Anstriun  Army.  —  lUversva  sustHined..»Venice.«i~The  FreDch 
forced  to  cvucuale  the  Tyrol. — Negotiations  and  Treaty  of  Lcobeo.^FaW/^ 
Venice.— Court  of  iMontehvlio,  and  'J'reaty  of  Campo  Fonnio.^NapoleoD  at  Faw*' 
his  Appearance  and  Munner. 

No    victorious   leader   was   ever      ccssful  campaign  as  was  Napoleon  by 
1  to  80  high  a  station  by  a  suc«     the  events  we  have  related,    b  th€ 


184a.] 


The  Italian  Campai^m, 


425 


htief  space  of  ten  months  be  had 
traversed  Italy  in  its  greatest  breadth, 
from  the  Riviera  of  Genoa  to  the 
lagunes  of  Yenice ;  armies  had  been 
seattered  at  his  approach;  fortresses 
of  mighty  strength  had  fallen  before 
him;  the  princes  of  the  land  had 
jmrchased  his  protection ;  and  Rome 
Itself,  which  had  so  often  trampled  on 
the  power  of  kings  and  empires,  had 
been  humbled  to  the  dnst  by  the 
youthful  conqneror  of  Kivoli.  To 
render  his  career  m<Mre  dazzling  still, 
Fortone  willed  that  his  rapid  and 
extraordinary  rise  should  form  an 
important  era  in  the  history  of  the 
very  land  to  ^vhich  he  owed  his 
origin.  The  tempest  of  invasion 
broke  the  lethargic  spell  which  hod 
so  long  rested  on  the  Peninsula ;  the 
Ansonian  nations  were  aroused,  not 
only  by  the  thunder  of  French  artil*^ 
lery,  which  soimdcd  fast  and  far  over 
the  fields  of  Lombardy,  but  by  the 
new  doctrines  which  preceded  the 
invaders,  which  resounded  faster  still 
and  farther,  and  reverberated  from 
the  foot  of  the  Alps  to  the  gulf  of 
Tarentum,  while  the  Ilcpublican 
cannon  were  yet  forcing  tlieir  painful 
way  across  the  plains  of  the  Milanese. 
Hope  and  fear  divided  the  country, 
and  this  division  naturally  heightened 
the  power  and  influence  of  the  con* 
qucror,  to  whom  both  parties  were 
obliged  to  look  up,— the  one  for 
protection,  the  other  for  preferment. 

Napoleon  had  not  only  vanquished 
the  enemies  against  whom  he  was  sent 
to  contend,  but  he  had  subdued  the 
]>trcctory  also,  and  now  stood,  in  the 
prime  of  life,  on  his  pedestal  of  fame, 
wielding  the  armies  of  France  and  all 
the  resources  of  the  provinces  he  had 
ao  lately  subdued.  It  was  with  these 
great  advantages,  added  to  those 
which  he  derived  from  the  revo- 
lutionary iropnlse  which  urged  on 
the  Republican  forces,  that  he  now 
prepared  to  attack  the  emjieror  in 
the  very  centre  of  his  dominions. 

Austria,  composed  of  distant  and 
disjointed  provinces,  inhabited  by 
nations  differing  in  manners,  habits, 
language,  and  having  no  other 
boims  of  union  beyond  what  they 
derived  from  living  under  the  same 
aceptre,  could  never  be  looked  upon 
as  equal  in  power  to  France,  which 
was  a  compact  country,  greatly  its 
superior  in  wealth  and  population. 
A  four  years*  disastrous  struggle  had 


separated  Talnable  provinces  from 
the  monarchy,  and  impaired  the  ordi- 
nary resources  of  the  imperial  ffovem- 
ment,  which,  being  completely  arbi- 
trary, conld  only  retain  its  hold  on 
the  suoport  aim  afitections  of  the 
people  by  strictly  respectinj^  the  per- 
sons, privileges,  and  possessions  of  its 
subjects;  it  was  precluded  by  its 
very  nature  from  resorting  to  those 
deeds  of  tyranny  which  had  pla<^ 
the  wealth  and  the  lives  of  a  whole 
people  at  the  absolute  disposal  of  the 
republican  goTemment  of  Paris.  The 
Austrian  armies  had  also  suffered 
great  losses  during  the  long  contest. 
The  best  of  the  old  soldiers  had 
fallen  in  battle,  and  the  new  levies 
re<^uired  a  long  period  of  training 
before  they  could  become  efficient 
under  the  Austrian  system  of  drill; 
and  these  young  soldiers  now  brought, 
unfortunatelv,  no  hopes  of  victory 
along  with  tnem  to  the  field,~they 
brought  only  a  knowledge  of  tlie 
disasters  which  had  befslien  their 
comrades  and  predecessors ;  and,  un- 
der such  droumstances,  a  contest 
between  Austria  and  France  was  no 
longer  an  equal  one. 

Reinforcements  to  the  amount  of 
between  20,000  and  30,000  men  had 
joined  the  French  by  the  end  of 
February,  and  augmented  their  army 
in  Italy  to  about  80,000  men,  of 
whom,  after  deducting  garrisons  and 
detachments,  63,000  remained  effect- 
ive for  the  field.  With  this  imposing 
force.  Napoleon  was  naturally  anx- 
ious to  o^icn  the  campaign  before  the 
Austrians  could  recover  the  losses 
they  had  sustained,  organise  their 
troop,  and  receive  the  reinforcements 
on  the  march  to  join  them  from  their 
victorious  army  of  the  Rhine.  The 
Directory,  also,  in  their  letter  of  the 
12th  of  February,  command,  or  ex* 
press,  at  least,  a  hope,  that  a  forward 
movement  will  immediately  be  made, 
and  promise  the  co-operation  of  the 
armies  of  the  Rhine,  and  of  the 
Sombre  and  Moselle,  under  the  com- 
mand of  Gener^  Hoche  and  Moreau ; 
yet  these  armies  did  not  take  the 
field  for  more  than  a  month  after 
Napoleon,— a  proof  how  incapable 
Carnot  was  of  combining  even  the 
simplest  military  operations. 

Marshal  Alvinzy  having,  on  ac 
count  of  his  advanced  age,  solicit 
and  obtained  permission  to  resign 
command  of  th«  army  of  Italy, 


426  Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napolem,        [April, 


saeoeeded  hy  the  Archduke  Charles, 
brother  to  the  emperor.  This  prince, 
who  was  then  in  the  twenty-serenth 
year  of  his  age,  had  fought  with 
reputation  in  subordinate  commands 
during  the  early  years  of  the  war ; 
he  was  distinguished  by  the  most 
brilliant  personal  valour,  and  had 
just  dosed  his  first  campaign,  as 
general-in-chief,  by  defeating  and 
driving  Jourdan  and  Moreau  out  of 
Germany.  The  youth,  rank,  braveiy, 
and  success  of  this  prince  disposed 
the  troops  to  place  the  greatest  con- 
fidence in  him;  and  had  ne  combined 
popular  qualities  and  a  just  insight 
mto  character  with  the  talents  and 
acquirements  which  he  certainly  pos- 
sessed^ he  might  vexy  possibly  have 
acted  a  splendid  part  in  the  nistory 
of  his  time.  But  along  with  abilities, 
there  vras  evidently  some  want  of 
decision,  or  power  of  acting,  as  well 
as  an  absence  of  the  manners  which 
sain  the  soldier's  hardy  heart,  and  ren- 
der the  masses  high-spirited,  bold,  and 
daring,  by  the  enthusiastic  confidence 
they  so  readily  place  in  the  skill, 
star,  and  merit  ot  a  favourite  leader. 

There  was  little  hope  that  the  task 
which  the  archduke  was  now  called 
upon  to  perform  could  add  much  to 
his  previous  reputation.  The  army 
he  was  appointed  to  command  was 
feeble  in  numbers,  disorganised  in 
discipline,  and  composed  principally 
of  the  remnants  of  those  bimds  which 
had  sustained  so  many  defeats  during 
the  previous  campaign,  and  were 
discouraged  by  their  constant  disas- 
ters. True  it  is  that  some  divisions 
from  the  army  of  the  Rhine  were  on 
the  march  to  join  them,  but  the 
French  had  it  in  their  power  to  com- 
mence operations — as,  indeed,  they 
did  —  before  these  reinforcements 
could  reach  their  destination.  Thus 
the  troops  which  the  archduke  had 
actually  in  hand  at  the  opening  of 
the  campaign  did  not  exceed  41,000 
men;  of  these,  14,000,  under  Grene- 
rals  Kerpen  and  Laudon,  occupied 
the  Tyrol,  and  were  aided  by  6000 
mountaineers,  the  formidable  militia 
of  that  warlike  province.  With  tbe 
rest,  the  archduke  retired  behind 
the  Tagliamento,  and  taking  post 
near  Valvassonc  with  about  24,000 
men,  directed  General  Otskay  to 
guard  the  passes  of  Tarvis  with  2000 
or  3000  more. 

The   animosity  existing   between 


France  and  Venice  had  at  this  time 
attamed  a  height  that  threatened  an 
open  rupture  between  the  two  re- 
publics, and  was,  therefore,  of  flone 
advantage  to  Austria.    The  St^nena 
saw  plainly  what  its  fate  would  be 
should  the  French  prove  vktotkras, 
but  though  they  had  12,000or  15,000 
Slavonian  troops  ready  at  hand,  wid 
mostly  assembled  in  the  capital,  they 
never  ventured  to  use  them  till  the 
moment  for  acting  was  past    On  the 
Terra  Fuma,  the  citLEcns  of  Btm^ 
and  Bergamo  had  openly  renounced 
the    authority    of    St.    Mark,  and 
espoused  the  cause  of  France;  the 
country  people,  on  the  other  hand, 
were  bitterly  hostile  to  the  new  Re- 
publicans.     Oppressed  by  reqma- 
tions,  plundered  and  insulted  by  the 
troops,  the  peasants  had  slain  sUag- 
glmg  and  marauding  French  soWiers; 
the  comrades  of  the  suffercra  had 
retaliated,  and  an  open  revolt  was 
more  than  once  expected.     General 
Battaglia,  the  Venetian  pramdatjrt^ 
remonstrated  against  the  o|>en  vio- 
lence practised  on  the   subjects  of 
Venice;  Buonaparte  replied  by  ac- 
cusing the  government  of  partiality 
for  Austria,  and  went  so  fsr  as  to 
employ  General  Andrieux  to  insti- 
gate the  people  to  rise  against  the 


senate.  The  Directory,  however, 
desired  him  to  pause,  and  not  to 
**  drive  the  Venetians  to  extremity, 
till  the  opportunity  should  have  ar- 
rived for  carrying  into  efiect  the 
future  projects  entertained  against 
that  state."  Both  parties  were  watch- 
ing their  time,  but  the  craven  watcbes 
in  vain,  for  he  is  struck  down  long 
before  his  time  to  strike  arrives. 

On  the  10th  of  March,  the  French 
broke  up  from  their  cantonments. 
Napoleon,  with  43,000  men,  advanced 
towards  the  Tagliamento ;  and  Jou- 
bert,  with  19,000  more,  towards  the 
passes  of  the  Tyrol.  The  armies 
encountered  on  the  16th.  As  ]!das- 
sena*s  division  was  absent,  performing 
a  strange  elliptical  movement,  of 
which  we  shall  speak  presently,  the 
French  could  hardly  outnumber  the 
Austrians  by  moro  than  8000  or  9000 
men ;  the  latter  had  at  least  a  chance 
of  victory  therefore,  and  the  arch- 
duke determined  to  accept  battle  be- 
hind the  Tagliamento, — literally,  ia 
try  tbe  fortune  of  war,  to  follow  tip 
success  should  the  fickle  goddess 
smile,  or  bi»«t  "^'♦iie  combat  if  she 


1846.] 


Th€  Italian  Campaignt, 


427 


finowned.  The  Tagliamento  is  so 
perfectly  fordable  near  Valvaasone, 
that  troops  can  almost  pass  it  in  order 
of  battle;  the  country  is  level  and 
uninclosed,  and  offers  no  protection 
to  the  defender  beyond  what  is  af- 
forded by  some  hamlets  situated 
along  the  borders  of  the  stream.  In 
these  the  Austrians  had  posted  their 
Infantry ;  the  cavalry  was  drawn  in 
the  rear,  prepared  to  break  through 
the  intervals  as  opportunity  shoiud 
offer.    This  was,  probably,  the  ablest 


dkporition  that  could  be  made  with 
modem  troops,  and  the  Austrians 
maintained  their  ground  till  night- 
fall. The  archduke  then  finding 
that  the  continuation  of  the  contest 
offered  no  hopes  of  permanent  suc- 
cess, retired  from  the  field,  having 
lost  500  men  and  six  guns  in  the 
action.  It  shews  how  little  Napoleon 
had  effected  against  an  inferior  enemy 
when  the  vanquished  party  was  thus 
allowed  to  break  off  a  battle  at 
pleasure. 


KLAGENPURTH 


PIAVA  Dl  XAOORE 
o 


SPIUNBERCO  o 
VIOVAS&ONE 


■BACH 


Two  high-roads  lead  from  Yal- 
vassone  to  ElagenfUrth,  on  the 
Vienna  road,  where  the  divisions 
arriving  from  the  Austrian  army  of 
the  Bhme  were  to  join  the  troops  of 
the  archduke.  The  first  and  shortest 
of  these  roads  follows  the  course 
of  the  Tagliamento,  and  proceeds 
through  the  pass  of  Tarvis  to  Yil- 
lach ;  the  second  and  longest  goes  by 
Goritz  and  Lay  bach.  By  his  position 
at  Valvassone,  the  archduke  had  re- 
linanished  the  first  and  most  direct 
hign-road,  which  was  only  occupied 
by  a  small  corps  under  General 
Otskay,  but  retained  an  intermediate 
thougn  rather  longer  cross-road  by 
Udine  and  Caporetto  to  Tarvis ;  and 
b^  this  road  he  now  directed  the 
right  wing  of  his  retiring  army  to 
fall  back  on  KlagenfUrth.  This,  as 
we  shall  see,  was  a  precarious  move- 
ment ;  but  the  archduke  had  become 
alarmed  for  the  safety  of  the  divisions 
arriving  from  the  Rhine. 

Massena's  division  had  made  a 
useless  and  evidently  false  movement 
up  the  valley  of  the  Piava,  as  far  as 
Castell  Longara  and  Piava  di  Cadore, 
and,  having  taken  200  or  :iOO  prison- 

YOL.  XXXm.  KO.  CZCYI. 


ers,  arrived  on  the  Tagliamento  the 
day  after  the  action  of  which  we  have 
spoken.  Historians,  unable  to  find 
any  object  for  this  singular  march, 
have,  as  usual,  praised  i^  as  resulting 
fit>m  a  splendid  conception  of  genius, 
in  consequence  of  subsequent  events, 
with  which  it  was  totally  uncon- 
nected, and  which  we  must  now 
relate. 

When  Napoleon  followed  the  main 
body  of  the  Austrians,  he  ordered 
Massena,  who  had  just  arrived,  to 
advance  upon  Tarvis,— thus  threat- 
ening, perhaps,  to  turn  the  flank  of 
the  retiring  enemy.  The  Republican 
general  euilv  drove  Otskay  s  feeble 
corps  before  him,  but  moved  slowly, 
nevertheless,  for  his  advanced  guard 
only  entered  Tarvis  on  the  evening 
of  the  21st,  exactly  at  the  moment 
when  the  advanced  guard  of  the 
leading  divisioDs  of  the  Austrian 
right  wing  were  entering  it  from  an- 
ouier  dimtion.  The  imperialists 
drove  out  the  French,  and  remained 
masters  of  the  town ;  but  Massena*8 
whole  division  arriving  next  day, 
retook  it,  and  forced  the  Austrians 
to  Ml  back  on  the  Villach  road' 


4t8         Principal  Cawf^§n$  in  tie  Kh  pf  Napoleoiu 


[April, 


tlie  fint  diTttkm  of  tlie  tmMvkt*n 
ti^bi  wing  had  thus,  at  least,  fonght 
its  way  through ;  but  the  seoood  hsd 
SMTed  so  slowly  that  it  was  com- 
pletdy  cut  off.  Followed  by  Gene- 
ral Gayenx  and  encountered  in  front 
by  liussena,  Bayalisfa,  who  com- 
manded the  second  division,  was,  on 
the  29d,  forced  to  surrender,  with 
4000  men,  25  pieces  of  aitillery,  uid 
400  carriages, — a  catastronhe  tiiat 
aecords  but  too  well  witn  many 
events  of  the  same  class  we  have 
already  had  occasion  to  describe.  The 
conduct  of  the  Austrians  on  this 
occasion  seems  hardly  to  admit  of 
any  exeuse.  The  distance  they  had 
to  travvrse  from  Valvassone  to  Tar- 
vis  does  not  exceed  sixty-five  miles, 
the  road  leading  mostly  through  a 
level  country ;  and  yet  we  find  one 
division  requiring  five  and  the  other 
seven  days  to  accomplish  a  march 
that  might  surely  have  been  per- 
formed in  four  days,  and  even  in  less 
time  if  necessary.  Ab  Greneral  Otskay 
was  fallinff  back  before  Massena,  ig- 
norance of  the  pending  danger  could 
hardly  be  pleaded  for  tne  deia^.  The 
disasters  of  Galliano  and  Ri  voli  seemed 
to  press  upon  the  spirits  of  the  Aus- 
trians, and  to  deprive  them  of  all 
that  power  of  energy  and  activity 
which  can  alone  jender  armies  efficient 
in  the  field. 

To  facilitate  the  retreat  by  Lay- 
bach,  the  town  of  Gradisca  had  been 
placed  in  a  state  of  tenmorary  defence, 
and  was  garrisoned  by  2000  men. 
No  sooner,  however,  was  it  assailed 
by  the  divisions  <^  Bemadotte  and 
Serrurier  than  the  governor  capitu- 
lated, without  awaiting  even  the 
semblance  of  an  assault.  Notwith- 
standinff  these  disheartenin|^  reverses, 
the  archduke  assembled  his  army — 
which  had  now  increased  to  30,000 
men— at  Kli^nfUrth,  befoire  Napo- 
leon oould  reach  the  place.  Having 
effected  this  object,  he  continued  to 
fall  back,  turning  oooaMonally  on  the 
French  advanced  guard,  whenever 
the  ground  offered  an^r  particular 
advantage.  Bemadotte,  in  the  mean- 
time, hM  taken  possession  of  Trieste 
and  Fiume,  and  havixig  seized  some 
English  merchandise  found  in  those 
sea-port  towns,  was  again  on  his 
march  to  ioin  the  main  army. 

While  Napoleon  was  thus  crossing 
the  Julian  Alps,  Joubert  had  pene- 
trated into  the  Tyrol,  and,  under  a 


sBOoessioa  of  stem  combatSi  had 
readied  to  the  foot  of  the  Bieoner, 
within  fi^  miles  of  In^Kuck.  Find- 
ing his  difficukies  augxaoitinff  instead 
of  diminishing  he  fell  hack  again 
on  Brixen,  thinking  that  he  AoM 
at  least  be  aUe  to  hold  the  groond 
he  had  so  &t  conqu^ted.  But  bere 
he  was  mistaken;  his  retreat  only 
served  to  encourage  the  foe,  who 
pressed  upon  him  from  every  quar- 
ter ;  the  whole  eountiy  was  in  in* 
surrection;  no  information  was  re- 
ceived from  the  main  army,  and  the 
French  forces  were  rapidlv  melting 
away  under  a  succession  of  profit!^ 
comoats,  when,  on  the  dd  of  April, 
Colonel  Eberle,  a  Swiss  officer  in  the 
French  service,  reached  Brixen,  in 
the  disguise  of  a  peasant,  and  in- 
formed Joubert  of  Napoleon's  pro- 
gress. The  general  instantly  deter- 
mined on  joming  his  chieftain,  and 
effected  his  object  bv  breaking  away 
to  the  rifi^ht,  and  forcing  a  march 
through  the  valley  of  Puster,— a  di- 
rection in  which  the  foe  was  least 
prepared  to  resist  the  bold  attempt. 
Having  lost  two-thirds  of  his  men 
during  this  brief  campaign,  Joubert 
reached  Villach  on  the  8th  of  April, 
and  had  to  fight  his  way  through 
even  at  that  point, — a  proof  how  or 
this  formidable  insurrectiDn  had  u* 
ready  extended. 

Napoleon  had  continued  to  press 
back  the  Austrians;   he  had  taken 
Klafenfiirth  and  had  advanced  to 
St  yieth«  when,  on  the  monuQg  oi 
the  30th  March,  he  received  a  letter 
from  the  Directory  ao^uaintiqg  hiin 
that  he  had  no  immediate  aid  to  ex- 
pect from  the  army  of  the  Bbine, 
which  was  not  yet  prepared  to  taW 
the  field.     This  information  called 
his  attention  to  the  precarious  situa- 
tion in  which  his  ilt-eoncerted  pj^ 
of  operation  had  placed  him.    ^^ 
immediately  wrote  what  was  proha* 
bly  intended  to  be  afrank  and  sol- 
dier-like  letter   to  the  Arebduke 
Charles,  proposing  a  cessation  of  Ik*' 
tilities  and  a  negotiation  for  peacei 
in  order  to  put  a  stop  to  all  further 
effusion   of  blood.     The  Austn^ 
field-marshal  answered  politely  but 
evasively,  saying   that  he  bsd^  ^ 
authority  to  treat  on  die  subject 
but  that  he  would  send  the  letter  to 
Vienna.    There  the  French  proposal 
found  favour.  The  enemy  were  withi^ 
a  hundred  miles  of  the  capital ;  <^^' 


_^-H 


IMIL] 


Tk$  Itaiian  Can^^mgni* 


42d 


seas  nd  eoiortien  irere  alike  terrio 
fied,  and  ai  Nai>oleon  continued  to 
ftdvanee,  dislo^ing  the  Anstrians 
from  Di^tnstem,  Hartzmark,  and 
Kewnaik,  as  he  proceeded,  orders 
vere  sent  to  enter  on  the  proposed 
neeotiatioD.  Generals  Meerfeld  and 
B^egarde  presented  themselves  at 
the  Jrrench  head-quarters  at  Inden- 
burg  on  the  mornmg  of  the  7Ui  of 
Apnl,  and  so  rejoiced  was  Napoleon 
Yrith  their  arrival  that  a  truce  vras 
immediately  concluded,  and  the  pre- 
liminary treaty  of  Ijeohen  already 
fligaed  ten  days  afterwards.  Fortune 
seemed  often  to  take  a  strange  plea- 
sure in  extricating  him  from  the 
difficulties  in  which  his  want  of  skill 
and  ordinary  foresight  had  placed 
him ;  hut  on  this  occasion  his  very 
enenues  lent  him  a  helping  hand 
when  every  other  hope  app^ired  to 
have  fled. 

At  Leoben,  Napoleon  had  no  re* 
aource  left  but  the  negotiation  which 
rescued  him,  or  a  victory  eained 
under  the  walls  of  Vienna,  and  of  so 
dedsi  ve  and  splendid  a  character  as  to 
paralyse  all  the  efforts  of  the  Aus- 
trian monarchy.  That  it  was  pos* 
sible,  with  his  army,  to  gain  such  a 
victory  cannot  be  denied ;  but  as  the 
foe  was  retiring  and  gathering 
atrength  exactly  in  proportion  as  the 
Frendi  were  dimini«iing  in  numbers, 
the  chances  of  their  achieving  any 
very  brilliant  success  were  at  least 
precarious.  Stra^lers,  detachments, 
and  the  casualties  of  the  field,  had 
already  reduced  the  invading  army 
to  40,000  men.  In  point  of  num- 
bers the  Austrians  were  of  equal 
strength;  what  reinforcements  the 
archduke  had  assembled  behind  the 
Styrian  mountains  is  uncertain,  but 
some  there  were,  and  the  last  stages 
of  the  retreat  would  probably  have 
seen  the  French  reduced  to  30,000 
and  the  Austrians  augmented  to 
fiO,000  men,  and  the  latter  fighting 
under  the  eyes  of  their  sovereign 
on  the  threshold  of  their  homes. 
In  sight  of  all  that  men  hold 
dear  and  sacred,  would  hardly  fiiil 
to  use  the  hravest  efforts  of  which 
they  might  be  capable.  And  what 
was  the  consequence  to  the  French  if 
no  brilliant  and  decisive  result  fol- 
lowed? Joubert  had  been  forced 
with  loss  from  the  T^l,  lisudon's 
corps  had  deseended  into  Italy,  and 
the  insurrection  was  already  spread- 


ing in  Styria  and  Cmifola.  Yenice, 
encouraged  by  the  promismg  aspect 
of  affiurs,  had  thrown  off  the  mask 
of  neutrality ;  the  tocsin  had  sounded 
through  the  communes  of  the  Terra 
Finaa,  and  a  body  of  troops  had 
joined  the  insurgents  in  the  attack 
on  the  citadel  of  Verona.  Not  only 
were  the  French  assailed  wherever 
they  were  found  in  arms,  but  the  very 
sick  were  inhumanly  slain  in  the 
hospitals  by  the  infUriated  peasantry ; 
the  principal  massacre  took  place  at 
Verona  on  Easter  Monday,  and  cast 
a  deep  stain  on  the  Venetian  cause 
and  character.  The  distance  from 
Klagenftlrth  to  Mantua,  the  nearest 
point  of  strength  belonging  to  l^e 
French  and  the  only  d^ot  whence 
they  could  receive  supplies,  is  250 
miles,  and  the  road  passed  through 
hostile  countries  alreeulyin  full  in- 
surrection. The  circle  of  fire  was 
rapidly  closing  round  the  invaders, 
and  there  was  no  aid  near.  To  halt 
under  such  circumstances  was  to 
avow  weakness,  to  encourage  the 
enemy,  and  bring  down  all  the  re- 
sources of  a  great  empire  upon  a 
small  invading  army.  To  retreat 
was  certain  to  augment  the  evU,  to 
incur  all  the  consequences  of  defeat 
for  the  precarious  chance  of  saving 
a  part  of  the  army ;  as  a  retr(^[rade 
movement  commenced  in  Styria 
would  probably  have  ended  only  in 
the  Appenines — ^a  recoil  that  must,  in 
all  likdihood,  have  caused  the  loss 
of  Italv.  "  As  lonff  as  we  are  suc- 
cessful, says  Napoleon,  in  a  letter 
written  to  General  Kuska  on  the  1  Ith 
December,  while  that  officer  was 
carrying  fire  and  sword  through  the 
revolted  district  of  Grafignara,  '^  we 
can  have  little  to  fear  from  these  in- 
surrections; but  they  may  become 
dangerous  in  case  of  a  reverse."  And 
this  danger  was  now  at  hand,  and  in 
a  most  formidalde  shape. 

It  is  understood  tnat  the  Arch- 
duke Charles  represented  these  cir- 
cumstances to  the  imperial  govern- 
ment, and  strongly  recommended  that 
the  contest  should  be  persevered  in 
at  a  moment  when  success  seemed 
almost  certain;  but  terror  had  seized 
upon  all  ranks  at  Vienna,  and  his 
aavice  was  overruled.  The  Aulic 
Council  could  easily  see  the  danger 
in  which  the  French  army  had  been 
placed  by  the  false  measures  of  its 
cbi^f .    Bat  to  perceive  the  weakn^sF 


1846.] 


Thi  Italian  Campaigns* 


431 


And  now  waa  the  full  weight  of 
I^apoleon's  wrath  to  fall  upon  un- 
happy Venice,  which«  like  so  many 
other  Italian  states,  had  delayed  to 
strike  for  safety  till  the  opportunity 
was  lost.  At  Leohen  the  situation 
of  the  French  was  so  precarious,  that 
considerable  forbearance  towards 
Austria  had  to  be  observed;  but, 
relieved  of  apprehension  from  that 
quarter,  the  haushty  victor  could 
now  give  way  to  all  tne  arrogance  so 
natural  to  little  minds,  when  placed 
in  stations  of  high  and  controlling 
power.  Conscious  that  he  had  in- 
trigued against  the  very  existence  of 
the  Venetian  government,  that  he 
had  officially  corresponded  with  the 
Directory  as  to  its  future  fate  and 
duration,  and  had  only  delayed  to 
attack  it  *^  openl v  because  the  proper 
time  was  not  thought  to  have  ar- 
rived,** he  now  affected  to  consider 
France  the  aggrieved  party,  and  re- 
fused to  hear  of  any  accommodation : 
and,  unfortunately,  the  base  massacre 
of  Verona  blackened  the  Venetian 
cause  so  much,  as  almost  to  gloss  over 
the  unprincipled  violence  of  their  ad- 
versaries. ^  If  you  could  offer  me 
the  treasures  of  Peru,"  said  Napoleon 
to  the  terrified  deputies  who  came  to 
sue  for  pardon  and  offer  reparation, 
**  if  you  could  cover  your  whole  do- 
minions with  gold,  the  atonement 
"would  be  insufiicient.  French  blood 
has  been  treacherously  shed,  and  the 
Lion  of  St  Mark  must  bite  the 
dust.*' 

On  the  3d  of  May,  he  declared  war 
against  the  republic,  and  French 
troops  immediately  adyanced  to  the 
shores  of  the  lagunes.  Here,  how- 
ever, the  waves  of  the  Adriatic  ar- 
rested their  progress,  for  they  had 
not  a  single  boat  at  command,  whereas 
the  Venetians  had  a  good  fleet  in  the 
harbour,  and  an  army  of  10,000  or 
15,000  soldiers  in  the  capital:  they 
only  wanted  the  couraee  to  use  them. 
Instead  of  fighting,  however,  they 
deliberated;  and  tried  to  purchase 
safety  by  gold,  instead  of  maintaining 
it  by  arms.  Finding  the  enemy  re- 
lentless, the  Great  Uouucil  proposed 
to  modify  their  government, — to  ren- 
der it  more  democratic,  in  order  to 
J>leasc  the  French  commander, — to 
ay  their  very  institutions  at  the  feet 
of  the  conqueror;  and,  strange  to 
say,  only  21  patricians  out  oi  690 
dissented  from  tlm  act  of  Aationd 


degradation.  The  democratic  party, 
supported  by  the  intrigues  of  Vittelan, 
the  French  secretary  of  legation,  ex- 
erted themselves  to  uie  utmost.  Tile 
Slavonian  troops  were  disbanded,  or 
embarked  for  Dalmatia;  the  fleet 
was  dismantled,  and  the  Senate  were 
rapidly  divesting  themselves  of  every 
privil^e,  when,  on  the  31st  of  May, 
a  popular  tumult  broke  out  in  the 
capital. 

The  Great  Council  were  in  deliber- 
ation when  shots  were  fired  beneath 
the  windows  of  the  ducal  palace. 
The  trembling  senators  thought  that 
the  rising  was  directed  against  them, 
and  that  their  lives  were  in  danger, 
and  hastened  to  divest  themselves  of 
every  remnant  of  power  and  autho- 
rity at  the  very  moment  when  the 
populace  were  taking  arms  in  their 
favour.  ^*  Lon^  live  St.  Mark,  and 
down  \nitk  foreign  dominion!**  was 
the  cry  of  the  insurgents,  but  nothing 
could  communicate  one  spark  of 
gallant  fire  to  the  Venetian  aristo- 
cracy. In  the  midst  of  the  general 
connision,  while  the  adverse  parties 
were  firing  on  each  other,  and  the 
disbanded  Slavonians  threatening  to 

{dunder  the  city,  these  unhappy 
egislators  could  only  delegate  tneir 
power  to  a  hastily  assembled  pro- 
^onid  goTernme^t,  and  then  t«»a- 
rate  in  shame  and  for  ever.  The 
democratic  government  commenced 
their  career  in  a  manner  as  dis- 
honourable as  that  of  the  aristocracy 
had  been  closed.  Slaves  in  soul, 
they  hastened  to  be  so  in  person  also, 
and  immediately  despatched  the  flo- 
tilla to  bring  over  the  French  troops. 
A  brigade  under  Baraguai  d'Hilliers 
soon  landed  at  the  place  of  St.  Mark ; 
and  Venice,  which  had  braved  the 
thunders  of  the  Vatican,  the  power 
of  the  emperors,  and  the  arms  of  the 
Othmans,  which  had  covered  the 
Archipelago  with  victorious  fleets, 
deliberated  on  removing  the  seat  of 
sovereignty  to  conquered  Byzantium, 
and  re-establishing  the  empire  of  the 
East,  and  which  had  seen  the  stan- 
dards of  three  subjugated  kingdoms 
wave  before  the  palace  of  its  doge, 
now  sunk  for  ever,  and  without 
striking  one  manly  blow  or  firinff 
one  single  shot  for  honour  and  fame! 
Venice  counted  1300  years  of  indc 
pcndence,  centuries  of  power  and  re 
nown,  and  many  also  of  great-**' 
and  glory,  but  ended  m  » 


Principal  Campaigna  t»  tht  Ritt  ofNapoleM.     tApril, 

tke  3M  of  Hay,  m  nviAttBaa  broke 
ont  }n  the  dly.  "  Hm  tint  dw,* 
MTi  NoTviBB,  with  rinpdtr  andonr, 
"  tbe  French  l^fMion  had,  m  il 
Tenke,  prepared  the  iBaomeliMi.'' 
In  tbe  contert  whieh  took  pbee  be- 
tween tbe  popnlar  nd  pUridu 
parties,  some  Frendunen  wcra  An 
by  tbe  earbtMori,  m  tbe  bhMtpism 
of  HrialocracT  were  then  termed ;  lod 
NapolecHi,  diarwarding  tbe  fiKt,  cf 
bis  conntrymen  naTiiia  been  the  in- 
stiKBtort  of  tbe  rerSt,  demiwW 
Batnfi^tion  for  tbe  ionilt  offered  to 
France.  The  end  was,  that  Fnndi 
troope  were  etlled  in  to  cettle  tbt 
dtflerencefl ;  a  democratic  gorenuoHil 
was  then  formed,  and  Genoa,  ncti- 

ftboaed  with  tbe  Ligornn  Ke- 
ic,  ceased  to  exist  as  an  indepen- 


432 

more  disbononrsble  fhan  any  state 
of  wbicb  history  makes  meotioD. 

Tbe  French  went  through  the  form 
of  acknowledging  the  new  democratic 

rermnent,  ont  retnaed  the  power 
their  own  hands.*    Heavy  con- 
tributions were  levied,  all  tbe  naval 
and  miltitary  stores  were  taken  poa- 
semloa  of,  and  the  fleet,  having  con- 
veyed French  troops  to  tbe   Ionian 
islands,  was  sent  to  Toulon.    Public 
property  thus  Mized  upon,  a  blow 
was  next  Struck  at  tbe  fbrtnnes  of 
indiridualB.     It  had  fbr    centnriea 
been  tbe  practice  to  allow  nobles, 
when  holding  high  official  sitnations, 
to  help  themselves  pretty  freely  out 
of  the  pnblic  treasury.    The  snms 
BO  taken  were  denominated  loans,  and 
regularly  entered  in  registers   kept 
fbr  the  purpose ;  but  tbey  were  never 
repaid,  nor  expected  to  be  repaid, 
patrician    famiUes    claiming    uniler 
certain  circumstances  a  right  to  anch 
cams :  »a  that,  in  tbe  course  of  cen- 
turies, tbe  whole  patrician  order  had 
become  indebted  to  the  state.    To 
the  French  tbe  register  of  these  debts 
was  literally  a  treasure ;  they  claimed 
the  immediate  repayment  of  all  the 
aitms    thus    due    to    the    public ; 
remonstrance  was  vain,  though  the 
demand  amounted,  in  fact,  to  a  decree 
of  bankruptcy  issued    aeainst    the 
whole  pntncian  order.     Few  conid 
command  sufficient  ready  money  to 
comply  with  this  heavy  exaction,  so 
that  palaces,  pictures,  books,  Rirni- 
ture,  valuables  and  rarities  of  every 
description,  found  their  way  into  the 
bands  of  .Tews,  money-lenders,  and 
French  commissioners :    the  higher 
orHpn    hnvp    never    recovered    the 
'crty  now  reigns  where 
Myemporiumofvfenlth. 
iture  of  Constantinople, 
articles  of  great  value, 
>f  the  imperial  palace, 
ands  of  the  victors,  and 
'enetians  obtained  their 
ough  long  preserved  in 
f  St.  Mark,  no  one  can 
i  tbey  are  to  be  found, 
not  long  destined  to 
impb  of  surviving  ito 
victorious   rival.      On 


pubfic, 


On  the  »th  of  Jane,  the  (Aalpiw 
Bepnhlic  was  procloiined.  It  »» 
composed  of  the  states  of  I^mbard^, 
Bologna,  Ferrara,  Modena,  and  tbe 
portion  of  the  Romagnt  which  b*d 
constituted  tbetnoelreo  into  tlie  )0- 
called  Emilian  Republic  NorviM 
tells  us  "that  30,000  National  Gnudi 
took  the  oath  of  fidelity  to  Ibis  Mi 
triation  of  genius."  The  cntblsiisBi 
displayed  on  tbe  occasion  wu  evi- 
dently, however,  of «  veiy  epbemasl 
character;  for  when  Suvaroff  n- 
vaded  Italy  in  1799,  this  W* 
ertation  forgot  its  very  existent*. 
the  HepublicBn  authorities  invariaUj 
leading  the  van  in  the  retreat  of  iw 
French  armies;  and  of  tbelhouWWf 
who  had  BO  gallantly  swom  to  up- 
hold the  conslitntion,  not  one  *« 
found  to  pull  a  trigger  in  its  deftnw ; 
all  wIk)  took  arms  joined  tbfi  alliw. 
The  flret  act  of  the  new  govemmtnl 
was  to  declare  war  against  tbe  poj*' 
who   had   relbsed    to    acknowledp 


to  come  to  blows. 

This  was  the  last  great  act  of  tb« 
celebrated  campaigns  which  piscea 
Napoleon  on  the  jnnnacle  of  fwK. 
and  constituted  the  very  fouodattw 
on  which  his  subsequent  throne  <rM 
-—"  "  Hied  by  so  1-'— '^  ' 
f  victories,    1 


••i  10  ptunjor  lh«  unliappy  Duke  ofModena,  who  had  wachtilit""" 
r  HQuioing  itMsum,  amountiDS  to  190,000  wqubs  I 


i  846.] 


the  Italian  Campaign$. 


433 


readily  ascribed  them  to  the  talents 
aod  genius  of  the  conqueror,  without 
perceiving  that  the  fair  chances  of 
success  were,  from  the  first  outset, 
so  much  in  his  favour  as  to  render 
his  task  comparatively  easy.    The^ 
forgot  that  dttring  eight  months  his 
victories  j^roduoed  only  ncioative  re<- 
sults,  broii^ht  only  moral  advantages, 
and  that  the  success  of  the  whole 
€sampaign  had  to  he  risked  on  the 
iaite  of  every  battle  fought  to  maintain 
tlie  blookaoe  of  Mantua:  a  single 
defeat  would,  even  at  the  last  mo* 
ment,  have  driven  the  RepuUicans 
liack    beyond   the   maritime   Alps. 
'Xhe  extravagancies  advanced  by  his 
vrorshippers,  who  so  shamefully  ex- 
aggerate the  strength  as  well  as  the 
losses  of  the  vanouished,  diew  that 
they  did  not  think  their  idol  could 
stand  on  a  plain  j^edesta)  of  historical 
truth.    Hiese  writers  tell  us  on  every 
occasion  of  the  great  talents   and 
brilliant  genius  displayed  by  Napo- 
leon, but  the  proofs  of  these  high 
qualities    are    constantly  wanting; 
for  the  merit  of  victories  gamed  m 
bold  fix>nt-to-iiont  onsets  by  soldiers 
placed  to  no  particular  advantage  by 
their  [^neral,  may,  with  more  justice, 
be  claimed  for  the  troops  than  for 
the  commander.   The  vastly  superior 
composition   of  the   French    army 
greatly  outbalanced  the  small  nu- 
merical superiority  of  their  adver* 
saries,  and  the  impulse  which  the 
French  troops  had  acquired  by  the 
conquests  of  Holland,  Belgium,  and 
the  left  bank  of  the  Rhine,  had,  of 
course,  extended   to   the   army  of 
Italy.    The  French  gjeneral  was  al- 
together independent  in  his  actions, 
and  had  all  the  resources  of  the  con- 
quered countries  completely  at  his 
disposal;   and  used   them,   indeed, 
with  the  most  ruthless  and  robber* 
like  profusion. 

Bttulieu,  Wurmser,  and  Alviniy, 
the  Austrian  commanders  vanquished 
by  Napoleon,  though  no  doubt  brave, 
zealous,  and  honourable  men,  had 
never  been  distinguished  for  talents, 
and  had  only  risen  to  command  by 
family  influence  and  length  of  service. 
Time  has  laid  man^  of  their  errors 
fairly  open  to  inspection,  and  it  is  now 
clear  that  a  moderate  degree  of  energy 
was  alone  wanting  to  have  rendered 
them  victorious  at  Castiglione,  Arcole, 
and  Bivoli. 

When,  shortly  before  the  ierminaF- 
tion  of  the  contest,  the  Archduke 


Charles  assumed  the  command,  the 
Austrian  army  was  so  feeble  in  num- 
bers, the  morale  of  the  soldiers  so 
greatly  broken,  as  to  leave  little  pro- 
spect of  success  till  reinforced  by 
troops  not  yet  depressed  by  so  many 
disasters.  W  hat  forces  tlie  imperial 
commander  could  have  assembled  for 
the  defence  of  Vienna  we  are  unable 
to  state,  but  all  the  best-informed 
writers  seem  now  to  Bfree  in  the 
belief,  that  if  the  Austrian  govern* 
ment  had  persevered  at  the  moment 
instead  of  consenting  to  the  truce  of 
Leoben,  the  outset  of  Napoleon*8 
career  would  already  have  exhibited 
a  catastrophe  little  short  of  what  the 
rout  of  Leiprig  displayed  sixteen 
years  afterwards. 

We  know  that  it  is  eaay  to  defeat 
armies  by  the  aid  of  buts  and  (/«,  and 
that  it  was  long  the  fashion  to  ridi« 
cule  those  who  vanquished  Napoleon 
bv  such  auxiliaries.  "•  Ansterlita, 
Friedland,  Wagram,  mifht  all,"  we 
are  all  told,  '^  have  ended  in  disasters 
instead  of  triumph,  i/ihe  vanquished 
had  persevered,  and  ^Napoleon  had 
been  an  ordinary  commander ;  but  he 
was  a  man  of  great  genius,  well  able 
to  foil  such  contingencies.**  Time, 
however,  brought  a  change;  the 
hypothetical  particle  rose  into  mighty 
reality ;  gallant  nations  and  resolute 
commanders  apneared  in  the  field 
against  him;  tne  moral  foree  ao^ 
quired  by  so  many  previous  victories 
lent  him  great  strength;  French 
armies  fbugbt  with  th^r  usual 
bravery ;  but  of  the  boasted  talents 
and  laudied  j^enius,  not  a  single  spark 
could  be  discovered.  Then  it  was, 
when  extravagant  exaggerations  were 
no  longer  deemed  sufilcient,  thai 
barefaceid  romance  was  called  in  to 
suppUnt  history;  then  we  had  the 
St,  Helena  MemairSy  the  VictoireM  ei 
ConqueteSf  the  fabricated  Memoirs  of 
FouchSf  Conlineowi,  and  others  of 
the  same  class,  appealed  to  as  legiti- 
mate sources  of  history ;  till  in  the 
end,  the  world  actually  received  the 
fabulous  versions  of  the  burning  of 
Moscow,  of  the  destruction  of  the 
bridge  of  Leiprig,  the  tales  of  Mar* 
mont*s  treason,  and  the  eelebrtted 
*^  sauve  qui  peut "  of  Waterloo,  not 
only  as  establiBhed  facts,  but  as  great 
leading  events,  which  had  alone 
marred  the  splendid  conce^  ' 
Napoleon;  and  thus  inS 
destinies  of  nilp^hty  em 
all  this  in  the  nmeteentt 


434 


An  AnecdoU  abdut  an  Old  Houie. 


[Aim], 


AK  ANECDOTE  AllOUT  ATS  OLD  HOUSE* 


i^crr  many  fleasons  ago  I  was  enjoy- 
ing  the  aammer-tide  in  the  pleasant 
county  of  Kent;  and  as  antnmn 
ripened  anmnd  me,  I  almost  foreot 
that  its  maturity  would  usher  in  that 
wintry  period  which  always  recalls 
me  to  my  metro^litan  manacles.  I 
do  not  mean  to  give  the  real  names  of 
the  seaside  town  in  which  I  had 
pitched  my  tent— of  the  old  house 
near  it,  of  which  my  anecdote  treats 
— ^nor  of  the  family  to  which  tiiat 
house  hclonged.  There  are  tragedies 
consummating  yearly  in  pleasant 
places  at  this  very  moment;  hut  it 
18  for  the  future  to  ezhihit  them  to 
the  public  scrutiny;  and  there  are 
few  aetors  in  such  scenes  who  court 
the  notoriety  of  a  legitimate  name. 
And  in  trutn  it  was  a  pleasant  place 
where  that  old  mansion,  half  castle, 
half  manor-house,  had  its  site.  Stand- 
ing, or  rather,  when  I  saw  it,  falling 
into  gradual  decay,  amidst  rich  corn- 
fields, on  a  gentle  aodivity  that 
looked  upon  the  wide  sea,  it  had  sub- 
sided into  a  rambling,  ruinous  farm- 
house, with  high  gables,  and  a 
couple  of  projecting  parapets,  which 
told  their  tale  of  better  days  in 
the  olden  time.  But  it  is  not  of  the 
olden  time  our  tale  tells,  or  we  might 
have  spared  ourselves  the  delicacy  of 
veiling  the  true  name  of  the  place. 

It  was  during  one  of  my  first  ram- 
bles through  a  part  of  the  country 
to  which  I  was  a  stranger,  that  I 
was  struck  by  the  anomalous  appear- 
ance of  the  ''  Old  House;*"  but  thei« 
was  no  person  in  sight  of  whom  I 
could  make  inquiries  regarding  it; 
so  I  strolled  on  and  on,  until  iit 
lenffth  I  reached  a  bottom  or  narrow 
dell,  entirely  shut  in  by  the  small 
trees  and  large  shrubs  which  sur- 
rounded it,  forming  a  dense  thicket. 
A  limited  space  at  the  very  lowest 
part  of  this  bottom  remained  clear 
from  the  redundant  wilderness  of 
sloe-bushes,  wild  roses,  and  bram- 
bles, that  formed  a  safe  shelter  for 
the  hedgehogs,  in  which  this  part  of 
the  country  abounds.  As  I  reached 
this  clear  space  I  became  aware  that 
I  was  not  alone;  amongst  the  long 
grass  in  the  %'ery  middle  of  the  din- 


gle sat  a  ^rim-looking  old 
woman,  busily  shelling  a  qnantity'of 
peas —  no  doubt  her  personal  boio^, 
reft  from  some  neighbonrin^  field. ' 

She  no  sooner  saw  me  than  begin- 
ning the  usual  whine  of  solicitstioii, 
she  ofiered  to  read  my  ibrtniie ;  and 
willing  to  have  a  little  chat  with  her 
I  croned  her  hand  with  the  **  aewne 
silver ;"  but  soon  tired  of  her  twad- 
dle, I  asked  her  the  name  of  the  old 
farm-house  which  I  had  just  passed, 
and  to  whom  it  belonged. 

"Rosebonme,  my  gentleman,  has 
belonged  to  many,  said  she;  **biit 
the  old  folk  are  not  there.  It 
was  a  black  deed  that  Intnight  an 
ill  name  on  the  bouse,  and  evil  tfan^ 
will  walk  about  it  as  long 
stone  stands  upon  another.** 

This  reply  led  to  further  ^i 
in0 ;  and  a  few  additions!  aizpenees 
elicited  the  fiicts  I  am  aboat  to  re- 
Ute. 

Almost  a  hundred  years  ago  the 
house  of  Roseboume  was  the  resi- 
denoe  of  the  Chesterton  family,  then 
reduced  in  numbers  and  in  wedth 
from  what  it  had  been  in  fonner 
times.    Gilbert  Chesterton,  the  mas- 
ter of  Roseboume,  was  a  fine,  hand- 
some young  fellow,  whose  personal 
advantages  were  unfortunately  ac- 
companied, as  is  too  frequently  the 
case,  by  a  weak  head  and  a  feeUe 
intellect     He  was,    however,  free 
fbom  vicious  propensities ;  and,  luck- 
ily, his  mother,  a   lady   of  great 
Erudence  and  judgment,  resided  with 
im,  continning  m  truth  to  ezerciBe 
the  judicious  control  of  a  parent  over 
a  silly  child,  to  his  great  advant- 
ase  as  well  as  to  the  satisfiMtion  of 
all  belonging  to  them.     She  was 
his  able  and  willing  counsellor  in 
every  emergency;   preserving   him 
from  the  imposition  of  crafty  and 
mercenary  aavisers,  as  well  as  from 
the  influence  of  pemicions  example, 
and  the  evils  into  which  his  nataxal 
credulity  and   good   nature   nugfat 
have  led  him.     Ue  was  her  only 
living  child,  but  the  three  orphan 
danghters  of  a  brother  of  her  ktc 
husband  shared  the  hospitalities  of 
Boseboame,  and  to  one  of  these 


1B46.] 


An  Anecdote  aboui  an  Old  Home* 


435 


amiable  ffirla  it  ¥ras  her  chief  desire 
to  unite  ner  son ;  but,  in  the  affairs 
of  matrimony,  there  are  Strang  dis- 
crepancies,—  events  forestaUing  all 
our  determinations,  and  thwarting 
the  most  Machiavelian  manoeuvres. 
It  so  happened  that  when  Gilbert 
had  reached  his  thirtieth  year,  and 
just  as  his  mother  had  counted  on 
the  speedy  termination  of  her  hopes 
by  a  union  betvreen  the  cousins,  tmit, 
to  her  horror  and  affliction,  she  dis- 
covered what,  indeed,  she  had  never 
suspected,  an  intrigue  between  her 
eon  and  her  confidential  servant. 
This  girl,  Hannah  Filmer,  was  of 
low  parentage,  but  great  natural 
shrewdness  and  a  resolute  and  am- 
bitious disposition  had  stood  her  in 
the  stead  of  education,  so  that  she 
was  generally  looked  up  to  as  a  per- 
son very  superior  to  her  class.  Art- 
ful, time-serving,  and,  withal,  very 
beautiful,  she  had  long  crept  not 
only  into  all  the  secrets  of  her  kind 
mistress,  but  into  the  accessible  heart 
of  her  mistresses  son,  when,  unexpect- 
edlv,  all  was  revealed. 

Hannah  was  discharged  instantly ; 
but  the  fierce  and  almost  insane  anger 
of  Gilbert  on  the  occasion,  so  utterly 
unlike  his  customary  childlike  do- 
cility, coupled  with  the  shock  her 
feelings  had  sustained  at  the  dis- 
covery of  so  much  perfidy  in  one  in 
whom  she  had  confided,  threw  the 
old  lady  into  a  fever  from  which  she 
never  recovered;  nor  had  her  corpse 
lain  three  months  in  consecrated 
dust  ere  Hannah  was  reinstalled  at 
Roseboume  as  the  lawful  wedded 
wife  of  its  proprietor.  His  orphan 
cousins,  expelled   with   contumely, 

removed  to  a  small  cottage  near ^ 

and  it  soon  became  obvious  that  the 
new  mistress  of  Roseboume  was 
averse  to  all  who  had  been  befriended 
by  her  predecessor;  while  before  a 
year  had  passed,  her  husband's  hap- 
piness seemed  to  have  no  better  source 
than  idleness,  wassailry,  and  all  that 
want  of  self- care  which  preserves 
respectability. 

«  The  hospitality  and  charity  which 
used  to  make  the  Chesterton  family 
so  popular,  ceased  to  be  practised; 
and  the  most  churlish  nig^dliness 
and  meanness  marked  the  living  and 
conduct  of  the  new  mistress,  whose 
low-bred  and  unprincipled  kindred 
were  now  all  in  all  at  Roseboume. 
Amongst  these  was  onQ  suspidous 


character,  long  looked  upon  with 
little  less  than  detestation  by  all  who 
knew  him.  Beniamin  Bailey,  or,  as 
he  was  called.  Black  Ben,  had  by 
turns  been  sailor,  pirate,  smuffffler ; 
he  was  a  huge,  powerful  ^ow, 
swarthy  as  a  mulatto,  and  was  as 
coarse  m  manners  as  in  appearance ; 
while,  to  the  disgust  of  the  few  re- 
spectable people  who  continued  to 
associate  with  the  Chestertons,  he 
seemed  to  rule  with  undisputed  au- 
thority over  all  at  Roseboume,  the 
domineering  lady  not  even  excepted. 
Ere  long,  however,  reports  coupled 
his  name  with  hers  in  a  manner  that 
subjected  both  to  the  contempt  and 
scrutiny  of  the  world.  It  was  bmited 
about  that  on  one  occasion  Gilbert 
himself  had  discovered  an  intimacy 
between  the  cousins  which  aroused 
him  from  his  wonted  inertion  to  one 
of  those  violent  bursts  of  fury  to 
which  the  feeble  in  intellect  are 
prone.  Ben  Bailey,  ferocious  as  he 
vras,  nevertheless  was  driven  with 
opprobrium  from  the  house;  and 
angry  menaces  were  heard  to  pass 
between  them.  A  month,  howeyer, 
had  barely  passed  before  a  reconci- 
liation was  brought  about  by  Mrs. 
Chesterton;    and  soon  after,  st   a 

Eublic  dinner  at  ,  Gilbert  was 
eard  to  say  that  he  was  going  in  a 
few  days  to  Calais  on  business  of 
importance,  which  might  detain  him 
for  a  week. 

Not  many  days  thereafter  a  gen- 
tleman who  called  at  Roseboume 
was  informed  that  Mr.  Chesterton 
had  eroded  the  Channel,  but  was  ex- 
pected daily.  Weeks,  however,  passed 
unmarked  b^  his  return,  and  at 
length  his  wife  instituted  inquiries, 
as  she  declared  she  had  not  heard 
from  him  since  his  departure.  She 
felt,  or  feifl;ned,  the  most  acute  anx- 
iety. Bailey  was  despatched  to 
Dover,  and  thence  passied  over  to 
Calais,  returning  from  both  places 
without  having  found  anv  traces  of 
the  missing  squire.  At  last,  when 
more  than  a  month  had  elapsed,  the 
family  lawyers  called  a  meeting; 
search  was  made  for  a  will,  and  one 
was  discovered  of  so  recent  a  date  as 
a  week  before  his  disappearance.  All 
was  left  to  his  wife;  not  even  hia 
nearest  connexions  or  most  fai^^ 
servants  were  remembered, 
passed ;  Gilbert  was  firmly  ' 
tQ  bav^  periflbed  ia  Frttnc 


436 


A»  Aneedoie  mbmU  om  Old  lUuu* 


[Aptil. 


hftvc  beee  •ccidcntallvdrowDedon  ba 
piffRge  to  it.  And  ia  those  days 
such  things  ndgfat  have  bifrpcned 
more  easily  than  now ;  the  spiiit  of 
inTestigalion  was  not  so  bosf— ii  by 
dorauuit  beneath  the  wina  of  dam- 
berioff  jnstke.  At  len^n,  wben  all 
but  &e  members  of  lus  own  family 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  him^  Gilbert 
Chesterton's  widow  grew  in  opnlenoe 
and  ineressed  in  nnpopolarity,  no  one 
appearing  to  benefit  by  her  aoeomn- 
laong  wnlth  bnt  her  kinsman,  Ben 
Bailey,  who  led  a  life  of  reckless  dis- 
sipation, until,  in  a  midnight  fray  at 

he  erased  the  instant  death  of 

a  eomrade  by  a  sadden  blow,  but 
had  the  good  luck  to  escape  to  the 
French  cMst,  nor  was  he  again  heard 
of  for  many  yean. 

At  length,  when  age  had  bent  the 
form,  blighted  the  beauty,  and 
blanched  the  black  locks,  of  toe  lady 
of  Rosebonme,  it  was  reported  to  her 
that  a  travellinff  tinker  craved  andi-^ 
ence  of  her.  Iter  refusal  to  see  him 
was  answered  by  a  request  that  she 
troold  look  at  a  ring  which  he  sent 
her.  Mrs.  Chesterton  evinced  oon<* 
siderable  agitation  at  the  sight  of  it, 
and  the  stranger  was  summoned.  He 
was  a  stout  out  man,  his  face  seamed 
with  scars,  his  hair  grizsled,  and  with 
a  fierce  red  eye,  which  had  no  com* 
panion.  After  a  long  visit,  he  left 
the  presence  of  the  lady,  who  issued 
orders  for  the  immediate  instalment 
of  the  stranger  in  a  snug  little  cabin 
upon  her  property,  recently  become 
vacant  by  the  deaih  of  a  tenant. 
And  here,  under  the  name  of  Bealc« 
he  continued  to  ply  the  trade  of  a 
tinker. 

Years  paned,  during  which  strange 
stories  went  about  of  the  singular 
influence  of  Tinker  Beale  over  the 
mistress  of  Boseboume,  until  one 
night,  stumbling  over  a  chalk-pit,  he 
had  the  misfortune  to  break  his  leg, 
and  when  discovered  in  the  morning 
by  a  chance  passenger  he  ¥ras  raving 
under  fever. 

At  the  same  time,  on  the  same 
night,  another  deathbed  scene  was 
not  far  distant.  In  an  oak-panelled 
chamber  at  Boseboume,  on  a  stately 
bed,  lies  the  mistress  of  the  house 
in  the  last  struggle.  Though  up- 
wards  of  seventv,  her  eyes  are  still 
keen  and  hawklike;  and  as  they 
^(jander,  or  rather  nuA,  restlessly  over 
the  group  of  mercenaries  who  attend 


her,  n  soMsthing  witeUike  and 
holy  seems  to  nil  her  whole 
Her  Isvoanle  kinsjilk  are 
but  to  their  earnest  questkma  na  to 
iHioi  her  last  desires  aie,  ahe  vepttc* 
not,  save  by  brief  denials  of  the  prof<- 
fated  aid  of  priest  or  pfaysscsan. 
Their  still  more  eimcst  apMla  to 
her  benevolenee,— thar 
that  she  should  iweal  the 
deposits  of  her  hoarded  wcnitk,  are 
all  in  vain.  No  reply,  save  a  miit* 
tered  word  that  somided  nsoiv  BlDe  an 
imprecation  than  aprayer,  ynmrmmik^ 
sared  them.  The  nignt  waa  storay, 
and  the  cold  intense;  a  wood-#ie 
Uaaed  merrily  on  the  Iwarth,  while 
death  was  bnsy  in  the  chamber  where 
the  impatient  and  wortUeas  relatives 
of  the  dying  woman  would  £ud.  have 
wrested  from  her  the  aecrets  that 
might  enrich  them. 

**  Look,  how  she  keeps  gwing  at 
the  panel  to  the  right!  wbSmptnd 
one  of  the  women. 

•«  It  is  quite  awfol!*"  said  aaotha'. 
"Did  not  Gilbert's  pictaie  use  to 
hang  there?** 

**  What  is  that  yon  say  of  GO- 
bert  ?  "  cried  the  dving  woman,  in  a 
hollow  tone.  **  Who  dares  aay  that 
he  is  here?  The  dead  do  not  walk ! 
— ^'tis  a  lie  1  ^Vhat  for  do  ye  whis- 
per?   Water!  water! — ^I  amchok* 

They  wetted  her  lips,  and  were 
again  about  to  seat  themselves,  when, 
eraoklinjE^  on  the  hearth,  a  huge  facst 
burst  with  a  loud  report,  one  of  uie 
cinders  starting  from  ^e  fire  and 
striking  against  the  ver^  panel  of 
which  they  had  been  ammnte  beibre 
talking.  The  women,  startled  at 
first,  arose  to  remove  the  still  burning 
cinder. 

**  No,  no  I — dare  not  to  tooch  itl** 
screamed  the  expiring  woman.  **Not 
there — ^not  tftsre/    Toneh  not  that, 

And  sitting  up  in  the  bed,  her  am 
extended  at  fhU  length,  her  knr, 
skeleton  finger  pointing  to  the  pand, 
her  eyes  glaring  wildly,  the  nustren 
of  BoselMmme  sti£toed  into  a  daynr 
c<vpse.  When  the  horrified  atlna- 
ants  drew  near  the  ooaeh,theyfiNUMi 
her  Btone*dead  in  that  strai^  and 
unnatural  position. 

After  they  had  stretched  her  dowoi 
and  in  vain  tried  to  close  the  ghsttly 
eves,  their  first  thoughts  were  of 


1846.] 


Musaut. 


437 


**  Depend  upon  it,**  sud  mic,  **her 
mmiey  lies  hid  behind  that  panel,  or 
why  forbid  us  to  tonefa  it  ?*' 

<*  It  wae  the  spark  from  the  ftgot,*" 
said  another. 

**  Not  a  bit ;  it  nmst  have  been 
tbe  panel.  Let  ns  break  it  open 
before  any  body  is  aware  that  she  is 
dead!*' 

A  candt^-knife  was  in  the  room, 
and  with  that  and  the  poker  the 
covetous  gold'Seekers  soon  forced  the 
panel  out;  nor  were  their  hopes  of 
cyseorering  something  defeated.  But 
it  was  not  money  they  found ;  iC  w<u 
the  mauldering  bones  of  a  humm 
corpse! 

The  tink^  la^  in  the  asonies  of 
death  next  mommg,  when  ttie  medi^* 
cal  man  who  had  attended  him  en^* 
tered  the  cabin.  A  gipsy  woman, 
-who  had  served  as  nurse  to  the  siek 
man,  and  who,  indeed  was  tbe  chance 
passenger  who  found  him  after  his  ftdl, 


sat  near  tbe  pallet,  and  heard  tlw 
doctor  ask  him  how  he  ftH. 

<'Is  Hannah  Filner-^-is  Mn. 
Chesterton  still  alive?**  was  the  rephr. 

The  medical  man  related  her  death, 
and  the  strange  Recovery  of  the  body 
behind  the  panel. 

'« It  is  tbe  body  of  6ilberi--of  her 
husband t**  said  the  tinker.  "^  We 
murdered  Asm,  and  kid  him  tkerel^ 

And  so  it  was. 

For  many  years  after  that  fearful 
act  the  room  had  been  shut  up,  tin 
kdy  declaring  she  could  not  sleep  in 
the  apartment  where  her'  dear  bus- 
bMid  had  slept  so  long  bende  her; 
but  a  few  weelis  before  she  was  seijied 
with  her  last  illnesB,  she  insisted  on 
its  being  prepared  for  her.  As  for 
her  paramour,  kinsman,  and  oon« 
federate,  Benjamin  Bailey,  otherwise 
Black  Ben  the  Tinker,  he  expired  in 
a  few  moments  after  the  dreadful 
confession  had  passed  his  lips* 


MUS£US. 


A^fD  who  was  Musa$U8?  Was  he 
that  Musasus  who  lived  in  the  far-off 
mythic  ages  of  Greece,  who  claimed 
Orpheus  for  his  father,  or,  as  Plato 
will  have  it,  the  moon  for  his  mother  ? 
Was  he  the  author  of  the  Wars  o/^e 
TUanSy  and  the  first- recorded  father 
that  worried  a  son  with  moral  pre- 
cepts in  hexameters,  teeming  with  all 
the  rugged  majesty  of  the  pra»-Ho* 
meric  days?  Or  was  he  some  for- 
gotten poet  of  the  later  times  of 
Greece,  who  iust  gave  Ovid  a  model 
for  two  of  his  Beroidcs  and  then 
passed  away  into  oblivion  ?  Or  was 
he  a  target  for  Martial's*  indignant 
satire  ?  Was  Rufus  not  to  read  the 
sorry  Sicilian  whose  verses  were  de- 
dicated not  to  Vesta  but  Colytto? 
Or  was  he  only  some  poor  gram- 
marian, who  bewildered  himself  with 
classifications  and  particles  deep  down 
in  the  fourth  century,  who  solaced 
himself  with  one  sunnv  song  of  the  old 
days  of  Greece,  and  tiien  turned  back 
again  for  ever  to  accents  and  metres, 
to  synsereses  and  dissreses,  to  schemata 
Alemanica  and  schematu  Pindarica, 
and  all  the  wcanr  labours  of  cold- 
hearted  grammar  ? 
There  was   a   time  when   these 


queries  would  have  been  sfiswered 
with  promptitude  and  knowledge; 
but,  whether  for  good  or  for  evil, 
that  day  has  gone  by ;  and  few  know, 
and  still  fewer  care  about,  the  author 
of  840  lines  that  might  be  put  into 
competition  with  any  340  continuous 
.lines  in  the  time-roll  of  poetry.  We 
mean,  however,  to  make  all  who  read 
us  know  something  about  our  for- 
gotten friend,  and  we  shall  hope  to 
make  some  few  care.  We  might  in- 
dulge in  long  theories  why  so  gentle 
a  writer  has  been  forgotten  in  the 
nineteenth  century,  when  he  was  the 
star  of  the  fifteenth ;  but,  after  all, 
it  is  not  worth  speculating  upon. 
Nor  is  it,  perhaps,  for  us  to  lament 
over  this  very  pathetically;  we  have 
now  a  sure  and  certain  knowledge  of 
the  Greek  language,  supported  on 
principles  that  must  be  common  to  all 
languages  of  the  earth ;  we  have  Her- 
mann, and  Elmsley,  and  Kiihner; 
and  we  ought  not  to  sigh  for  Fareus, 
Hemsterhuis,  and  D'Orville ;  yet  still 
afler  reading  some  playful  passage  o 
Lucian,  some  amusing  conceit  o 
Chariton,  we  cannot  but  w»«rrfet  lb* 
we  scarcely  ever  find 
sympathetic  soul  who 


'^  Martiftli  book  zii«  ep.  97* 


438 


dlusaus* 


[April, 


smile  for  the  Greek  romance- writers, 
and  those  whom  Frederick  Hennings 
will  never  publish,  and  the  Brothers 
Dindorf  never  edit. 

However,  we  do  intend  seriously 
to  take  up  the  cudsels  for  some  of 
our  later  friends :  tney  are  certainly 
worth  skimming;  at  anv  rate  they 
are  worth  knowing  something  about ; 
and  among  them  our  dearly  beloved 
MusKUS  occupies  a  ver^  prominent 
place,  and  if  we  shall  fail  in  instigat- 
ing others  to  give  a  couple  of  hours 
to  him  in  the  original,  we  shall  con- 
sider  hun  very  umbrtunate  in  having 
such  a  miserable  panegyrist  as  our- 
selves. Before  we  commence  with 
the  poem  itself  we  will  just  give  a 
short  sketch  of  the  many  opinions 
that  have  occupied  the  attention  of 
scholars  and  chronologists ;  the  two 
extreme  dates  assigned  to  Musoeus 
being  separated  b^  rather  more  than 
2000  years !  It  is  hardly  necessary 
to  say  that  the  two  worthies  who 
have  thus  committed  themselves  are, 
in  this  instance  at  least,  very  great 
blockheads ;  still  there  must  be  some- 
thing curious  in  the  history  of  an 
author  who  has  been  tossed  from  one 
epoch  to  another  with  such  peculiar 
nimbleness. 

To  enter  into  all  the  wandering 
fancies  of  chronographers,  or  to  discuss 
the  question  in  a  precise  and  vigorous 
manner,  is,  of  course,  out  of  the 
province  of  our  paper;  we  wish 
merely  to  notice  a  few  facts  that  may, 
perhaps,  iust  interest  a  general  rea- 
der, while  at  the  same  time  they 
may  throw  out  an  occasional  hint  to 
a  systematic  scholar.  We  cannot 
suppose  that  the  world  at  large  will 
be  deeply  interested  in  what  Ca- 
saubon  or  Fabricius  may  say  about 
the  matter,  or  that  the  eyes  of  Europe 
liave  been  unremittingly  fixed  on 
Kromayer  and  Schrader's  notes ;  yet 
few  will  be  sorry  to  have  the  opinions 
of  these  excellent  men,  when  (to  use 
our  lamented  Sydney  Smith's  words) 
they  have  been  ^^  trimmed,  shaved, 
and  forced  into  clean  linen." 

The  first  definite  opinion  about  our 
Musffius  is  that  of  Julius  Scaligcr : 
it  is  certainly  singular,  and  we  think 
will  astonish  the  weak  minds  of  many 
who  read  it.  Scaliger,  then,  con- 
sidered Mustcus  the  grammarian,  as 
he  has  been  commonly  called,  and 


Musssus  the  son  of  Orphens,  one  and 
the  same  person.     There  is  certainly 
some  originality  in  this  notion,  bat 
this  is  a  joke  to  the  exalted  notions 
he    forms    of  our    poor  Muoeos: 
"  I  deem,**  says   the  magniloquent 
doctor   of  Padua,    **  the    style  of 
Musaeus    more    elegant    and   more 
polished    than     that     of  Homer." 
And  again  (defend  us  from  snch 
friends!),  "  If  Musa^us  had  written 
those  things  which  Homer  has,  ve 
may  consider  that  he  would  hsTc 
written  them  in  a  much  sunerior 
style.***    This  is  quite  enougn  for 
moderate-minded  people,  so  a  la»gv» 
vale  to  Julius  Scaliger.    A  second 
set  of  long-eared  oommentatorB  will 
obstinately   persist    in    niaintainin£ 
that  Musseus  lived  before  Ovid;  and 
that,  of  course,  poor  Ovid  was  an 
unmitigated  plagiarist.     There  ia  s 
respectable  name  or  two  among  them  ; 
and  so  the  world  has  consented  to 
listen  with  a  little  less  imnitience  to 
their  solemn  absurdities.    Uow  Mo- 
rell  and  Canter  got  among  this  rab- 
ble, is  a  puzzle  to  us.     It,  of  course, 
is  not  worth  powder  and  shot  to 
attack  such  opinions;   if,  however, 
anpr  of  our  readers  should  doubt  on 
this  point,  let  him  heg^  borrow,  or 
steal  a  Greek  grammar  and  a  little 
common  sense,  and  he  will  soon  kaow 
where  to  fix  the  date  of  Musains. 
There   is,   however,    one    Mr.  De 
Meurs,  or  Meursius,  as  he  pleases  to 
call  himself,  whom  we  are  not  dis- 
posed to  be  very  civil  to.    If  Fa- 
bricius had  not  partly  sided  with  bm 
we  should  have  been  positively  out- 
rageous.   There  seems  to  have  been 
some  dirty,  unclean  Mussus  in  toe 
days  of  Trajan  who  wrote  so  immo- 
destly   that    Martial   (himself  not 
particular^  thinks  it  very  necessary 
to  abuse  nim  for  his  shamelessneff. 
Now  Meursius  makes  the  astoundiji^ 
discovery  that  this  man  was  the  aa- 
thor  of  Hero  and  Leander  .f  »  ®^"^ 
vulgar-minded  idea  we  have  ncnt 
met  with ;  as  if  the  author  of  that 
graceful,  touching  poem,  could  have 
any  thing  in  common  wth  Martial  * 
friend,  except  in  name.    But  enoi^gn 
of  these  good  people,  now  for  a  xc'f 
fancies  of  our  own. 

The  only  probable  opinion  i»  tbal 
of  Casaubon  and  others,  who  con* 
sider  Musacus  to  have  flourished  to- 


*  Poeticas,  book  v.  cbsp.  S« 


t  Attic  Lec«  book  iL  c.  19t 


1846.] 


Musaus, 


439 


ivsrd  the  close  of  the  fourth,  or  the 
beginning  of  the  fifth  century.  His 
style,  his  sentiments,  his  portraiture 
of  loTC,  helonginfallibly  to  the  novel- 
era  of  Greek.  Such  pa'isages  can  he 
cited  from  Musseus  as  make  it  impos- 
sible to  believe  that  he  'ivas  very  far 
removed  from  the  age  of  Acnilles 
Tatius.  There  are  no  direct  ap- 
pearances of  either  one  having  closely 
copied  the  other ;  but  there  are  just 
such  resemblances  as  indicate  some 
common  stock  of  feeling,  some 
sayings'-bank  of  the  tender  emotions 
from  which  both  liberally  drew.  Both 
echo  the  tone  of  the  times  in  which 
they  lived.  It  is,  perhaps,  tedious, 
in  a  paper  like  the  present,  to  worry 
a  reader  with  quotations  and  parallel 
passages,  but  we  will,  just  for  ex- 
ample, take  a  chance  one  which  treats 
upon  the  different  emotions  a  lover 
is  supposed  to  feel.  Musasus  says  of 
Leander,  that  he  stood 

"  Seized  with  amazement,  boldness,  tro* 

mor,  abame, 
Trembliog  at  heart,  yet  abamed  to  be 

ensnared ; 
'Mased  with  her  charms,  yet  bolder  made 

by  lo?e."— Verses  97-99. 

What  says  Achilles  Tatius  ?  We 
translate  the  passage  verbatim :  — 

"All  feelings  were  occupying  me  at 
the  same  time, — desire  to  praise,  astonish* 
ment,  trembling,  shame,  boldness.  I  was 
praiaiog  her  stature,  I  waa  atricken  with 
amazement  at  her  beauty,  I  was  trembling 
in  my  heart,  1  was  gazing  with  boldness, 
and  yet  I  was  ashamed  of  being  en* 
soared." 

It  would  be  easy  to  cite  twenty 
other  passages  nearly  as  like  to  one 
another,  some  verbally  alike,  others 
embodving  the  same  spirit ;  especially 
in  the  love-sufferings,  which  are  de- 
lineated with  a  most  microscopic  ac- 
curacy, and  are  very  unlike  the  de- 
scriptions in  the  older  authors,  which 
are  either  voluptuous  or  grandilo- 
c^uent,  full  of  tenderness  or  despair- 
ing thunder  words. 

Bat,  perhaps,  the  author  with 
whom  Musasus  seems  to  have  mcNSt 
in  common  is  Konnus  of  Pannopolis, 
whom  we  know  to  have  lived  about 
the  beginning  of  the  fifth  century. 
Several  lines  in  the  Dianynaes  and 
in  Hero  and  Leander  are  exactly  the 
same.  This  suggested  a  bright  idea 
to  one  Mr.  FeterFrancia  (whose  con- 


jectures Schrader  has  published) 
that  Nonnus  and  Musseus  were  iden- 
tical. CasjMir  Barthius  also  helped 
in  discovering  this  literary  mare's- 
nest.  Now  is  any  one  for  a  moment 
to  j)ersuade  us,  that  that  noisy,  swag- 
gering, inflated,  Evoe-shouting  author 
of  the  thirty-eight  mortal  books  of 
the  Dionygiaca  could  so  far  change 
his  tiresome  nature  as  to  compose 
340  lines  so  exquisitely  simple,  so 
full  of  pure  pathos,  as  our  precious 
tale  of  the  Hellespont  ?  Scrubbing- 
brushes  and  yellow  soap  might  at 
last  do  something  for  the  hide  of  an 
Ethiopian,  but  nothing  could  purify 
or  ameliorate  the  mental  state  of  such 
a  tumid  mythologist  as  Nonnus,  whom 
Scaliger  and  Heinsius  both  declare 
never  was  and  never  will  be  worth 
reading.  Ill-omened  was  that  day 
when  we  were  seized  with  a  desire  to 
read  the  mouthing  man  of  Panno- 
polis. 

We  cannot  resist  here  noticing  as 
a  finale,  that  our  poor  grammarian 
has  been  supposed  to  have  been  a 
Christian. 

This  idea  was  broached  hy  some 
luminous  German  or  other,  and 
founded  upon  one  line  which  he  erro- 
neously supposed  to  contain  a  He- 
braism. This  is  really  too  good. 
We  sincerely  hope  he  was  a  Christ- 
ian ;  but  to  assert  such  a  fact  upon 
one  line,  that  proves  nothing  except 
the  contrary,  is  pure,  unmixed  Ger- 
manism. Poor  Schrader,  with  all 
the  zeal  of  a  youne  man,  worries 
himself  to  death  with  confutation  of 
such  utter  rubbish.  Finally,  as  if 
there  was  never  to  be  an  end  of  the 
blockheads  who  could  not  keep  their 
dirty  fineers  off  Musseus,  we  come  to 
John  Hardouin,  the  Jesuit.  This 
good  man  finds  an  Abydenian  coin, 
on  which  there  is  written,  in  good, 
plain  Greek,  hpo  ahanapoc  :  his 
spectacles,  however,  are  out  of  reach, 
and  he  reads  it,  h  pomh  anapoc. 
"  the  strength  of  a  man ; "  t.e.  the 
strait  was  the  limit  of  a  man*s  power 
of  swimming.  Now  this  would  pass 
as  a  very  good  joke,  if  le  ban  pere 
had  not  the  incredible  audacity  to 
assert  his  purblindness  as  an  instance 
of  lynx-eyed  sagacity.  Forthwith  he 
sweeps  away  the  tradition,  declares 
the  two  epistles  of  Ovid  are  spurious, 
that  Yirgd  knows  nothing  about  it 
and  that  our  Musseus  was  some  fr 
monk  of  the  thirteenth  century.  wl 


440 


Mu$muin 


[April, 


dveir  hk  im^iratioQ  from  the  ui« 
ffelical  or  tbe  serapLical  doetor,  or 
toe  other  oelestial  peraoni^B  of  that 
luminous  era.  Such  theones  aa  these 
were  peeuliar  to  John  Hardouin ;  aa^ 
if  we  do  not  belle  him,  Terence,  Livy, 
Tacitas,  parts  of  Virgil  and  Horace's 
OdeSf  were  ascribed  to  the  same  re* 
{Nitable  sources.  In  reviewii^  nast 
times,  we  regret  nothing  more  than 
the  non-existence  ci  lunatic  asvlums. 
Let  us  just  notice  the  English 
trandations.  The  first  is  that  of 
ChrisU^er  Jjlarlow,  which  is  divided 
into  what  he  calls  "  sest  jads."  The 
first,  second,  and  part  of  the  third 
are  the  work  oi  Marlow ;  the  re* 
niaiiidca'  belongs  to  Ch^Nnan,  and  is 
very  inferior.  We  may  observe  that 
Marlow  just  uses  Muskub  as  a  hat- 
peg  to  hold  up  his  own  fiincies,  and, 
though  it  is  very  good  in  parts,  it  is 
not  such  a  book  as  we  cou  Id  by  any 
means  recommend  as  a  family  Mu* 
sieus :  there  must  be  a  Bowdler  to  it 
first,  for  good  Christopher^s  im^;ina^ 
tion  is  sometimes  too  fervid  to  pro- 
mote a  very  high  code  of  monuity. 
We  shall  make  a  few  extracts,  as  his 
quaint  conceits  are  particularly  amus- 
ing, and  very  superior,  in  our  opinion, 
to  the  ToUmg^  heroic  linn  of  fawkes. 
Fawkes*  translation  was  very  nmch 
{Hraised  when  it  first  appeared,  but 
th^i  that  was  an  age  when  brawling 
hexameters  were  tl^  fashion :  an  un- 
pretending attempt  was  made  in  blank 
verse  about  tbe  same  time,  but  it  was 
instantly  scoffed  down.*  We  shall 
notice  some  parts  of  Fawkes,  as  he  is 
very  respectably  literal,  though  too 
magniloquent.  Sir  Robert  Btapyl- 
Ws  vemion,  from  what  we  know  of 
bis  truislation  of  Juvenal,  we  can 
conceive  to  be  very  amusins ;  but, 
unfortunately,  we  cannot  lay  our 
hands  upon  it.  As  for  our  own  ver- 
sion, we  pco&ss  nothing  more  than  a 
very  literal  rendering  in  lines  of  tea 
syllables.  We,  like  Persius,  hare 
never  spent  a  night  on  Parnassus ; 
and,  therefore,  only  attempt  a  simple, 
verbal  tcanslation. 

Upon  looking  over  our  payers,  we 

begin  to  think  that  we,  tcNi,.have 

been  overlaying  Mnoeus;  so,  with- 

rmt  oeremony  and  move  loss  of  itme, 

fe  mast  b%in,  excusing  ourselves 

niy  for  what  we  have  said  by  the 

tter  ignorance  that  we  know  over- 


elondt  CTcry  wing  oomecied  ^ritli 
Musaeus. 

MnssBus,  so  Bondell  tells  na,  opon 
we  know  not  what  antfaori^,  haid  a 
friend  nanoed  AgaUiias.  As  th^ 
were  drinking  together  one  evenii^, 
Agathias,  who  was  a  fait  of  a  poet  m 
his  way,  confesses  to  be  in  love  with 
a  Miss  Dorcalis  of  Sestos;  and,  by 
the  time  the  wine  had  gone  round 
the  fitUi  time,  he  describes  the  exact 
way  in  which  he  won  bis  fair  lady. 
He  confesses  to  having  swam,  like 
another  licander,  to  her  garden,  and, 
after  having  uttered  every  sort  of 
threat  against  himself  if  Dorcalis 
should  refuse  him,  he  at  last  meets 
with  all  tbe  success  of  hispredeeessor 
in  Helle*s  tide.  Mnseus  tells  him 
that  he  is  ashamed  of  him  for  his  not 
baving  written  a  poem  upon  aach  a 
subject.  Agathias  pleads  inability; 
Musens,  with  a  gentle  an^Le,  under- 
takes the  task,  and  now  sh^  nieak 
for  himself  through  the  moutn  of 
Fawkes,  who  excels  intheepic  parts,-- 

"  Sing,  Muse,  tbe  cooscioQS  tordi  whose 

nightlf  rsj 
Let  the  bold  lover  through  tbe  watety 

way, 
To  share  those  joya  which  «ut«el  &ith 

hathceal'd— 
Joya  to  divine  Aurora  unrevealed. 
Abydoa,  Sestos,  aoeient  towna  proclaim 
When  fceatlest  bosom  glowM  with  purest 

flame! 
I  bear  Leander  dash  the  foaming  tide  — 
Fiz*d  high  in  air  I  aee  Che  glimmering 

guide- 
Hie  genial   flame,  the   love-eokiadling 

ligbt,- 
Signal  of  joy  that  burn*d  serenely  bright  (" 


After  a  &w  lineB  more  of  intro- 
duction, we  find  ourselves  on  the 
echoing  shore  of  Sestos,  easing  oa 
the  tower  of  love-lorn  Hero,  for 
whose  sad  fiite  Mnsrus  tells  ua  the 
wild  waters  have  not  yet  forgotten 
to  moan.  Hero,  he  goes  on  to  say, 
was  ft  maiden  of  high  degree,  a 
priestess  of  Venus,  incaroerated  by 
storn  parents  in  a  sea-washed  tower. 
There  she,  ^poor  Venus*  nun,"  as 
Marlow  calls  ner,  used  to  sit  in  her 
loneliness,  vacantly  and  moumfuliy 
gaanff  on  the  tumbling  waters  and 
the  oknidv  skv.  Bhe  telb  her  own 
melanclKMy  tale : — 


*  8m  Umithitf  Revitw,  Jtme  1774. 


1846.1 


Mu$0Ui» 


441 


"  Kor  litr«  I  coirftdot  amt,  aor  do  I 
join 

In  dances  with  the  youtlu,  but  erermore. 
Both  night  and  day,  there  sounds  within 

my  ears 
The  heavy  murmur  of  the  windy  sea." 

Verses  191-193, 


Poor  Hero  I  What  a  hopeless, 
despairing  existenee  these  four  simple 
lines  portray !  The  rough  winds  her 
only  vi^snts ;  tiie  waters  lapping  on 
the  stones  the  only  familiar  sounds 
that  break  upon  her  ear.  We  can 
fancy  we  can  see  her  gazing  vacantly 
on  loe  lowering  sky,  or,  it  may  be, 
BOidiiig  her  wandtoing  thoudbtsaionff 
tbe  Mydaa  plains  toward  tne  peaked 
tops  of  Gaivanis,  and  masinfl;  on  the 
elaaging  £^s  that  had  ragea  around 
H,  Mid  ''tiie  tale  of  Trov  divine/' 
We  can  see  her  turning  sadly  to  her 
loom  again,  to  add  one  more  shade  to 
the  startiflg  muscles  of  Enoeladua,  or 
one  more  bickering  thunderbolt  to 
the  armed  hand  of  Olympian  Jupiter. 
Perhaps  she  is  counting  the  hours  to 
the  Jiext  tetival  of  Venus,  the  only 
epoch  in  her  dreaiy  existence;  or, 
perhaps,  shuddering  at  tl^  thought 
of «  visit  from  her  cold,  stem  fkther, 
who  frets  away  his  short  half-hour 
in  chidmgB,  or  in  peevish  eomplaints 
of  the  rough  Argestes,  and  then 
wraps  round  him  his  magisterial 
roh^  and  leaves  the  poor  maiden  to 
solitude  and  tears.  Who  can  won- 
der that  Leander  was  to  her  a  realisa- 
tion of  the  brightest  vision  that  ever 
scaled  her  sea-worn  prison  ? 

And  now  the  great  festival  of 
Venus  is  at  hand.  From  every  eity 
and  island,  from  Cythera,  from  Co- 
pras, from  the  plains  of  Hsmonia, 
and  from  the  heights  of  Libanus, 
come  troops  of  youths  and  maidens  to 
pay  their  vows  to  Cytherea.  And 
who  was  the  brightest  star  among 
them?  MusflBUS  shall  describe  her 
in  his  own  sunny  language :  — 

*  Hero  was  padog  through  the  temple 

courts, 
Dartinjr  a  sparkling  radiance  from  her 

brow, 
Lile  to  the  rising,  silrer-cheeVed  moon  : 
1'he  rounded  summits  of  her  snowy  cheeks 
Were  iosh'd  with  faintest  crimson,  as  a 

rose 
Twain  •  colonr'd  bursts    its  cop  :    well 

■li^t  you  say 
A  plain  of  roses  Hero's  limbs  appear*d. 
A  glow  was  o*«r  her  form,  and  as  she 

moved 


Roses  did  aeass  to  shiaa   beasaUi  tbs 

feet 
Of  the  white Jrirtled  maid,  and  from  her 

breast 
Graces  did  stream."— Verses  55^3. 

Well  might  such  beauty  as  this 
elicit  from  the  young  pilgrims  of 
Greece  invocations  as  earnest  and 
wishes  as  ardent  as  Mussus  has  put 
into  the  mouth  of  some  love-lorn 
youth  among  the  crowd  of  worship- 
pers !  Still  fair  Hero  paced  onward, 
as  yet  ^  in  maiden  meditation  fancy 
free."  But  among  that  bright-eyed, 
long-haired  band  there  was  one  who 
was  stricken  to  the  inmost  heart ;  it 
was  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight  with 
a  vengeance,  for  our  poor  lender  is 
suddenly  in  a  most  alarming  state. 
We  have  quoted  the  lines  descriptive 
of  his  first  seizure,  and  refer  our 
reader  back  again  to  the  conflicting 
elements  that  raged  within  the  poor 
youth  of  Abydos.  Marlow,  in  his 
first  sestyad,  reasons  most  quaintly 
upon  Lender's  sudden  overset,  and 
concludes  with  a  very  laudable 
query: — 

"  It  lies  not  in  our  power  to  love  or  hate. 
For  will  in  us  is  orerruled  by  fate ; 
When  two  are  stripped  long  ere  the  race 

begin, 
We  wish  that  one  should  lose,  the  other 

win. 
And  one  especially  do  we  alTect 
Of  two  gold  ingots,  like  in  eaoh  respect ; 
The  reason  no  man  knows  :  let  it  suffice 
What  we  behold  is  censured  by  our  eyes* 
Where  both  deliberate  the  lore  is  slight, 
Who  ever  loved  that  lored  not  at  first 

sight  r' 

Bravo,  Kit !  You  would  have  not 
been  the  last  at  Sestos  if  you  had 
lived  in  the  old  d^s  of  Greece! 
But  what  course  does  our  love- 
smitten  Leander  take  ?  Does  he  gaze 
away  his  soul,  and  so  wend  his  wa^ 
back  to  dreary  Abydos  ?  Not  a  bit 
of  it;  he  thinks  it  no  use  to  waste  his 
time  in  idle-minded  oglines,  and  so, 
like  a  bold  man  as  he  was,  be  storms 
the  fortress,  and,  trusting  to  a  pair  of 
very  wicked  eyes,  he  walks  right  up 
to  the  young  priestess.  And  what 
does  Hero  do  r  Is  not  the  audacious 
Abydenian  repelled  with  a  frown,  as 
stern  as  that  of  cloud-coUecting  Ju- 
piter? Alas,  no!  We  are  bound 
to  take  the  word  of  Musaus, — 

"  And  she,  when  she  beheld  his  sHfal 

g»»«. 
Felt  joyful  in  her  beauty,  and  did  >■ 


442 


MusmuM, 


[Apia, 


In  tileoM  veil  hm  lord/  cosnteaiBee, 
With  secret  becks   diwchmng  til    her 
lorc'^-Vertee  lOS-106. 

This  was,  at  any  rate,  a  bod  be- 
giDniug,  for  Leander  does  not  appear 
to  have  been  in  any  m,^  at  a  loss 
how  to  interpret  the  motiona  of  the 
young  maiden : — 

*'  He  glow'd  within 
Because  she  onderstood  and  iroald  not 

spurn 
IIU  psBsiofl."— Verses  107-106. 

This  Bkirmishinff  of  eyes  still  goes 
on  till  ^^  shady  Hesper  rises,  and 
the  **  azure-skirted  mists**  are  veil- 
ing the  temple  gardens  in  a  genial 
obscurity.  Leander  seizes  the  op- 
portunity, and  makes  his  proposal 
with  a  a^  of  winning  g^ce%nd 
modest  assurance  that  would  have 
shamed  the  most  practised  carpet- 
knight  in  Europe.  And  now,  gentle 
reader,  for  a  veritable  proposal  in 
the  old  Ionian  style : — 

**  Geotly  be  presi'd  her   rosy-fingerM 
bandy 

Heaving  a  long-diawn  sigh.     She  si- 
lently, 

As  if  indignant,  sn&ich'd  it  back  again ; 

Yet  when  be  saw  her  half-assenting  nod. 

He    boldly  seized    her   flower-inwoven 
robe, 

Leading  her  toward  the  temple's    last 
rece«i. 

And  so  fnir  Hero  slowly  followed  him, 

And  yet  ai  if  she  wished  it  not'' 

Verses  114-121. 

IIow  exquisitely  is  all  this  told, 
and  how  artfully  does  Leander  com- 
mence his,  siege!     The  sigh  is  in- 
tended to 'express  all  the  suffering 
his  mischievous  eyes  could  not ;  and 
then  when  poor  Hero  is  just  ready 
to  capitulate,  he  does  not  shock  her, 
as  an  underbred  Cockney  would,  by 
an  offer  of  his  arm,  but  leads  her  by 
her  light,  floating  peplum,  as  if,  for- 
sooth, he  dare  not  again  touch  that 
ame  rosy  hand  he  so  audaciously 
ized  at  the  outset  of  the  parley, 
id  all  this  time  we  have  been  leav- 
i;  the  fair  Sestian  to  herself.    She 
»wly  follovrs,  perhaps  thinking  of 
r  sea-beaten   tower  and   gloomy 
.ther,  and  all  her  dreaiy  maiden- 
jood.  ^  Still,  must  she  fall  such  an 
easy  victim  to  Abydcnian  impudence  ? 
Is  she,  like  an  over-mcUow  apple,  to 
drop  unsolicited — she,  a  priestess  of 
Amathusian   Venus?     That   must 
lever  be  whispered  of  her  in  any 


diatleriiig  gynaeoniliB  ai  Sestoa.  So 
she  rallie8,and  has  reecMine  to  threats, 
though  they  were,  alter  all,  as  oar 
knowing  grammmrian  remarks,  only 
"such  threats   as   wroDien  love  to 


"Suangi»r!    thourt  mad!      Haw  &u'al 

Ihoa,  hapless  ntao. 
Drag  off  a  maiden  thos  t     Kay,  dnf  aiy 

robe. 
And  seek  some  other  |»atb,  or  justly  dread 
The  anger  of  my  wealthy  parents.  Shame  1 
To  toach  a  priesteta    of    the    Cypciaa 

queen!**— Veraea  125-126. 

IIow  admirably  this  conveys  all 
her  inward  meaning.  ^  Leave  me 
alone,  or  1*11  tell  my  mother.  She 
will  be  very  angnr,  and  so  will 
Venus.  Ileigh-hoT  I  snppoae  I  ought 
to  be.**  And  what  says  Leander  to 
all  this?  .  O  impudent  varlet!  be 
makes  no  answer  at  all ;  but  plainly 
and  positively,  in  the  gardens,  then 
and  there, — 

"  He  kiss'd  the  maiden's  soft  and  fra- 
grant neck. 
And  thus  address*d  her." — Verse  133, 

Forthwith  eomes  a  torrent  of  vom, 
and  prayers,  and  pleaa  of  justifica- 
tion. Was  a  pnesteas  to  know 
better  than  the  ^loddess  whom  she 
served  ?  Arcadian  Atalanta  Sed 
from  Milanion,  and  how  Ai>hrodite 
punished  her  I  IIow  impious  it 
would  be  to  anger  the  goddess  in  her 
own  precincts !  AlasT  Hero,  it  is 
now  nearly  all  over  with  you ! 

«  She  fiz*d  her  eyes  in  silence  on  the 

ground. 
Hiding  her  shame-flash'd   cheek;    aad 

with  her  feet 
She  scraped  the  surface  of  the  groniKli 

and  twitoh'd 
Her  mantle  o*er  her  shoulders.*' 

Verses  IGO^I^S, 

And  so  they  stood  silently  gaaing  st 
one  another,  till  at  last  riero, 

''  Dropping  the  dew  of  blushes  from  her 

brow."— Verse  173* 

commences  her  second  harangue,  but 
with  as  little  success  as  her  first. 
Here  she  takes  a  different  tack ;  she 
feels  now  that  it  is  all  over  with  her; 
all  that  is  left  is  her  honest  pride; 
she  is  a  maiden  of  high  degree,  ana 
will  not  be  won  like  any  ligbt-O' 
love,  so  she  talks  of  her  fwrents,  of 
dangers,  and  impossibilities;  bat 
then  her  thoughts  soon  revert  to  ber 
melancholy  lite,  she  has  not  a  word 


1846.] 


MuSUBUi* 


443 


more  to  say  for  herself, — ^like  Caesar, 
she  wrap  her  face  in  her  niantle  and 
awaits  the  issue. 

But  Leander  is  not  the  man  to  he 
deterred  hy  difficulties ;  he  cares  not 
for  her  respectable  father  or  vener- 
able mother.  What  is  the  Helles- 
pont to  him  ?  If  Corus  were  to  hlow 
every  >vave  over  him,  he  would  still 
defy  him : — 

'*  Maiden !  for  tbee  I'd  cross  the  swelling 

wave, 
K*en   tboitgh  with  fire  th'  unnarigable 

deep 
Bubbled  and  seetbed ;  oor  while  to  thee 

I  baste. 
Fear  I  the  dangerous  sea,  or  sbudder  at 
The    bearr   murmur    of   tbe    tumbling 

roam."— Verses  203-206. 

If  PIcro  will  but  hold  out  a  torch, 
he  will  not  gaze  at  the  setting  Bootes, 
the  stormy  Orion,  or  the  Bear  that 
never  dips  his  feet  in  the  western  wa- 
ters. We  must  here  quote  a  few 
bright  lines  from  Ovid : — 

"  Non  aequar  nut  Helicen,  ant  qui  Tyroe 
utitur  Arclon  ; 
Publica  non  curat  sidera  noster  amor. 
Aodromeden    alius    spectet,    claramqae 

corooam 
Quaeque  roicat  gelido   Parrbasis    Ursa 

polo. 
Est  aliud  lumen  multo  mibi  certins  iatis, 
Non  erit  in  teoebhi,  quo  duce,  noeler 


amor. 


JEvge  poeta!  And  so  turning 
back  to  Musseus,  we  read  Leander  s 
last  touch  of  flattenr.  Hero  has 
asked  him  his  nam^ ;  ne  gives  it,  with 
no  trumpery  title  attached ;  he  is  no 
Proxenus  of  this  place,  or  Harmost 
of  that,  he  is  Leander,  ^  the  husband 
of  the  garlanded  Hero.** 

And  so  at  last  they  finally  agree 
upon  future  meetings.  She  is  to 
hold  the  torch,  he  to  breast  the 
waves.  They  part,  she  to  her  tower, 
while  Leander  (as  Jean  Paul  has  it) 
is  ^  left  alone  with  the  night.**  How- 
ever Leander  is  a  fine,  practical,  bu- 
siness-like fellow;  he  examines  his 
ground,  takes  landmarks,  and  so  sails 
back  to  Abydos. 

The  wished-for  time  of  meeting 


draws  near;  Leander  goes  down  to 
the  beach,  and  for  one  raort  moment, 
as  he  gazes  into  the  blackness  of  the 
night  and  hears  the  cold,  plunging 
waters,  he  trembles,  the  flesh  yields 
for  a  second,  but  the  spirit  bnnis  as 
bright  as  the  torch  that  is  now 
streaming  across  the  Hellespont. 
How  different  is  the  Leander  of  Mn- 
seus  from  the  Leander  of  Ovid! 
The  latter  hero  is  but  a  poor  weak- 
ling, who  trembles  at  every  gale : — 

'*  Ter  mibi  depodta  est  in  aicei  Testis 
arenA. 
Ter  grave  tentavi  carpere  nndns  iter." 

And  so  he  tosses  himself  into  the 
cold  flood  and  the  dead  night ; 

"  Himself  tbe  rower,  passenger,  and 
bark." 

While  he  is  thus  beating  aside  the 
waters,  let  us  for  a  moment  look  at 
Hero.  There  she  stands  on  her 
airy  tower,  like  the  evening  star, 
shading  her  torch  fixHn  the  rude 
wind  with  her  outroread  mantle,* 
until  at  length  her  bold  lover  touches 
the  shores  of  Sestos. 

This  is,  perhaps,  the  only  plaee 
where  Ovia  excels  Mnsseus;  he  re* 
presents  Heio  as  running  to  the 
Deach  to  meet  him.  The  old  crone 
tries  to  keep  her  young  chaige  back, 
but  she  will  greet  her  lover  on  the 
very  margin  of  the  sea.  All  goes  on 
well  for  a  time;  Hero  escapes  the 
notice  of  her  parents,  and  the  bold 
sailor  crosses  the  deep  every  night 
But  the  laughing  summer  passes 
away,  and  the  tempests  of  winter 
thunder  across  the  narrow  strait, 
sounding  bodetully  in  the  ears  of  the 
lovers : — 

"  Bat  wben  tbe  time  of  boary  winter 
came. 

Rousing    aloft   its    wild    and   eddying 
storms, 

Tbe  wild  winds  rudely  stirr'd  tbe  yield- 
ing depths. 

And  shook  tb'unfix'd  foundations  of  tbe 
wave, 

Lasbiog  tbe  main  with  tempests;    bis 
dark  ship 

Tbe  sailor  drew  np  on  tbe  sunder'dt  shore, 

Sbanning  the  wintry,  erer-laithlesa  sea." 

Verses  9&tM%* 


•  Line  258. 

t  ITie  word  in  tbe  original  is  )<;t^«f.  All  commentators,  except  Kromay**;*  ^•^^ 
made  a  needless  fuss  about  it.  Tbe  shore  is  called  ^tx,0m$  because  tbe  »e»  divide*  it 
from  tbe  opposite  coasL 

VOI<.  XXXUI.  xo.  czcvi.  a  o 


nn  toBma  the  tM«h  of  !•*««  Utt  «r 
the  bit  goMMOL  AaiHMrMMS 
tfaelMtsMmBTAhMdttMn.  The 
■Mit  fa  teik  iHd  ■tomj,  Miri  hai 
hMi  fatlj  dwribol  by  ViigU:— 

"  Ncmpa  abniitti  toriiMa  pmcallii 
Mgd*  MIM  csoi  wn*  &«!■;  ^iwn  ■•■ 

Pocll  toeM  csti,  el  scopnlti  illts  KcU- 

MnsRttt  ■hall  tell  the  lOt:— 

■•  Wmre  raUM  M  wite^  ikc  tnftta  Mood 

■phaand. 
He  Ma  anl  (kf  warn  mingleil,  and  tiw 


At  bliBterfng  Notui  nd  ■  dealeDins 

Wm  btatd  ahrag    tU    hettj-^ntging 

Fall  oft  I 

To  ApfaiOdiM  be  did 


Left  he  nwsh  Bonn 


Yat 


d  Urn  qaaii'd  berore  tba 


Did  aid  bim, 

9o  by  tba  s[dmred  wi«'  tll-MDeaed 


am.  {.Apia, 

nsrbatbwM  dfirMMlnrdii  till  bit 

li«b« 
Did  (til  bin,  and  Iiia  eTBf-aoTfag  budi 
Sank   faeblr.     Down    bia    tbroat  llu 

SponUneoiu,  and  Ea  ilniik  tbe  biacUik 

ttantrbile  a  tnal   wind  bttl  Mat  tbt 

And  Mitb  h  lid  Lwnd«^^  Wt  abdlotF." 

Vrmm  sis-^m. 
Pear  Heni  ttuidB  on  the  c^^te 
dhore  full  of  distracting  fean,  tbe 
csttUffiMte)!  tuth  in  her  bind, 
dkbbkd  with  the  flrifting  rain,  ud 
deaftncd  with  the  tnmult  of  waten 
beneath  her.  So  she  itaiids,  he*Tt- 
brokcn,  till  the  next  morning  db- 
closes  to  her,  at  the  verr  bue  of  bci 
tower,  the  pale,  braised,  and  lifeles 
hodj  of  LeandcT. 

"  WTim  at  her  ftet  abe  saw  bet  lom'i 
Tom  bj  ((■«  iDcb,  aba  rtnt  bar  lQ*tr'd 

T«bB, 

Aad  with  a  nAing  aoaiMl  fron  off  Ike 
Vpnag  beirilmif  ."—Vanea  335-338. 

Wc  wiU  not  not  add  a  line  dfcMH- 
ment  Thus  ends  one  of  the  nMt 
touching  stories  of  old  timest  descnbed 
With  a  beamy  and  vividnete  of  Ui- 
gnage  that  shall  not  be  dilnted  inth 
our  weak  and  inauflScient  pniw- 
"They  Were  tovely  in  their  li''**'," 
their  death  they  were  not  divided.' 


1346.3 


Bining  Out. 


445 


DINING  OUT. 


Strange  as  it  may  seem,  "  yet  inty 
't  is  *t  is  true,"  you  cannot  get  a  chop 
or  a  steak  at  a  tavern  in  London 
Vrest  of  Temple  Bar  that's  worth 
eating.    Thte  ftciemx  of  eSooking  chops 
and  steaks  begins  at  Aldgate,  and 
ceases  at  the  Cock  and  the  Itainbow 
by  Tempte  Bar,  where  Shire  Laiite 
divides   the    City  from   the   shire. 
Heaven  knows  the  man  (a  clergyman, 
^ve  are  told)  was  not  for  wrong  who 
coidfined  his  catalogue  of  questions  to 
the  new  she-cook  that  came  to  him, 
to  the  simple  but  important  one  of, 
**Can    you    boil  a   potato  wellf*' 
fancyingi  we  suppose,  and  rightly, 
that  s  woman  who  could  do  this  well 
had  got  beyond  the  merfe  first  rudi- 
ments of  her  art,  and  was,  withal, 
likely  to  improve,    lie  had^  however, 
done  better,  we  have  often  thought, 
had  he  asked  her  in  addition,  if  she 
tindetstood  and  could  cook  a  chop 
or  a  steak  to  the  satisfaction  of  one 
-whose  taste  was  fostered  before  the 
gtidiron  at  "  Joe's"  in  the  City,  and 
the  box  by  the  fire  at  the  Codk  near 
Temple  Bar.    The  least  hesitation 
had  b^n  favt>UTable;  a  ready  ad- 
mfesion  that  sh«  cbuM,  a  sure  sign 
that  She  knew  "  nothing  at  all  about 
the  mattel-." 

There  are  two  things  we  nev^ 
VrMi  to  have  for  dinner  at  home,  or 
Bt  a  friend's  hou*  —  a  chop  and  a 
stBAK.  Chops  at  home  are  generally 
too  tallbwy,  too  raw,  or  ill  cut,  or 
donte  over  bad  fire;  in  short,  any 
thing  but  What  they  Ought  to  be ;  and 
then  your  home-cook^  steaks  stick 
in  your  teeth  with  toughness,  and 
trouble  you  for  a  whole  evening; 
or  they  are  too  slowly  done,  or  too 
hurriedly  done,  or  too  near  when 
done  to  a  "cassv"  flame;  or,  per- 
haps, it  was  the  butcher's  fault,  per- 
haps they  Wete  badly  cut,  or  the  meat 
was  too  newly  killed ;  fresh  from  the 
back  of  an  Abyssinian  beast  described 
by  Bruce  in  his  icfcver  and  entertain- 
ittg  Travels, 

It  really  seems  a  hard  case  that  a 
man  cannot  have  a  chop  or  a  ste&k 
tolerably  cooked  at  his  own  home. 
Harder  still,  perhaps,  that  he  cannot 
at  a  London  dub.  Your  west-end 
cooks  confine  their  labours  and  at- 
tention, and  devote  the  whole  of  their 
skill  to  "  kickshaws,"  and  things  that 
ptovoke  you  to  eat,  and  medt  and 


demand  your  aj^robation  while  at 
table.  All  well  enough  in  their  way ; 
wonders  in  art,  the  result  of  a  long 
life  of  attentiveobservation,  but  really 
net  to  be  preferi^,  any  one  of  them 
wnglv,  to  a  chop  or  a  steak  at  Joe's  in 
Finch  Lane,  or  Colnett's  at  the  Cock 
nfear  Temple  Bar.  Different  tastes 
incline  to  differeht  objects  :  — 

"  Hard  task  to  bit  the  palate  of  such 
guests, 

When  Oldfield  lo?es  what  Dartineuf  de- 
tests." 

There  are  few  things  better  than 
a  chop  or  a  steak  'when  cooked  by 
the  cunm'ng  tonss  of  our  friend 
at  Joe's,  or  watched  over  by  the 
judidous  eye  of  Colnett's  Citar 
"  Soyer."  ' 

A  man  may  spend  the  period  of 
an  apprenticeship  in  London,  and 
really  not  know  half-a-dozen  good 
taverns  where  he  tan  get  a  chop  or 
a  steak  cobked  to  perfection,  and  at 
a  reasonable  cost.    We  have  even 
met  with  men  who  have  lived  in 
London  for  a  much  longer  period  of 
time,  as  raw  on  the  subject  as  the 
last  arrival  in  London  from  the  tin- 
mines  of  Cornwall,  or  the  dreary 
wastes  of  Dartmoor  and  Hay  Tor. 
You  cannot  get  a  chop  kt  Stevens^s 
or  Long's  in  Bond  Street,  equal  in 
quality  or  flavour  to  a  chop  at  the 
Cock  in  Fleet  Street,  or  a  steak  at 
the  tteform  Club  or  the  Clarendon 
equal  in  excellence    to  a  steak  at 
'*  Joe's"  in  Finch  Lane;   or  thos^ 
masterpieces   in    their   way    which 
"  Ben,^  mine  host  of  the  Cheshire 
Cheese,    snatches   with   a   cunning 
hand  from  a  clean  gridiron  over  a 
clear  fire  in  Wine  Office  Court  in 
Fleet  Street. 

A  man  wants  a  good  appetite  to 
enjoy  a  steak  to  perfection ;  ne  must 
be  in  full  health ;  and  what's  more, 
in  good  spirits.  Th^e  is  no  ei\joying 
a  steak  in  the  middle  of  the  day ;  eat 
it)  and  you  are  fit  for  nothing  but 
your  supper  after.  Five  o'clock's 
the  time,  we  contend,  the  best  adapted 
for  a  tavern  dinger.  Only  be  sure 
of  an  appetite.  Spare  no  exertitm 
to  acquire  it.  Remember  the  Mtt^ 
tdd  by  Pope : —  ^pl 

"  There  was  a  Lord  Russell,  wb^ 
living  too  luxuriously,  bad  quite  S| 
his  constitution*    lie  did  not  lo?e ' 


446 


Dining  Out 


[April, 


but  used  to  go  out  with  the  dogs  every 
day,  only  to  hunt  for  an  appetite.  When- 
ever  he'felt  a  twinge  of  hunger  be  would 
cry  out,  '  Ob,  I  have  found  it!'  and 
though  they  were  in  the  midst  of  the  6  nest 
chase,  he  would  turn  short  round  and 
ride  home  again.  It  was  the  same  lord 
who,  when  he  met  a  beggar,  and  was 
entreated  by  him  to  give  him  something 
because  he  was  ulmoat  famished  with 
hunger,  called  him  '  A  happy  dog !'  and 
envied  him  too  much  to  relieve  him." 

Thifl  man  knew  the  necessity  of  a 
good  appetite ;  he  should  have  sat  at 
table  with  Yitellius  or  Ileliosabalus. 

A  man  may  dine  for  very  little  in 
London.  A  shilling  or  fiftccn-pence 
will  procure  a  dinner  more  than  suf- 
ficient to  keep  body  and  soul  toge- 
ther, without  resorting  to  the  potato- 
stands  and  hot  cockle-stalls  in  St.  Cle- 
ments Churchyard,  in  the  Strand,  or 
the  kidney-pies  that  attract  atten- 
tion at  the  Surrey  end  of  Westmin- 
ster Bridge.  Many  have  dined,  and 
still  continue  to  dine,  for  a  less 
amount  than  we  have  here  set  down. 
Cheaper  still  was  the  dinner  of  a 
certain  grave  citizen  "  worth  a  plum," 
of  whom  Colman  records  that  he 
saw  him  at  a  little  eating-house  in  a 
dark  alley  behind  the  Exchange, 
make  a  twopenny  mess  of  broth  with 
a  chop  in  it,  more  than  enough  for  a 
single  meal.  When  the  broth  was 
brought  him  he  scooped  the  crumb 
out  of  a  halfpenny  roll,  and  soaked 
it  in  the  porridge  for  his  present 
meal;  then  carefully  placing  the 
chop  between  the  upper  and  under 
crust,  he  WTapt  it  up  in  a  checked 
handkerchief,  and  carried  it  off  for 
his  niorrow*s  repast.  Chea];)er  still 
was  the  daily  meal  of  a  miserable 
usurer  of  the  time  of  Charles  I.,  who 
contracted  with  a  cook  in  London, 
to  let  him  have  **  a  mess  of  pottage" 
about  noon,  a  draught  of  small  beer 
(if  required),  as  many  chippings  of 
bread  in  his  pottages  as  he  chose  to 
'  put  in ;  the  benefit  of  the  fire  in  win- 
ter; and  in  summer  a  further  allow- 
ance of  small  beer ;  and  all,  so 
Peacham  telhs  us,  for  a  penny.  Your 
rich,  penurious  rascal  who  would 
dine  in  this  way,  would  have  stolen 
a  meal  of  steam  from  a  cook's  stall 

Nin  Little  Eastcheap,  or  have  dined 
Mth  Duke  Humphrey  in  Old  St. 
^uVs,  could  he  have  kept  but  life 
\  his  bodv  by  the  former  plan,  or 
e  latter  had  not  been  an  absolute 
He  of  time  and  shoe-leather : — 


<'  The  family  that  dioes  the  latest 
Is  in  our  street  esteemed  the  greatest ; 
But  latest  hours  must  surely  fall— 
'Fore  him,  who  never  dinea  at  all" 

Henry  Fulding. 

The  custom  of  asking  for  a  plate 
of  veal  "cut  with  a  hammy  knife," 
is  a  piece  of  economical  refinement 
only  of  late  introduced  among  us,— 
when,  and  by  whom,  no  industry  has 
yet  been  able  to  diBCOver. 

There  are  two  ways  of  eating  in 
this  town,  for  people  of  your  condi- 
tion, said  lloderick  Random's  land- 
lord to  the  carroty-pated  Rory,  frah 
from  Scotland,  and  altogether  a  novice 
in  these  matters,  "  the  one  more  cre- 
ditable and  expensive  than  the  other. 
The  first,  is  to  dine  at  an  eating- 
house   frequented    by  well-dressed 
people  only ;  and  the  other  is  called 
dwitigy  practised  by  those  who  arc 
either  obliffed  or  inclined  to  live  fru- 
gally."   There  was  a  time  when  a 
pint  of  wine  was  sold  for  a  penny, 
and  bread  to  drink  with  it  was  given 
free  in  every  tavern  in  London.    "I 
have  read,"  says  Stow,  "of  a  coun- 
tryman, that  then  having  lost  hu 
hood  in  Westminster  Hall,  found  the 
same  in  Cornhill,  hanged  out  to  be 
sold,  which  he  challenged,  but  was 
forced  to  buy  or  go  without  it,  for 
their    stall,    they    said,    was   their 
market.     At    that  time  the  wmc- 
drawer  of  the  Pope's  Head  Tavern 
(standing  without  the  door  in  the 
high  street),  took  the  same  man  by 
the  sleeve,  and  said,  *  Sir,  will  you 
drink  a  pint  of  wine  ? '    Whereunto 
he  answered,  *  A  penny  spend  I  may ; 
and  so  drank  his  pint :  for  bread 
nothing  did  he  pay,  for  that  was 
allowed  free."      "  I  used  to  dine, 
said  Dr.  Johnson,  "very  well  tor 
eightpence,  and  with  very  good  corn" 
pany,  at  the  Pine  Apple,in  New  Street, 
Covent  Garden.    It  used  to  cost  "Jc 
rest  a  shilling,  for  they  drank  wine; 
but  I  had  a  cut  of  meat  for  sixpence, 
and  bread  for  a  penny,  and  gave  tne 
waiter  a  penny ;  so  that  I  was  qrm 
as  well  served— nay,  better  than  tw 
rest,  for  they  gave  the  waiter  no- 
thing." 
••  Each  monal  has  his  pleasure:  nooe 

denv  . 

Scaradale  bis  botUe,  Darty  his  btfu.p>^ 

There  was  Boyce  the  V^^,?!, 
whom  it  is  told  that  he !«"  ?"|  fj! 
last  half-guinea  he  possessed  in  tnu- 


1846.] 


Dining  Out, 


447 


fies  and  mushrooma,  eating  them  in 
bed,  too,  for  want  of  clothes,  or  eyeu 
a  shirt  to  sit  up  in ;  and  when  once 
on  the  very  verge  of  starvation,  as 
Otway  was  before  him,  refused  to 
partake  of  a  piece  of  roast  beef  that 
was  offered  him — because  there  was 
no  ketchup ! 

Certain  people  have  cherished  cer- 
tain predilections.  Pope  was  fond  of 
warming  potted  lampi^ys  in  a  silver 
saucepan.  Charles  Lamb  preferred 
roast  pig.  Hasty-pudding  and  a 
whitepot  were  the  favourite  dishes 
of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  who  pos- 
sessed a  receipt  for  them  (the  best  in 
England)  in  his  grandmother's  own 
handwriting.  George  HI,  was  fond 
of  the  middle  of  the  neck-of-mutton 
and  turnips.  Lord  Byron,  when 
dining  witn  Mr.  Rogers,  refused  the 
meats  and  entremets  one  after  the 
other,  and  made  a  meal  of— -what  ? 
potatoes  and  vinegar!  The  late 
Lord  Eldon  had  a  particular  fancy 
for  liver  and  bacon.  Pheodore  Hook, 
when  at  home,  after  a  fortnight's 
excess  at  the  late  Lord  Hertford's, 
and  obliged  to  order  dinner  for  him- 
self, ordered  what  he  calh  in  his 
Diarv  his  "  old  favourite  pease- soup." 
Justice  Shallow,  in  ShaKspeare,  was 
fond  of  a  short-legged  hen ;  so  was 
"Rare  Ben  Jonson," — witness  his 
poem  inviting  a  friend  to  supper, — 

"  You  *ll  have,  to  rectify  yoar  palate. 
An  olive,  capers,  or  some  better  salad. 
Ushering  the  mutton  ;  witha  short-legg'd 

beo, 
If  we  can  get  her  fall  of  eggs,  and  then 
Lemons  and  wine  for  sauce/' 

The  great  lexicographer,  "  Sam," 
was  fond  of  a  fillet  of  veal,  when 
Wilkes  was  by  to  assist  him.  "  Pray 
give  me  leave,  sir,"  said  Wilkes,  sit- 
ting by  his  side,  "  it  is  better  here ! — 
a  little  of  the  brown — some  fat,  sir ! 
— a  little  of  the  stuffing — some  gravy! 
Let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  giving 
you  some  butter ! — Allow  me  to  re- 
commend a  squeeze  of  this  orange — 
or  the  lemon,  perhaps,  may  have 
more  zest ! "  There  was  no  refusing. 
The  veal  was  done  to  a  turn— better 
it  could  not  have  been  with  a  whole 
synod  of  cooks  to  superintend  it; 
and  Wilkes  was  irresistibly  attentive. 
"Sir,  sir,  I  am  obliged  to  you  I" 
More  could  not  be  said.  It  was 
enough  to  have  said  this,  and  at  such 
a  time.    Think  of  the  City  aldermen^ 


in  Cnrti8*fl  mayoralty,  over  a  third 
suppler  of  turtle.  "  A  fine  view  from 
the  window,  sir!  I  never  saw  the 
river  look  so  ^y  before — ^"  inter- 
rupted by  his  neignbour  on  the  right 
with,  ^*ls  that  a  schooner?"  No 
reply.  The  same  question  repeated. 
Something  must  be  said.  *'Sir — 
sir,"  was  tne  angry  answer,  spoken  in 
a  hurried  and  broken  manner,  *^  when 
I'm  at  dinner,  I  never  look  off  my 
pkte!" 

The  capacity  of  some  men*s  sto- 
machs is  nard  to  be  conceived.  A 
turtle-sandwich  in  the  middle  of  the 
day  seems  barely  sufficient  to  supply 
a  single  chink  in  the  craving  void  of 
the  human  appetite.  There  is  still  a 
great  tun  of  Heidelberg  to  fill  by  the 
narrow  aperture  of  the  mouth.  It 
is  really  wonderful  what  men  will 
perform  in  this  way.  Only  look 
round  your  own  circle  of  acouaint- 
ance, — at  your  own  or  at  ainend*a 
table,  at  Lovegrove*s  at  Blackwall, 
at  the  Crown  and  Sceptre  at  Green- 
wich, or  the  Star  and  Garter  at 
Richmond !  A  plate  of  turtle  is  like 
a  rub  on  a  strop  to  the  edge  of  one  of 
Weiss's  razors.  Three  plates  offish, 
and  the  exhalation  inhaled  from  a 
variety  of  other  kinds,  only  allays 
the  demon  that  sits  unappeasably 
within.  Silence  seems  to  assist  di- 
gestion for  the  first  half-hour,  and 
then  a  reply  seems  a  new  provocative 
to  proceed.  A  fresh  looker-on  at 
every  course  would  fancy  he  had  ar- 
rived too  late  and  was  making  up 
his  leeway.  One  who  watched  him 
throughout  would  think  he  was  lay- 
ing in  provant,  like  Dugald  DaJ- 
fetty,  and  was  fit,  when  filled,  to 
ave  lain  in  Jellalabad  with  Sir  Ro- 
bert Sale,  to  have  sailed  with  Parry 
in  the  Hecla,  to  have  stood  a  ten- 
years*  siege  like  Troy,  or  played  the 
part  of  Ugolino  in  the  dungeon, 
without  a  wrinkle  in  his  face  to  sug- 

fist  a  line  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
our  thin,  spare  fellows,  with  their 
watches  in  their  waistcoat-pockets,  eat 
as  heartily  at  times  as  your  rotund 
little  gentlemen,  with  bushy  bunches 
of  sea&  in  front  of  their  corporations. 
It  is,  however,  your  thick,  short- 
necked  men  who  eat  the  most.  There 
was  Chantrey,  standing  five-feet  five 
with  the  aid  of  a  pair  of  " 
boots,  vrith  an  appetite  for  di^ 
quite  remarkable.  He  had 
no  necki  but  be  ate  of  venit 


44i 


UAamg  Ov#. 


[AprU, 


yoTMious  ftii|ielite.  A  vnrm  third 
plate  was  aa  irresntible  to  Chanixey 
as  a  ^^  wann  third  Bight  '^  to  tlie 
poorest  poet  whose  life  has  found  a 

Jiaoe  ia  the  Mioffraffhia  DramaHca. 
[e  did  not  waste  his  appetite,  like 
Pope  the  actor,  on  an  edge- tone  of  beeft 
and  shed  a  tear  of  regret  when  he 
unexpectedly  perceived  a  haunch  of 
Tauaon,  that  nature  was  exhaustible. 
^^  And  this  to  an  old  friend !  **  was 
his  remark.  Pope,  it  appears  was 
asked  to  dine  im  an  eto-lxme  of 
heef ;  the  friend  allowed  nim  to  he* 
lieve  he  had  nothing  more.  Pope 
was  fond  of  the  dish ;  he  ate  vora* 
eiouslir,  as  if  nothing  substantial  was 
to  loUow.  The  disui  was  thea  re* 
uayed,--* 

"  And,  Id  !  two  puddin^^s  smoked  upoa 
the  board." 

No!  not  puddings,  a  haunch  ^C 
venison,  suw  as  Goldsmith  described 
ia  a  letter  to  Lord  Clarei— 

*'  NeVr  finer  nor  ^tter 
£*er  nuiMd  in  a  forest  or  snioked  in  n 
pHittsr." 

f  ope  played  with  a  bit,  laid  down  his 
kn^fe  and  fork,  ^^  And  this  to  an  old 
friend  I"— 


"  Forgive  the  gashing  tear ! 
Alas  !  1  feel  I  am  no  actor  here." 

The  story  deserves  remembrance, 
and  contains  a  precept.  Never,  when 
a  friend  asks  you  to  dine  with  him, 
exhaust  a  heidthy  appetite  on  an 
edge-bone  of  beef,  without  inquiring 
of  the  cook  beforehand. 

There  is  a  wide  and  material  dif'> 
finance  between  giving  a  dimier  and 
giving  a  dinner  welL  Few  under- 
stand the  art.  Kor  does  it  aHc^ther 
depend  upon  the  giver.  Many  things 
and  many  hu&ds  conspire  to  please  or 
dbapj^oint.  Who  is  your  cook,  and 
is  he  m  trim  for  what  he  has  to  do  ^ 
Who  ara  your  friends,  will  tk^ 
hannonnetafether?  Whataveyour 
dishsfl?  Then,  are  things  in  season  i^ 
You  have  seett  sa  &r  as  you  em  to 
this  yourself.  All  very  well,  but 
you  niutf  depend  at  last  upon  your 
fishmonger  and  your  butcher.  There 
was  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  lie  was 
always  gtvins  dinners,  lie  was  a 
SMu  of  refined  mind,  and  a  master  in 
his  own  art  His  table  was  fre« 
^oented  by  many  of  the  most  die- 
^"^•"^^^nwnafhisage.    Ue  lived 


IB  Leicester  Sqnaie  (then  a  fiidaoB- 
able  quarter  off  the  town)^  and  wesit 
to  market  for  himself.    We  reooliect 
(dd  Robertson,  kis  fishmonger,  who 
kept  the  shop  in  Coventry  Street, 
now  Turner's.    He  realised  a  hand- 
some competency,  and  was  a  man  of 
keen  observation,  and  of  mild  and 
gentlemanlike  manners.    lie  was  f  u  11 
of  anecdotes  of  "  my  old  friend.  Sir 
Joshua,**  as  he  called  him.     ^  Sir 
Joshua,"  he  sakl, "  was  a  capital  jadge 
of  fish.    He  canie  from  Ply  mptos,  on 
the  coast,  and  understood  the  article. 
He  \fas  an  early  riser,  and  always 
looked  in  upon  me   before   others 
were  up ;  and  if  there  was  one  ftsk  in 
the  shop  better  than  another,  be  was 
snre  to  single  it  out.      He  never 
askedtheprice.  'Migs  Palmer,*  he  used 
to  say,  wul  call  and  settle  abooi  the 
price.    Now  Miss  Palmer  was  his 
niece,  and  was  just  as  good  a  hand  at 
a  baroain  as  Sir  Joshua  was  a  jn^gs 
offish.    She  generally  had  her  own 
way ;  but  I  loved  to  see  my  okl 
friend  Sir  Joshua  in  my  shopL     We 
don*t  see  such  pictures  as  his  now. 
£h  ?*'    Yet  with  all  this  precaution 
and  care  en  the  ]^art  of  our  distin- 
guished painter,  his  dinners,  thon^ 
very  agreeable,  were  fiir  from  being 
what  is  usually  called  good,     There 
was  a  coarse,  inelegant  plenty,  with- 
out any  regard  to  order  and  arrange- 
ment.   A  table  prepared  for  seven 
or  eight  was  often  compelled  to  con- 
tain fifteen  or  sixteen.    Then  there 
was  a  sad  deficiency  of  knives  and 
forks,  and  even  plates  and  glasKs. 
Nor  was  the  attenuanee  much  better. 
It  was  absolutely  necessary  to  call 
instantly  for  beer,  bread,  or  wine, 
that  YOU  mieht   he  supplied  with 
them  before  the  first  course  was  over. 
But  these  trifiing  emharraasments,  as 
Courtenay  calls  them,  only  served  to 
enhance  the   hilarity  and  singular 
pleasure  of  the  entertainment ;  to  our 
thinking,  a  kind  of  scramble  at  the 
best.    How  unHke  *<the  pomp**  in 
which  Sir  Peter  Lely  is  said  to  have 
Mved! 

There  is  a  very  curious  descripdoQ 
of  what  a  lord-mayor's  dinner  wa5 
hke  in  the  year  1663,  in  that  divert- 
ing book  the  Diary  of  the  ininiitabfe 
Bepys.  The  dinner  was  served  in 
the  GuiMhaH,  and  the  hour  was  one. 
Under  every  salt  vras  a  bill  of  fkre, 
and  at  the  end  of  every  table  ^the 
persons  pn^r**  for  the  t^e. 


1846.] 


AMn^  tht* 


44a 


"  Many,**  wtfB  P«n>«,  <f  wete  ti»  u^ 
bHi8«  l|ut  fwwe  in  the  hftll  ¥ak  tb«  ipf  jar*^ 
and  i^Q  lot(d§  qTiImi  privy  couoci],  that 
had  oaplp^  or  kniffti,  which  vaa  yory 
BtfiiQ^e.  I  ^t  at  the  m^rchaiU-^traQger^ 
table,  wbexe  ten  good  dishes  to  a  meas, 
fvith  plenty  of  wine  of  all  sorts;  but  it 
was  very  unpleosing,"  he  adds,  ''that 
we  had  no  napkins  nor  chanze  of  trench* 
era,  and  drunk  out  of  earthen  pitchers 
and  wooden  dkbea.  Tb*  dinner,  it  aeema, 
is  made  by  th^  mayor  and  Ibe  twa 
slMriifii  fior  the  time  beisg ;  aad  tb«  wb<d« 
im  Teckeiied  to  e^MPe  to  ?i)Pi.  or  WU,  fil 
mKMt." 

The  viaitor  ate  \n(h  his  fioffer^ 
and  wiped  them  wb^  )ie  bad  aQi;x$ 
cm  the  napkin  laid  for  the  purpose. 
The  old  books  on  carrying  awel] 
-very  particularly  on  the  propriety  of 
placing  only  the  two  forefingprs  and 
the  thumb  on  the  joint  or  bird  l^for«^ 
you.  FQrlf:s,  though  known  as  early 
as  the  reign  <^  James  I.  were  very 
little  in  usa  in  England  for  some 
time  subsequent  to  tne  Restoration. 
Qld  Tom  Cryiit,  who  introduced  the 
fork  among  us,  realised  the  name  of 
iurcifer  lor  his  trouble.  Tl^  lay- 
ing of  napkins  well  W9S  an  imjpojtant, 
part  of  a  private  enterti^nment. 
** Thence  home,"  says  Pepys,  "and 
there  find  one  laying  of  my  napkins 
against  to-morrow,  m  figures  of  all 
sort3»  which  is  mighty  pret^ ;  and 
it  seems  is  his  trade,  and  he  get^ 
much  money  by  it."*  At  large  en- 
tertainments, formerly  (as  latei  ^^' 
dieed,  as  the  reign  of  Charles  II.X 
many  of  the  guests  were  required  to 
bring  their  own  knives,  an4  their 
own  spoons  in  their  pockets.  "  You 
march  to  Guildhall,"  says  Clod  in  one 
of  Shirley's  entertainmenU,  "  with 
every  man  his  spoon  in  his  pockety 
when  YOU  look  upon  the  giants,  ana 
ted  lilp^e  Saracens."  t 

Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury  de- 
scribes an  entertainment  he  was  at^ 
curiously  cl^cacteristic  of  the  age  i^ 
which  he  lived:—- 

**  From  lV|ilan,"  he  say9» "  we  went  to 
Novara,  where  we  were  entertained  by 
the  governor,  a  Spaniard,  with  one  of  th^ 
most  sumptuous  feasts  that  erer  I  saw, 
being  but  of  nine  diehes,  ia  three  several 
services  ;  the  tfrst  wheie<^  was  Ihiee 
oltaa  podridas,  consieting  of  all  choica 
boiled  meats,  plneed  ia  three  large  silror 
chafgers,  whieb  took  HP  the  leagtl^  of  a 


gfaatuMa;  tb«  «eM  H  i*  Mm  lieiglH. 

efked  up  artificially  pynnMd-wia^  ^  ^ 
sfivi^v  wkUb  waa  (ya  tfca  top.  'i%»  ae- 
cond  service  waa  lik^  tb«  lormftf,  of  ro^at 
meat,  in  whicb  all  iaaiine.r  of  fbwl,^  from 
the  pheasant  and  partridge  to  other  fowl 
lessihan  them,  were  heightened  up  to  a 
lark.  The  thfrd  waa  in  sweetmeat  dry 
of  an  aeriB,  heigkteaed  in  a  like  meaner, 
t»  a  fouad  eomlit.'* 

TUa  iQ!q4  have  baen  a  stately  an- 
tertainmeiitu  Our  anoestors  were 
fond  of  such  pyraa^idical  di^^y>> 
The  Beaders*  feasts  at  the  Temple, 
when  feasts  were  most  in  voeite,  ge** 
nerally  exhibiting  a  large  dish  in  the 
centre,  pyramid  lashion.  A  ^rvice 
of  birds  was  piucb  better  understood 
in  the  olden  time  than  now.  The 
air  wm  rifled  for  ereiy  description 
of  feathered  thin^  that  could  help  in 
aay  way  ta  coMtitute  a  dish. 


"  Tha  robin  red-breast  till  of  Ut#  had 

»wt, 
And  children  sacred  held  a  n«itia*8  nest. 
Till  becaficoa  sold  so  devilish  dear 
To  one  that  waa  ev  would  have  been  a 

peer/* 

^his  w^a  ip  Fope*s  tip^ ;  but 

<f  The  fouraiad-twenty  bbudibtida  baked 
la  a  pts* 

is  an  earlier  instaAce  Qf  the  antic^uity 
of  the  taste. 

There  19  a  capita  description  of  a 
cook  in  Ben  Jonson*8  last  masque 
before  Ki|ig  Jam^ : — 

'*  A  master  eaok  I  wbyt  ka's  the  man  af 

iaen» 
Pec  a  profeaaof  I  ha  deaigng,  ha  draws. 
He  palo^f  he  carves,  be  builds,  be  (brti- 

fies, 
IVIakes  cit^djB^  of  curious  fowls  and  fish. 
Some  he  dry  ditches,  some  moats  round 

with  broths, 
MounCi  marrow-bones ;  euta  fifty  angled 

eustards ; 
Rears  bulwark  pies ;  and  for  hia  oater- 

warits. 
Ha  raiaakh  lampacia  of  immortal  ornst » 
MA  toMkatb  sUtlit  lasto  91  •»«  ^^ 

V^l^t  laaks.  yrbal  4(^s,  to  pat  fcba  diabea 
iOf  -  ^^— — 

The  whote  art  mflitary !    Then  he  ^^^^ 
The  influence  of  the  stars  upon  bis  ip« 


And  oil  their  seasons^  tenipers,  q 
And  so  to  fit  his  relishes  and  "'*'• 


aaU 


The   cook  at  ^ 
might  he  proiid  of  tl 


r^ 


«  Papya,  4to,  sd.  n.  9«6« 


t  Shirley's  Work 


i 


"  Tor  A  good  poet  iiitfen  nothing  at 
■]!  fhnn  a  master  cook.  Either's  art 
i9  the  wisdom  of  the  mind."  There 
was  the  chief  clerk  of  the  kitehcn 
to  King  Henry  VHI.,  honest  Wil- 
liam ■^ynn,  Inquire  (for  cookB  were 
pquireB  in  those  dap),  who  gave  us 
an  edition  of  Chaucer,  so  close  was 
tlie  affinity  between  cooks  and  poets 
formerly.  How  the  clerk  of  the 
kitchen  must  have  relished  Chaucer's 
description  of  the  cook  of  the  Can- 
terbury Pilgrimage  :— 
"  A  coke  they  hadilen  with  liem  for  llie 
To  boil*  Uia  cliickenM  iui<l  the  mnrie 
Aud   poudre   marebant,  tiirl  ind  golin 

Wei   coulds   ha  knows   a   dniuglit   of 

London  nle. 
He  Goulde  roile,  wd  Mlhe,  end  boile, 


]MBrrow-bones  was  a  favourite  dish 
ii)  the  old  "  forme  of  cury,"  and 
justly  too,  we  think.  Go  to  Wood's 
"Hotel,  in  Portugal  Street,  where  the 
Novioraagians,  dioe  with  the  right 
czcellentand  thrice  witty  Mr.  Thomas 
Crofton  Croker  in  the  chair,  support- 
ed hy  our  worthy  friend  J.  N.,  and 
never  without  a  StonehenKe  of  mar- 
row-bonea  upon  the  table.  They 
are  excellent  at  Wood's  (we  recom- 
mend them  stronglv),  and  mine  hos- 
tess understands  them  well,  having 
crane-like  spoons  for  the  purpose, 
that  thcmarrow  of  marrow  may  not 
escapeyou.  The  contiguity  of  Wood's 
to  the  butchers  in  Clare  Market  se- 
cures the  excellence  of  the  article 
served  up. 

Old  U^  C ,  of  the ,  had 

a  pnrlicular  fancy  for  giving  a  dinner 
entirely  made  up  of  sauces.  We 
never  saw  a  man  enjoy  Smollett's 
flescription  of  the  dinner  in  the  man- 
ner of  the  ancients  more  than  our 
old  friend  the  nu^or.  He  wae  fond 
of  eccentricities,  and  Smollett,  we 
floppose,  had  suggested  the  idea.  Ue 
talked  about  this  dinner  for  a  very 
long  time;  at  last  be  ventured  to 
giyc  it  to  a  select  trio.  And  what  a 
minuet  it  was!  Gravy  sauce  for  soup, 
ice  inst4^ 


bis  strange  inedkv  < 
it  off,  it  is  said,  with  g 


ding!     This  i 

dinner  went  off,  it  is  said,  with  great 
Srht.  The  major  tasted,  and  largely 
too,  of  every  sauce-boat  on  the  table. 
He  strengthened  hie  stomach  with 
half-a-glass  of  sherry  after  the  grmvy 
and  a  whole  one  aflcr  the  fiah-sauEes 
were  entirely  done  with.  This,  be 
said,  he  found  a  good  plan.  Whoi 
the  c^-sauce  was  removed,  he  took 
a  toothful'  of  brandy ;  and  this,  he 
assured  us,  gave  a  paTtienlar  relvdi  to 
the  simple  taste  of  the  bread-sauce 
immediately  after.  The  dinner  went 
off  entirely  to  his  satisfaction  :  two 
of  hii  friends,  however,  were  ill  the 
next  day ;  but  this  was  nothing,  he 
used  to  remark,  against  the  propriety 
of  giving  such  a  dinner,  for  Ib^ 
began  the  brandy  too  early,  and  ale 
too  voraciously  of  the  lobster-sauce. 
The  major  had  a  rump-steak  snpper 
after,  but  he  never  repeated  the  ec- 
centric feast,  though  it  continued  a 
favourite  subject  ofconveiMtion  with 
him  ever  after. 

A  man  may  shew  as  much  taet 
and  taste  in  the  selection  of  the  friends 
he  asks  to  meet  you  as  in  the  choice 
of  the  meats  and  wines  he  sets  upon 
his  table.  The  late  Mr.  Walter, 
the  magistrate,  was  of  opinion  that  a 
man's  dinner-party  should  never  con- 
sist of  more  than  eight, — that  is,  if  a 
good  dinner  and  conversation  alone 
were  wanted.  The  entertaining  au- 
thor of  the  Original  has  a  risht  to  be 
heard  on  such  a  subject.  We  are  in- 
clined to  bargain  for  a  round-table 
in  addition.  Comers  turn  people 
out,  and  put  people  out.  A  semi- 
circle round  the  fire,  with  your  feet 
on  the  fender  and  a  glass  of  old  port 
at  your  lips,  is  no  imperfect  enjoy- 
ment when  yule-logs  crackle  in  the 
grate,  and  merry  sayings  occur  to 
promote  digestion.  But  a  circle  of 
faces  round  a  haunch  of  venison,  a 
sirloin  of  beef,  or  even  a  saddle  of 
mutton,  reads  still  better  upon  paper, 
and  is,  in  reality,  much  to  be  pre- 
ferred. Only  take  care  how  you 
select  your  mends,  and  remember, 
above  all,  that  it  is  as  much  yonr 
duty  to  call  out  the  particular  tJenti 
of  your  iViends  by  ^our  own  skill  in 
conversation,  as  it  is  to  recommend 
your  own  or  ^our  cook's  superior 
skill  in  the  dishes  which  yon  set 
before  them.  We  have  often  thought 
that,  in  saying  to  one's-ielf,  "  WhtHO 
h»Tel"'i 


ahaUwehayel" 


"Whom  shall  wi 


1 846.] 


Dining  Out 


451 


ask  to  meet  himP**  it  would  be  in- 
finitely worth  one*8  while  to  turn  to 
or  repeat  a  very  characteristic  passage 
in  Goldsmith^s  unhappily-unnnished 
HetaUaUon^ — 

"If  OUT  landlord  supplies  us  witb  beef 

and  with  fish, 
Let  each  guest  bring  himself  and  be  brings 

the  best  dish  ; 
Oor  Dean  shall  be  TeDison  just  fresh  from 

the  plains. 
Our  Burke  shall  be  tongue  witb    the 

garnish  of  brains ; 
Our  Will  shall  be  wild-fowl  of  excellent 

flavour, 
And  Dick  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten 

the  savour  \ 
Our  Cumberland's  sweetbread  its  place 

sball  obtain, 
And  Douglas  is  pudding,  substantial  and 

plain  ; 
Oor  Garrick'a  a  salad, for  in  him  we  see 
Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltnesa  agree." 

This  plan  of  looking  upon  your 
friends  as  so  many  individual  dishes 
is  much  to  be  commended.  Then 
never  ask  more  than  two  great  talkers 
at  a  dinner  of  eight,  or  one  who  sits  and 
says  nothing,  and  only  opens  his 
mouth  to  relieve  his  plate.  Your 
great  talkers,  it  is  said,  are  generally 
the  shallowest  fellows  in  the  room ; 
but  your  solemn  spoons,  who  sit  and 
look  attention,  too  often  turn  out 
dead  bargains  at  the  end.  We  never 
see  a  heavy-looking  listener  in  a 
room,  but  we  think  of  the  capital 
story  in  the  Table- Talk  of  Cole- 
ridge,— 

*'  Silence  does  not  always  mark  wis- 
dom. I  was  at  dinner  some  time  ago  in 
eompaoy  with  a  man  who  listened  to  me 
and  said  nothing  for  a  long  time ;  bat  he 
nodded  his  head,  and  I  thought  him  in- 
telligent.  At  length,  towards  the  end  of 
the  dinner,  some  apple-dumpliogs  were 
placed  on  the  table,  and  my  man  had  no 
sooner  seen  them,  than  he  burst  forth 
with  '  lliem  *s  the  jockeys  for  me  ! '  1 
wish,"  adds  Coleridge, "  Spurabeim  could 
bare  examined  the  fellow's  head  ! " 

Give  us  a  oontradicter  after  thi& — 
none  of  your  mandarin-headed  lis- 
teners, nodding  assent  mechanically 
and  nothing  more. 

We  have  little  83rmpathy,  we  con- 
fess, with  the  gentleman's  predilection 
for  apple-dumplings ;  nor  are  we  in- 
clined to  indulge  in  Sir  Epicure 
Mammon's  liking  for  dishes  such  as 
LucuUus,  and  Lucullus  alone,  would 
have  had  at  table, — ^tongues  of  carps, 


dormice,  the  paps  of  a  pr^;nant  sow, 
the  beards  of  barbels,  mullets  soused 
in  high  country  -  wines,  peacocks* 
brains,  &c.  It  is  not  for  dishes  like 
these  that  we  should  be  tempted  to 
wish,  in  the  language  of  one  of  Ben 
Jonson*s  sons, — 

"  O  now  for  an  eternity  of  eating. 

Fool  was  he  that  wish*d  but  a  crane's 

short  neck ! 
Give  me  one,  Nature,  long  as  is  a  cable 
Or  sounding- line  \   and  all  the  way  a 

palate 
To  taste  my  meat  the  longer !  *' 

We  hardlv  know  where  we  could 
wish  this  witn  propriety,  unless  at  the 
Steaks  behind  the  Lyceum,  where, 
with  your  two  finger-sized  helpings 
at  a  time,  the  allowance  of  pickles  at 
the  fifth,  good  drink,  and  the  liberty 
of  unlicensed  speech,  you  are  tempted 
to  wish  for  a  lengthened  appetite  in 
lauffua^  such  as  Randolph  wrote  for 
his  Epicurean  Aoolastus. 

This  mention  of  the  Steaks  behind 
the  Lyceum — ^better  but  incorrectly 
known  as  the  Beef- steak  ClubH~rc- 
minds  us  not  inappropriately  that  we 
have  something  to  say  on  the  sub- 
ject of  chops  and  steaks  in  London. 
A  man  with  a  good  stomach  is  always 
happy  when  be  can  talk  of  meat. 
Another,  with  a  ruined  appetite, 
takes  pleasure  in  dwelling  on  the 
past — his  feats  of  stomach  in  his 
younger  years.  The  su^'ect  is  an 
interring  one.  Queen  £lizabeth*s 
maids  of  honour,  who  made  their 
breakfasts  of  rumps  of  beef,  would 
have  listened  with  greedier  ears  than 
usual  to  Rboina  when  she  talked  of 
steaks. 

People  who  dine  at  the  Albany 
Booms  in  Piccadilly,  at  the  Edin- 
burgh Castle,  in  the  Strand,  at  Han- 
cock's, in  Rupert  Street,  at  John-o*- 
Groats,  immediately  opposite,  and  at 
Vamey's,  in  Newcastle  Street,  seem 
to  satisfy  their  appetites  rather  unad- 
visedly. To  our  thinking  there  are 
no  places  like  Joe*s  in  Fmch  Lane, 
the  Cock  on  the  north  side  of  Fleet 
Street,  and  the  Rainbow  on  the  south, 
the  Three  Tuns  in  BillingHgate,  the 
Cheshire  Cheese  in  Wine  Office 
Court,  and  the  Blue  Posts  in  Corlr 
Street.  A  man  who  spends  a  wed 
in  London  on  his  own  resouioes 
not  do  better,  we  conceive,,; 
at  the  six  places  we  have 
making  his  attendance 


Dininff  OmI. 


■evnlb,  to  tlw  boow  h»  lilcn  tb« 
beti. 

A  chop  at  the  Cock  in  Fleet 
Street  !■  no  ever^'day  productioH; 
if  ODe  diop  ii  not  enougn,  order  by 
M  tneana  a  chop  and  muMge,  in  a 
chop  and  chop  to  follow;  or  flai^ 
off  with  a  Cbe»|iirc  rabbit  (we  adopt 
the  more  recent  spcUiug),  you  cannot 
go  wrong.  The  Btout  here  u  ex- 
ccUeoL  You  ace  only  triAing 
with  vour  appetite  if  you  aik  fat 
leM  tnan  a  tnunderer  the  fint  go. 
Always  drink  Cock  stout  ftom  the 
glass :  the  half-and-half  and  the  por- 
ter from  the  pewter.  We  ourselvea 
itriiik  half-and-half  u  less  heady, 
always  fiulihing  off  with  hB>f-a-pint 
of  porter,  in  tha  same  pint  pot, 
which  wa  take  as  a  kind  of  light- 
claret  after  dinner.  We  recommend 
the  nme  conrae  to  others.  William 
knew  our  ways,  and  Charles  is  get- 
ting Into  them.  We  are  inclined, 
however,  to  ^ve  our  more  particular 
directionsto  James,  who  hat  resigned 
the  jacket,  we  observe,  since  Reoina 
noticed  it  in  a  former  number.  We 
think  the  Cock  chops  superior  to  the 
steaks.  Mr.  Oolnett  should  look  a 
little  into  this.  Ben  at  "  the  Cheshire 
Cheese"  is  ^tting  the  start  of  him 
in  steaks;  indeed  13cn  directs  par- 
ticular attention  to  this  department 
of  his  house ;  but  more  of  Ben  anon 
when  we  come  to  speak  of  the  Che- 
shire Cheese.  Before,  however,  we 
pass  to  another  tavern,  let  us  recom- 
mend the  only  joint  they  condescend 
to  cook  at  tne  Cock — ribs  of  beef 
This  is  the  very  dish  that  Lvdgate's 
London  Lackpenny  licked  iiia  lips 

hyeil  m«  into  Ksl-Cliei>a  ; 
M  Ri)bi4   ii/'  lUft,   aud  miny  > 
Y»i 

oIKi  ibtf  eUtlared  oa  «  beapa  i 
ul|arp»,pype.(Oil  nioitndtjrs, 

'  Cockl  Mf  bi  Cock!'  scipft 

igau  d^  1 

ige  of  Jeqkea  aad  JHjyan  fi« 

en  nieil?  i 

ick  ofmony  I  mygLj  not  spcda." 

your  Monday's  dinner  with 
at  the  Cock.  Then  "  Yea  by 
ly  by  Cock,"  we  know  what 
K.  Yon  will  cab  it  out  of 
ay  to  try  the  chops  and 
leef  again.  Colnett'a  charge 
oint  is  eighteen -pence, 
inday  at  the  Cwk,  then  by 


[Apn1, 

•  ToMby  at  (W  Sainbow. 

sboot  six  o'deii,  ta  tiine  for 
:  jiMot.  Little  Arnnt  nader- 
stands  a  joint ;  if  yos  know  kirn 
well  let  him  cut  for  yon.  Doa't  lak 
for  a  chop  or  a  steak,  th^  aie  not  •> 
famed  in  the  art  of  cookug  them  it 
the  Kainbov  since  the  fat  cook  died, 
whose  full-len^h  portrait  decorates 
the  room  in  whicb  you  sit.  TheihMit 
here  is  as  good  as  it  is  at  the  Cock, 
though  people  aSect  to  percMTC  s 
difference,  the  aierest  imagination  in 
the  world.  You  may  orter  a  pisl 
to  b^in  with.  The  run  of  the  jiunt 
is  two  shillings.  We  are  lortj 
we  cannot  recommend  the  nbbiti. 
We  went  unknown,  like  Canning, 
into  con^puy  uul  got  a  yesteidsj't 
one  by  mistake.  We  refused  in 
pay  for  it;  and  Q\u  KlUsal  wu 
propeHy  accepted.  Perhaja  Mr.  Ar- 
gent has  rated  the  waiter  well  since 
we  were  there  last.  Will  our  friend 
J.  B.  (that  worthy  prop  of  the  Rain- 
bow about  six)  speak  to  Mr.  A:^t 
on  the  point  'f  His  word  will  csny 
weight. 

Wcdncaday,  we  recommend,  should 
be  set  apart  for  the  Cheshire  Che«e, 
with  a  party  of  sin,  though  four  will 
do.  The  pnde  of  the  Cheshire  Chet* 
is  a  beef-steak  pudding ;  and  Ben  has 
a  cook  who  understands  it  tho- 
roughly. However,  it  is  Ben's  look- 
ing on,  we  believe,  that  perfbcts  >!'■ 
Some  will  cxcl^m  that  a  beef-steak 
pudding  is  a  heavy  dish,  and  so  tit 
we  agree  with  them  when  they  con- 
fine tneir  cumpbint  to  the  article  u 
it  is  cooked  at  tonu.  At  Beu's  it  is 
a  very  diSevent  nta>t«c.  The  Kt&f* 
for  making  it  is  said  to  have  betoogw 
to  the  tribe  of  Ben  for  a  century  sad 
more.  The  fkther  of  all  the  Beni  is 
said  to  have  been  an  apprentice  to 
the  fatnpuB  Christopher  Kat,  whc 
made  the  celebrated  Eit-Kat  [ues,  i-' 
his  muttou-pies  were  called,  which 
e^d  pies  wi^ated  the  Kit-K»t  club, 
and  the  Kit- Kat  portraits.  It  ■«"' 
only 'fit  that  the  apprentice  dionlil 
excel  in  a  pudding,  when  his  in»*" 
ler  excelled  in  a  pie.  But  to  our 
tale.  You  cannot  haw  a  pudding 
unless  you  give  your  order  early- 
Ben'a  fiaoTV  closes,  we  ore  told,  at 
ten  A.M.  He  eould  not  conKien- 
tknisly,  he  says,  score  a  cuatomer  up 
after  that  hour.  A  bee#-Et«ak  puilding 
reftnires  time  to  make,  and  a  very 
long  lime  (Ben  never  esumeratts  the 


ia460 


IHrning,  Om#. 


458 


homn)  tabod.  Well,  we  will  sim- 
pose  th^  puling  ordered,  and  too 
dmner  hour  six.  Your  party  is  as- 
sembled; you  are  all  hunger  and 
expectation,  in  enters  Ben  with  Me 
pudding )  and  onl^  witness  the  eager 
watchihlness  of  his  eyes  as  he  scans 
the  party  round  fos  a  look  (ho  does 
not  want  words  at  such  a  time)  of 
**  Ben,  you  have  done  wonders — all 
right."  Now  mind  how  you  remove 
a  centre  from  the  lid,  and  have  the 
oysters  at  hand  ready  to  pop  in. 
Oysters  cook  sufficiently  well  with 
tl:ie  heat  of  the  pudding  they  are  put 
in.  Boil  them  in  the  puddmg  itself 
and  they  turn  out  tough  and  taste- 
less, tike  (in  shortX  so  manv  pieces 
of  leather.  Hie  removal  of  the  Ud 
is  a  work  of  some  nicety.  Only  bear 
what  Ben  has  to  say  on  this  point  1 
Now,  however,  it  is  time  to  remove 
the  lid  once  more,  the  oysters  are 
well  done ;  and  the  only  question  is 
who  shall  be  helped  first : — 

"  Fair  fa'  your  bonest  sonsie  face, 
Great  CuieAain  of  the  puddin'-race  ! 
A  boon  them  a'  ye  take  your  place, 

Paiuch,  tripe  or  thairm  ; 
Weel  are  ye  worthy  o*  a  grace 
As  land's  my  arm.*' 

This  saying  of  grace  is  by  no 
means  an  unnecessary  matter,  borne 
short  one  should  be  said  on  this, 
and  on  all  similar  occasions,  *'  as 
lang*s  my  arm,"  is  a  mile  too  long. 
BeauNash*sisnotabadone.  ^Come, 
gentlemen,  eat,  and  welcome.**  Better 
still  is  okl  Lady  Ilobart*!  grace. 
*'*'  Well,"  says  my  lady,  looking  anx- 
iously round  for  some  one  to  say 
grace  at  table,  ^  I  think  I  must  say 
as  one  dad  in  the  like  ease,  ^  God  be 
thanked,  nobody  will  say  grace.*"* 
This  was  said  a  century  and  a  half 
before  Sheridan  was  born. 

You  may  safely  say  grace  ever 
any  thing  that  Be&  serves  up.  It  is 
not,  however,  at  every  tavern  in 
London  that  you  may  with  any  thing 
like  common  prudence  ejaculate  a 
'» Thank  God**  fos  what  is  set  befove 
you.  Bo  not  forget  Mrs.  Johnsen^s 
memorable  saying  to  hev  husband, 
the  celebrated  "  Sara."  The  Doctor, 
though  always  complaining  about 
his  dinners,  never  omitted  to  "  Tliank 
God "  for  what  was  set  before  hkn. 


compuiinn  Dmamt  m  eownoa 
that  Mrs.  Johnson  at  last  called  to 
him  when  about  to  say  grace,  ^^  Nay, 
hold,  Mr.  JohasMi,  and  do  not  mase 
a  teee  of  thanking  QoA  fins  a  dinner 
which  in  a  few  minutes  you  will 
pronounce  not  eatable."  A  proper 
rebuke — and  so  the  Doctor  thought 
it. 

In  a  party  of  six  over  a  Beef- 
steak Fuddnig  (hang  it,  we  had 
nearly  written  the  naqie  of  the  pud- 
ding without  the  capital  letters  sq 
particularly  its  due)  great  case  should 
be  taken  to  select  the  most  impartial 
individual  of  the  company  for  the 
all4niportant  office  of  carver.  In  the 
distribution  of  a  Beef-steak  Pudding 
this  is  veiy  essential.  The  lid  is 
always  the  lightest  part  of  the  paste, 
and  the  most  d^^estibie ;  a  £ur  fhape 
of  this,  thoueh  of  the  size  of  hal^a-> 
crown,  is,  tnerefore,  due  to  every 
partaker.  Ihen  the  equal  distribu- 
tion of  the  better  portion  of  the  meat, 
of  the  gravy,  the  oysters, — yes,  and 
the  kidneys  too,  demands  the  scales 
of  Justice  hevself.  Then  an  expe- 
rienced carver  will  keep  something 
ffood  in  reserve  for  second  helpings. 
The  taste  i efine«  by  what  it  ieeds  on. 
Do  not,  therefore,  deal  too  lavishly 
at  first  in  the  very  pope's  eye  of  the 
pudding.  To  have  an  army  of  re- 
serve is  a  golden  maxim,  i  ou  may 
lose  a  whole  drcle  of  acquaintances 
by  your  manner  of  carving,  lie- 
member  the  fate  of  a  certain  Robert 
Sinclair,  who  used  to  sav  that  he  had 
thirty  friends  during  a  forti|ight%  re- 
sidence at  Harrogate,  and  lost  them 
all  in  the  carving  of  one  haunch  of 
venison. 

Tou  may  dine  on  Thursday  at  the 
Three  Tuns  m  BilUngsoate,  at  the 
ene^  or  at  the  four  o*cmck  fish  ordip* 
nary.    We  recommend  the  former, 
though  the  hour  is  an  early  one; 
but  it  is  for  this  reason,  tliat  Hm 
salesmen  of  the  market  oeneraUv  sit 
down  to  it,  and  the  fish,  we  hav^ 
always  thought,  is  a  shade  if  any 
thing  the  better.    We  are  howevoir 
assured,  that  this  is  not  the  case,  a»a 
Mr.  Simpson  indignantly  denies  t«« 
diffieience.    We  have  no  reason  r 
doubt  his  veracity,  and  the  ^^^^^^ 
may,  perhaps,  be  altogether  ^ 
aiy.  Let  the  difference  the» 


*  L'Estrange's  Collection  in  Thoois*  Anecdotes  and  Traditions. 
Camden  Society. 


454 


Dining  Out. 


[April, 


H  will,  the  foiir  o'dock  dinner  is  a 
efaesp  and  capital  one  at  double  the 
price  Mr.  Simpson  charges.  We 
Know  not  where  you  could  get  such 
another  dinner  for  eighteen-pence, 
or  even  for  three  times  the  sum. 
Think  of  a  fine  fish  course — a  noble 
cod,  or  salmon,  or  turbot  at  one  end; 
a  large  dish  of  fried  cod  at  the  other, 
with  fried  soles  and  fried  eels  in  the 
centre,  melted  butter,  soy,  and  an- 
ohoyy  sauces,  potatoes  and  bread  at 
pleasure. 

This  seems  more  than  enough  for 
the  money;  but  eighteenpence  pro- 
vides for  a  very  ^reat  deal  at  the 
Three  Tuns  in  Billing^^te.  The 
fiA  removed  (and  veiy  little 
goes  down),  there  is  a  capital  din- 
ner of  butcher*s  meat  and  gppeens 
— a  piece  of  roast  beef  at  one  end, 
and  a  boiled  leg  of  mutton,  or  some 
such  kind  of  dish,  at  the  other  — 
roast  at  the  head,  boiled  at  the  bot- 
tom, with  an  ample  dish  of  beef- 
steaks (tolerably  good,  too,)  in  the 
centre  of  the  table.  It  is  very  hard  if 
you  cannot  dine  with  such  a  fare  before 
you.  But  your  eighteenpence  is  not 
yet  exhausted :  there  is  cheese  (not 
^  pippins  and  cheese  **)  to  follow.  And 
all,  we  repeat,  for  eighteenpence! 
The  thing  is  marvellous.  There  are, 
however,  other  recommendations — 
the  water  which  is  placed  on  the 
table  in  a  row  of  hock-bottles  down 
the  middle  is  worthy  of  Hare  Ck>urt 
in  the  Temple,  or  of  Aldgate  pump, 
hard  by.  The  sherry,  too,  is  not 
amiss,    by   any   means,  for  tavern 

sherry;  and  the  punch But 

before  we  enlarge  upon  the  punch,  a 
few  rules  for  Uie  guidance  of  the 
stranger  who  dines  there  for  the  first 
time  may  be  found  of  service.  If  you 
wish  to  dine  at  on«,  take  your  seat  a 

Suarter  of  an  hour  before;  if  the 
ttle  transept  at  the  head  of  the  table 
is  taken  (and  plates  turned  over  are 
put  there  to  denote  when  it  is  en- 
caged) take  your  seat  a  little  lower 
down,  but  still  towards  the  h«id.  If 
you  arrive  late — and  three  minutes 
before  the  time  is  reckoned  late — 
seiae  a  Windsor-chair,  towards  the 
lower  end,  or  towards  the  very  centre 
of  the  table — you  are  near  the  main 
dishes  there,  x  ou  will  find  it  a  safe 
rule  if  you  are  at  the  foot  never  to 


ask  for  what  is  at  the  head,  or  at  the 
head  for  the  dish  in  active  opermtioo 
at  the  foot  Do  not  be  misled  be- 
cause many  at  table  drink  beer — 
never  swim  fish  in  beer;  ask  for 
half-a-pint  of  sherry,  and  if  yoe 
take  eels,  a  toothful  of  brandy  (the 
brandy  is  sent  round)  is  no  bad  se- 
curity from  after  disagreemeotB. 
With  your  cheese  ^  a  thumb  of  ale,** 
as  they  call  it,  is  far  from  bad. 

But  don*t  go  away.  Readjust 
yourself  in  your  Windsor  chair,  or- 
der a  glass  of  cold  punck,  seise  a 
cigar  or  a  clay,  and  play  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  at  the  Three  Tuns  in  Bil- 
ling9gate.  A  clay  seems  much  in 
favour.  The  Guy  Faux  lanthom  on 
the  table  is  a  kind  of  provocative  to 
take  one.  But  do  not  allow  the 
seductive  drinks  and  attractions  ^ 
this  Billingsgate  Castle  of  Indolence 
to  venture  on  a  second  glass  of  punch, 
or  you  will  find  some  difiiculty  when 
in  the  cold  air  to  preserve  your  ba- 
lance or  even  to  call  for  a  cab  to  take 
you  home.  The  celebrated  £ari  of 
Chesterfield  met  a  couple  of  chair- 
men carrying  a  portly  person  home 
to  his  lodgrmss  at  the  Bath.  The 
earl  thought  ne  recognised  a  friend 
in  the  drunkard  in  their  care.  He 
asked  them  who  they  had  with  them. 

"  Only  Mr.  Quin,  iny  lord,  who 
has  just  left  the  Three  Tuns.** 

''Left  the  Three  Tuns  !**  was  Lord 
Chesterfield's  reply.  ''  Gad  I  I  think 
old  John  Dory*  has  brought  one 
away  with  him.** 

Friday  we  will  set  aside  for  Joe*s 
in  Finch  Lane.  Here  the  pink  and 
perfection  of  a  dinner  is  half  a  steak 
and  half  a  steak  to  follow.  Yon 
have  the  advantage  in  winter  of  sit- 
ting near  the  fire,  and  of  seeing  yoar 
dinner  cooked  full  in  the  face  before 
you.  To  engoy  a  steak  thoroughly 
at  Joe*s  you  must  not  drink  his 
beer.  If  you  want  a  liquid  of  any 
kind,  half  a  glass  of  water  is  the  ut- 
most you  should  take.  The  steaks 
at  Joe  s  are  tender  and  full  of  gimvy 
(the  best  out  of  sight  in  London), 
you  ¥rill,  therefore,  want  scarcely  any 
thing  to  drink  while  your  pewter- 
plate  is  before  you.  But  tne  dish 
cleared  out,  take  our  advice, — and 
pay.  You  are  confoundedly  ^rsfy  1 
*-of  course  you  are.    Call  a  cab,  or 


*  Qttin,  tiM  actor,  here  spoken  of,  wm  so  fond  of  a  Jolin  Doiy  tliat  be  went  lo 
Plymotttli  (iken  a  diftealt  journey )  oa  purpose  to  lute  one  in  full  perfection. 


1 846.] 


Dining  Out. 


456 


step  into  an  omnibus,  and  tell  the 
man  to  put  you  down  at  the  Cock  at 
Temple  Bar.  Ten  minutes,  or  less, 
vrill  take  you  there,  and  then  —  a 
-whole  libation  of  half-and-half.  We 
can  picture  you  before  us,  lay- 
ing your  ears  down  at  it,  with 
the  bottom  of  the  pewter  in  the  air, 
and  a  *'  Thank  God,  a  good  dinner !  ** 
half  uttered  from  vour  lips.  Sup- 
pose, however,  anotner  course.  Take 
«  cab  (walking  is  out  of  the  question 
at  such  a  time),  and  tell  the  man  to 
drive  you  to  the  Shades  at  Tendon 
Bridge.  Half-a-pint  from  the  wood 
(imperial  measure)  is  no  bad  sauce 
to  a  steak  at  Joe's.  We  recommend 
port :  a  modicum  of  sherry  reminds 
us  too  forcibly  of  "the  vine^r-cniet" 
(a  pint  of  sherry),  to  which  James 
Smith,  of  the  Eejected  Addresses,  was 
reduced  bv  the  physicians,  who  wished 
to  keep  him  to  his  friends  a  little 
longer. 

If  you  cannot  find  a  friend  to  ask 
you  to  the  Steaks  (that  little  Escurial 
behind  the  Lyceum),  you  cannot  do 
better  than  try  a  west-end  dinner  on 
Saturday  at  the  Blue  Posts  in  Cork 
Street — Tom  Hill's  retreat,  when  he 
was  not  asked  out  by  others  or  by 
himself.  Do  not  confound  the  Blue 
Posts  in  Cork  Street  with  the  Blue 
Posts  in  the  Haymarket,  as  some 
have  done, — a  much  older  place,  it  is 
true  (orthodox,  too,  at  one  time,  for 
five  bishops  dined  here  together  in 
the  reign  of  James  11.),  but  poor  and 
i^eagre  in  comparison  with  HilFs 
last  quarters.  The  Saturday's  joint 
is  a  noble  piece  of  beef,  boiled  in 
Old-Bailey  fashion;  the  hour,  six; 
and  the  charge — but  the  charge  is 
high — comparatively  high.  A  sal- 
mon-steak and  soy  to  begin  with 
will  usher  in  the  beef  better  than 
any  thing  else  we  can  name — unless, 
perhaps,  a  fried  sole ;  but  of  this  we 
are  somewhat  doubtAil.  The  malt 
is  good,  nor  is  the  wine  indifferent. 
It  IS  wise,  however,  to  reserve  your- 
self for  the  Baked  Purch  (capital 
letters  again — ^it  well  deserves  it),  the 
envy  of  Ben  at  the  Cheshire  Cheese, 
and  not  thought  bad  by  the  cunning 
concocter  of  tne  article  at  the  Three 


Tuns  in  Billingsgate.  With  a  good 
foundation  of  beef,  and  the  useful 
precaution  of  not  mixing  your  li- 
quors, you  need  not  fear  the  least 
symptom  of  a  to-morrow's  headach. 
It  is  your  vile  practice  of  taking 
three  or  four  different  kinds  of  drinks 
at  a  meal  that  plays  the  deuce  with 
you  the  next  day.  Stick  to  one  or 
even  two  kinds  of  drinks,  and  you 
will  wake  like  a  lark  in  themommg, 
as  if  the  libation  of  last  night  was  a 
mere  dew-drop  in  its  effects. 

It  was  thought  a  piece  of  puppyism 
in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth  to 
call  for  the  bill  of  fare:  the  indi- 
vidual in  quest  of  a  dinner  entered 
the  larder,  and  took  a  survey  for 
himself.  A  good  soup  and  a  pullet 
was  thought  no  bad  dinner,  provided 
there  was  a  Sussex  wheat-ear  in  the 
house,  or  jacksnipes  so  fat  you  would 
think  they  had  their  winding-sheets 
on.  But  men  in  those  days  partook 
of  a  hearty  supper,— of  a  venison 
pasty,  as  Pepys  did,  or  a  roast  chine 
of  beef,  like  the  Duchess  of  Cleve- 
land. Supper  was  looked  upon  as  a 
sort  of  turnpike,  through  which  one 
must  pass  in  order  to  go  to  bed. 
Few  supped  as  lightly  as  Sir  Roger 
deCoverley:  ^' good  Cheshire  cheese, 
best  mustard,  a  golden  pippin,  and  a 
pipe  of  John  Sly's  best.^  We  feel 
assured,  should  the  time  revive  for 
inspectine  larders  and  rejecting  bills 
of  fare,  that  the  larder  of  the  Blue 
Posts  will  bear  inspection.  There  is 
always  more  (when  the  larder  is  at 
the  lowest)  than  Pope  conceived  was 
sufficient  for  a  dinner. 

How  will  the  reader  ^*  solemnise 
the  Lord's "  on  brocoli  and  mutton 
at  the  Blue  Posts  in  Cork  Street,  at 
ib.e  Cock,  at  the  Cheshire  Cheese,  or 
better  still  on  Sunday,  at  his  own 
fireside  ?  But  here  it  is  we  separate, 
not  without  a  maxim  (so  we  may 
safely  call  it)  from  the  great  moralist 
of  his  age :  "  Some  people  have  a 
foolish  way  of  not  mmding,  or  pre- 
tending not  to  mind,  what  they  eat. 
For  my  part,  I  mind  my  belly  very 
studiously,  for  I  look  u^Kin  it  that  he 
who  does  not  mind  his  belly  will 
hardly  mind  any  thing  else."* 


*  Dr.  Johnson. 


1846.] 


Vtioico  :  ar^  MewxArt  ofn  Pa§€, 


457 


life  of  Madrid,  ia  faiid  open  before 
us  with  amazing  truth  and  fidelity. 
Nor  is  it  merely  characters  and  per- 
sonages, general  or  individual,  tiiat 
are  iv^ll  portrayed, — as  the  japrandee, 
the  minister  of  state,  the  pnest,  the 
escmano^  the  banker,  the  bull-fighter, 
the  alguazil,  the  robber,  the  schem- 
ing courtezan,  the  honsekeeper  of 
the  curate,  the  man  of  man^  pro- 
jects,— but  scenery  and  locamyare 
painted  with  a  oorreetness  truly  mi- 
raculotis,  considering  that  Mr.  Red- 
ding has  never  visited  the  country. 
It  mav  be  answered  that  I^e  Sage, 
like  Mr.  Redding,  never  set  his  fSot 
in  Spain  (and  this  we  believe  to  be 
the  fact,  though  the  ^ntrary  is 
stoutly  maintained  by  the  Count 
Francois  de  Ncufth&tieau  and  Mon- 
sieur Harmois,  aUacM  of  the  Frefach 
embassy  at  Madrid) ;  but  then, 
though  Le  Sage*s  general  acquaint- 
ance with  the  habits  and  manners  of 
Spain  cannot  be  denied,  ,as  is  weU 
observed  by  Mr.  Ford  in  his  ex- 
cellent Haitdbook  of  Spaing  yet  he 
makes  many  mistakes  in  the  topo- 
graphy of  the  conntry  and  in  local 
descriptions.  Mr.  Reddinc,  however, 
appears  acquainted  with  the  rtirM  ««) 
TQ4ir«i  of  the  Iberian  Psuinsula.  Ia 
these  volumes  Velasco  assumes  many 
parts,  and  plays  them  all  amusingly, 
if  not  all  well.  He  is  boon  compan- 
ion of  a  monk,  the  friend  of  a  marquis, 
the  favoured  of  a  marchioness,  the 
secretary  of  a  council  of  ministers, 
the  companion  of  a  strolling  band  of 
gipsies,  a  staid,  loving,  married  man, 
settled  down  in  Valencia,  a  sorrow- 
ing Widower,  the  dupe  of  artful 
sharpers,  a  second  time  a  matried 
man,  and  a  place-holder  in  expecta- 
tion. These  varied  alternations  of 
fortune  open  to  us  new  views  and 
new  characters,  in  which  Jew  and 
^ipay  both  figure.  Velasco,  in  tell- 
ing his  own  story,  makes  the  most 
of  what  he  has  seen  and  observed. 
Sometimes  bis  adventures  are  but 
the  neg  on  which  he  hangs  a  sketch 
of  tne  manners  and  characters  of 
those  with  whom  he  comes  into  icon- 
tact— sometunes  they  afford  him  food 
Ibr  oimtemplation  to  the  indulgence 
of  sweet  or  bitter  fancy. 

The  characters  are  varied  and  for 
the  most  part  spiritedly  drawn,  llietie 
is  love  and  passion,  tts  a  matter  of 
course,  in  a  liovel  where  the  scene  Is 

laid  iaSpnii^  Imt  BtttlK^  the  lote 


nor  the  j^asnon  overlie  or  encumber 
the  solid  good  settse  and  sharp  satii^ 
of  the  book.  Every  p4ge  makes  it 
plain  to  the  reader^  apprehension 
that  he  is  dealing  with  a  sharp  ob- 
server of  the  world,  and  one  who 
looks  through  the  deeds  of  men  with 
an  open  and  keenly  discerning  eye. 
The  tone  of  the  novel  is  occasionally 
bitter  and  sarcastic,  sometimes  sad 
and  mournful,  but  wiUiout  any  sickly 
sentimentality,  and  most  fluently 
indicative  of  an  ardent  and  unsns- 
nicious  nature,  fhll  of  genuine  good 
reeling  good  nature,  and  good  sense. 
Nor  are  these  volumes  without  a 
political  tendency.  Some  of  the 
sharpest  strokes  of  satire  are  directed, 
through  the  bodies  of  Spanisli  states* 
men,  bishops,  and  leaders  of  parties, 
against  men  in  high  places  at  home. 
One  of  the  best  drawn-characters 
in  the  book  is  the  Conde  de  Guipus- 
coa,  and  who  does  not  as  he  reads 
see  that  a  certain  ex^Chancellor  has 
sat  for  the  portrait  ? 

"  Tbe  confidence  and  the  fluency  ot* 
language  at  tbe  disposal  of  tlie  Conde  de 
Guipuacoa,  tbe  last  being  the  result  of 
study,  joined  with  natural  aptitude,  were 
great.  Presumptuously,  aspiring  after 
superiority  in  every  bntnch  of  knowledge, 
he  failed  to  be  profound  in  any — occasion- 
ally blundering  upon  all.  His  manner 
was  ungraceful.  Impetuous,  egotistic, 
insolent,  vituperati?e,  unscrupulous,  his 
oratory  shewed  no  repose  in  its  brea'thless 
denunciations.  None  of  the  haHowed  in- 
spiration thai  dignify,  no  ray  of  genfus 
broke  in  upon  the  intense  selfishness  or 
illumined  the  lurid  virulence  by  which  it 
was  characterisied.  Evel*  resonant  with 
invective,  3ret  marked  by  no'  origiDsHty  of 
thought,  he  staKled  his  auditors  by  tbe 
wonderful  compleiity  and  involutioii  of 
his  language,  which  it  would  seem  he 
himfelf  deemed  the  most  effective  re- 
source of  eloquence  when  united  with 
spleen  and  Iferocity  of  unconfronted  de- 
clamation. Cold  nnd  calculating  himself, 
his  eloquente  could  not  be  wholly  terihed 
the  reflexion  of  his  own  nature,  for  that 
n-as  vehement  and  headstrong.  The 
deep  things  bf  the  sou),  the  developement 
of  which  speaks  the  presence  of  inspirs. 
tion  in  the  orator,  he  never  exhibited,  for 
be  could  not  impart  that  he  did  not  feel. 
Nor  did  he  ever  expatiate  in  tbe  regions 
of  tranquil  beauty,  sounding  the  notes  that 
touch  the  finer  chorda  of  the  humar 
heart,  since  they  vibrate  sympatiiiat 
which  he  was  a  stranger. 

*'  Nor  did  he  ever  amend  one  ertMif 
by  an  ikppeal  to  the  kindly  feeUiijf 


458 


Velasco ;  or,  Memoirs  of  a  Page. 


[April, 


common  humanity.  The  grim  hyena,  not 
the  lordly  lion,  was  his  emblem.  Earnest, 
fierce,  revengeful,  he  contemplated  bis 
prey  from  the  lurking  ambush  where  he 
considered  only  bow  he  might  inflict 
yengeance,  not  secure  conqueat.  Victory 
to  him  was  secondary.  His  triumph  was 
to  stride  over  the  field  insulting  and 
mangling  the  fallen — crushing  and  mnsli- 
ing  the  hone  and  integument  with  the 
same  indiscriminating  fury — an  execu- 
tioner ut  tho  wheel,  not  the  hero  of  bon- 
curable  combat.  The  diamemberment  of 
a  butterfly  or  the  perpetration  of  a  Itomi- 
cide  were  to  him  an  equal  effort,  accom- 
plished under  tbe  blind  violence  of  self- 
willed  uncontrol.  Before  his  obliquitous 
temper,  the  favoured  of  one  hour  were  the 
hated  of  the  next :  he  thus  became  the 
doubted  of  all  men. 

"There  was  neither  conscience  nor 
conduct  in  his  rancour ;  his  aspirations, 
however  plausibly  designed  to  indicate 
disinterestedness,  ended  in  self-gratifica* 
tion.  His  diurnal  bearing  baffled  the 
conjecture  of  the  most  experienced.  The 
harsh,  inconsistent,  tortuous,  contradic- 
tory, protracted,  rugged,  and  self-suffi- 
cient  all,  were  adopted  by  turns  in  knot- 
ting the  meshes  with  which  he  ensnared 
his  prey.  Like  the  black  coucbant  spider, 
he  pounced  upon  hij  unconscious  victim 
that  had  no  expectation  of  being  assailed. 
Neither  the  joys  nor  sorrows  of  otbeiv 
were  his.  Envious  of  all  superiority,  the 
ambition  of  mere  notoriety  engrossed  his 
soul,  and  led  him  to  play  a  thousand  fan- 
tastic tricks." 

The  character  of  Llenjaro,  bishop 
of  Badajos  in  the  West,  bears  also  an 
English  application,  for  Avhich  the 
practised  r^er  will  not  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  fix  on  an  original  in  our  own 
dav  and  in  our  own  land. 

The  character  of  the  Prioailo  (a 
word  which  Mr.  Redding  scenis  to 
think  means  prime  minister,  though  it 
in  reality  means  favourite,  the  equi- 
valent for  prime  minister  in  Spanish 
lieing  Presidente  del  Consejo,  y  Secre* 
tario  de  Estado  y  del  Despacho  Uni' 
versed)  y  we  recommend  to  the 
especial  attention  of  Mr.  Benjamin 
Disraeli,  as  it  may  afford  even  him 
fresh  illustrations  of  the  character  of 
a  living  premier  not  unworthy  of  his 
attention.  In  truth,  these  volumes 
have  as  practical  and  political  an 
application  as  either  Caningeby  or 
Sybil,  though  the  satire  be  not  so 
unmistakeably  pointed.  But  there  is 
in  them  a  mtutitude  of  better  things 
than  politics.  The  follies  and  vices, 
the  cant,  the  hypocriay,  the  money- 


seeking,  money- worshipping,  sool-de- 
hamng  spirit  of  our  age,  are  vigor- 
oudy  lashed,  and  one  rises  firom  the 
perusal  of  VeUuco  persuaded  that  the 
writer  is  honestly  indignant  and  in 
earnest.  We  have  said  that  there  is 
now  and  then  a  dash  of  sadness  in 
the  narrative,  but  this  never  deepens 
into  gloom  or  sombreness,  but  takes 
a  mournful  and  tender  hue.  How 
many  of  us  are  there,  alas !  who  have 
let  the  fair  occasion,  which  would 
have  made  us  something,  go  for  ever 
by  in  life !  On  such  minds  the  fol- 
lowing remarks  will  strike  a  painful 
chord: — 

"  There  are  fatalities  in  the  course  of 
human  life  which  carry  us  into  far  wan- 
dering paths,  and  into  realms  where.  like 
Israers  children  in  the  desert,  we  enter 
but  to  become  bewildered  and  to  regret, 
to  mourn  opportunity  passed  by  without 
notice,  and  the  career  that  brings  upon 
the  dark  closing-in  of  life,  repenbioce 
unillu mined  by  hope,  and  sadness  that 
joy  never  for  a  moment  irradiates.  What 
consolation  is  it  that  thia  is  the  bctied 
way  of  the  multitude,  and  that  experience 
comes  only  when  ita  benefits  are  uDavail- 
ableV' 

There  are  also  here  and  there 
*^wise  saws"  and  reflections  which 
have  occurred  to  all  of  us  in  onr 
passage  through  the  world,  whether 
it  may  have  been  our  fate  to  wear  a 
black  coat  or  a  red.  Wlio  that  has 
had  a  temporary  misundentandine 
or  a  fatal  break  with  a  former  friend 
but  has  said  again  and  again  with 
Velasco? — 

"  Among  the  most  painful  things  in 
human  experience  are  those  self-accose- 
tions  that  arise  when,  having  lost  a  frieiMi, 
we  recall  the  circumstances  in  which  we 
were  wanting  towards  his  friendship,  we 
feel  that  now  his  constancy  of  regard  b 
beyond  a  doubt,  and  the  seal  put  opoe 
his  virtue,  we  bear  a  load  of  unanticipated 
debt  which  we  cannot  discharge  to  hia 
heirs." 

The  episode  of  Doiia  Juana,  and 
the  sojourn  in  the  vale  of  Almanana, 
in  the  sweet  kinsdom  of  Valencia, 
prove  that  Mr.  Aedding  poaaesaes 
not  only  powers  of  vigorous  thought, 
but  of  eloquent  expreasion.  In  this 
part  of  the  work  there  is  disclosed  a 
sympatliv  for  all  that  is  noble  and 
botutiful  in  nature,  and  a  relish  (or 
the  calm  tranquillity  of  country  lilSe, 
whi(^  one  reads  with  pleasoiti  aflcr 


1846.] 


Velasco ;  or.  Memoirs  of  a  Page. 


459 


8o  much  pungent  satire  has  been 
exhausted  on  the  vices  and  follies  of 
cities  and  towns.  The  following 
description  of  Valencia —  of  that 
hanpy  provmce,  yielding  in  fertility 
and  delight  to  none,  and  in  the 
huerta  of  which  the  Moors  placed 
their  paradise,  is  wonderfully  accu- 
rate. Over  this  happy  land  it  was 
that  the  children  **  or  Afric^s  burning 
Bands  "  imagined  heaven  to  be  sus- 
pended, and  that  a  portion  of  it  had 
fallen  down  on  euih.  Cohan  hie 
cectdisse  putes. 

"  We  ginnced  awhile  at  the  country 
beneath  and  around  over  the  whole  ho- 
rizon, before  we  descended  the  hill  to 
our  peaceful  dwelling,  which  looked  from 
thence  like  the  snug  nest  of  tome  gentle 
bird.  What  a  garden  of  beauty  was  un- 
veiled towards  Valencia!  one  immense 
grove  of  rich  foliage  in  marquetry ;  among 
which,  thickly  sown,  peered  TtUages, 
monasteries,  hamlets,  fields  in  rich  cul- 
tivation, and  a  well*populated  district, — 
cypresses,  mulberry .  trees,  algarrobas, 
oaks,  palms,  and  every  variety  of  tree, 
intermingled  with,  or  divided  by  mea- 
dows  kept  green  by  channels  of  water, 
ibat  looked  like  delicate  veins  of  silver 
circulating  fertility  over  the  smiling 
land ;  while  on  the  east  the  ocean  spread 
beneath  a  plain  of  sapphire  in  magnitude 
of  beauty." 

The  following  extract  must  be  our 
last.    It  contains  pithy  advice  for  a 

E inter,  whether  that  painter  be  £ng- 
h,  Spanish,  Flemish,  or  Italian : — 

"  *  You  have  improved  rapidly,  senor,' 
said  my  master ;  '  you  will  soon  be  an 
excellent  artist.  I  would  fain  give  3roa 
a  few  infallible  rules  for  success  in  art. 
Remember  that  the  first  object  of  a 
painter,  like  that  of  a  player,  is  to  please 
that  he  may  live.  Never  suffer  the  desire 
of  excellence  to  stifle  the  chance  of  profit; 
never  paint  nature  as  you  see  it  in  pure 
truth  ;  truth  is  prejudicial  in  the  sight 
of  the  world  of  fiubion;  embellish  na- 
ture ;  make  ugliness  comely;  think  only 
of  effect ;  mend  the  features  of  your 
sitters ;  diminish  splay  feet,  whiten  red 
hands,  correct  a  smister  squint;  in  all 
things  follow  the  world,  never  attempt 
to  lead;  paint  in  the  style  of  fashion's 
f:ivourites;  draw  females  from  tire- wo- 
men's shapes  rather  than  those  of  an- 
tiquity; let  your  beauties  be  meretri- 
cious'; make  a  boorish  grandee  look 
lordly,  and  stamp  the  face  of  folly  with 
the  expression  of  high  intellect, — the 
fashionable  style  of  portrait -painting 
being  but  the  art  of  lying  made  visible. 
vol..  XXXXU.  KO,  CXCVI. 


In  fancy  or  landscape  you  may  be  less 
particuur;  but  beware  of  too  great  a 
fidelity  in  imitation ;  taking  care  that  your 
work  shall  be  underetood  as  something 
to  which  the  vulgarity  of  nature  has  not 
yet  attained, — something  that  soars  high, 
the  poetry  rather  than  the  prose  of  the 
pencil.     Let   every  scene   blase  with 
colour.    Your  gipsies  must  be  ladies  and 
your  ladies  queens ;  and  be  sure  to  mince 
up  their  feet  a  la  Chinoim  ;  make  kennel 
girls  Hebes;  and  if  the  beggar's  gar- 
ments be  ragged,  take  care  they  exlubit 
no  trace  of  a  atain :  represent  them  fresh 
from   the  washer-women ;  no  intrusive 
dirt ;  the  world  must  not  be  shocked  by 
objects  of  poverty,  as  they  really  exist ; 
touch  low  subjects  up  a  little,  therefore, 
after    the    imagination,  accommodating 
them  to  what  every-day  minds  best  to- 
lerate :  elevate  even  monarchs ;  have  no 
fixed  principle  in  choosing  fancy  sub- 
jects, but  observe  what  is  toe  passion  for 
the  bour,«i-the  times  and  rapt  feelings 
of   Raphael  and  Murillo  have  passed 
away.    Is  our  holy  church  in  danger, — 
take  for  your  subject  some  martyr  under- 
going torture  ;  or  is  the  political  horizon 
clouded,— select  from  the  Old  Testament 
tome  touching  subject  analogous  to  the 
crisis;  it  is  wonderful  what  may  be  done 
in  this  way  by  metaphorical  subjects : 
Spain  made  Israel,  and  our  sacred  king 
represented  as  David  or  Solomon.     Is 
there  a  fire  in  the  village  or  town, — touch 
it  off  directly ;  an  epidemic  raging  natu- 
rally points  out  the  plague,  with  its  ter« 
rible  details,  as  a  good  speculation.  Paint 
kings  and  princes,  courtiers  and  para- 
si  tes,*.tb6  sale  of  such  subjects  is  mora 
certain  still :  a  suicide,  especially  that  of 
a  couple  of  lovers,  ia  an  excellent  sub- 
ject, when  it  becomes  a  matter  of  general 
convenation;  but  your,  own  observation 
will  be  the  best  guide,  as  circumstances 
turn  up,  in  operating  in  this  essential 
matter,   as   it   affects   srt.     Never    be 
ashamed  to  praise  your  own  work,  if 
others  will  not;  by  this  means  your  pic- 
tures will  be  secure  of  some  commendation, 
but  while  you  do  this,  be  careful  never 
to  praise  the  works  of  a  contemporary.' 


1 1» 


There  are  errors  in  this  work, 
some  of  which  must  be  laid  to  the 
printer,  but  others  of  which  are 
Mr.  Redding^s  own.  The  word  majo, 
for  instance  Twhich  Mr.  Redding  m- 
variably  spells  mayo),  is  render^  as 
bully,  whereas  it  means  spruce,  well- 
dressed  dandy.  Oarrdcha,  a  javelin, 
is  also  invariably  written  garroca, 
by  Mr.  Redding.  It  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  find  in  the  spot  in  which 
Mr.  Redding  gives  Yelaaco  a  patQ^ 
of  henigos  any  thing  of  the  soil* 

H  H 


460 


Female  Authorth^. 


[Apta, 


The  beiHgoi,  a  sort  of  bream,  are 
found  at  Suances,  bbout  a  lea^e 
fVom  Santillaua.  The  word  beoSii- 
lerot,  whicli  ia  not  Spauuli,  is  nied 
for  bandolh-o,  a  hwhwajman;  and 
Mr.  R.  speHki  of  tie  aquonUnte  of 
Madrid  a*  delicious,  when  erer;  one 
who  has  Dude  a  Bojonm  in  that 
capital  IcDOWB  there  is  Dot  a  drop  of 
good  brandy  to  be  had  for  love  or 
moneT.  But  these  are  venial  fknlta. 
It  DOS  )>een  objected  to  Mr.  Red- 
ding by  nearly  alfhls  critics,  that  in 
these  volumes  he  has  closely  imitated 
Le  Sa^e.  We  cannot,  for  the  life  of 
U*,  be  induced  to  think  so.  VeloMco 
is  indeed  a  novel  of  adventure,  and 
a  picture  of  manners,  and  in  so  far 
it  resembles  Oil  Blot  as  Maeedon 
resembles  Monmouth,  because  there 
is  an  M  in  both  ;  but  neither  in 
structure,  in  style,  in  episode,  in 
plot,  is  there  the  least  resemblance. 
There  is  life,  and  movement,  and 
colouring  in  Oil  Blot,  and  there  is 
life,  and  movement,  and  oolooriug  is 


VAuco;  bnt  this  arises  fran  the 
nature  of  the  stoTj  rather  than  fnm 
any  spirit  of  imitation,  libenl  or 
servile.  The  manner  of  Mr  Rei^ne 
is  oceasioDally  h  ard,  dry ,  and  crabbed, 
hat  his  style  is  withal  dear,  pun, 
and  idiomatic,  and  modelled  tome- 
what  upon  the  racy  Saion-£ii£)i>l> 
ofDeFoe.  The  manner  of  USige 
is  never  either  dry  or  hard,  and  there 
is  in  the  structure  of  hn  pbrase^  M 
well  as  in  the  tone  of  hb  thonsfat,  * 
mode  and  a  fashion  ermnentlyGiliic. 
Mr.  Kedding's  manner  is  not  GtUi^ 
but  Saxon.  Algo  va  de  Pedn  a 
Pedro.  There  ia  a  difference,  there- 
fore, between  Tctcr  and  Peter— be- 
tween Alain  Retii  GObitu  Lt  Sagt 
and  Cyrus  Veltuco  Rattre  Bedding. 
We  always  like  to  i«ad  an  old  dotcI 
of  Le  Sage's,  and  we  should  have  no 
objection,  if  Cyrus  wonld  again  tate 
pen  in  hand,  to  read  a  new  one  of 
the  brave  old  veteran  whose  p»gM 
have  beguiled  the  ides  of  this  melm- 
choly  March. 


FEMALE  AVTHOHBHtP. 


In  a  cheerful,  pleasant  apartment, 
overlooking  a  garden  rich  in  summer 
beauty,  sat  two  ladies  engaged  in  a 
conversation,  apparently  ver^  in- 
teresting to  both.  The  one, — it  was 
the  lady  of  the  house, — was  young 
and  fkirj  she  wore  her  hair  simply 
braided  above  her  beautiful  brow.; 
her  dark  cyee  now  sparkled  with  in- 
teltigcnce,  now  beamed  with  tender- 
ness, and  the  smile  that  played  round 
ber  mouth  vaa  lull  of  arch  meaning. 
The  second  lady  was  many  years 
older  than  her  companion,  and  she 
bore  even  in  her  countenance  traces 
of  care, — long- past  care  perhaps, 
though  it  had  Icfl  its  token  with  her 
for  ever.  The  two  Mends  had  much 
to  say  to  each  other,  for  tbc^  hod 
been  parted  for  years,  and  in  the 
interval  the  younger  ladv  had  passed 
from  the  gaiety  of  girlnood  to  the 
led  life,  and 
r  wife  and 
t  of  deeper 
old  friend. 
I  over  her, 

0th«  lady 


was  less  altered,  for  she  had  leamei 
her  lesson  of  life  early,  and  since  ibeo 
her  outward  circumstances  had  <»" 
fercd  little  variety.  Hers  was  a  muid 
of  a  high  order,  and  therefore  it  d« 
advanced  in  knowledge  and  in  'U' 
dom,  but  there  were  not,  as  in  the 
case  of  her  companion,  new  f^"^ 
developed,  new  affections  awakenw 
toeitistence.  yhewasatillunmariwl 
and,  as  it  seemed,  perfecUy  Mlisnw 
with  ber  lot. 

Mrs.  Vemer,  for  so  the  youi«M 
lady  was  called,  had  expatiated  on  tn« 
eiceltencc  of  her  husband  and  the 
sweetness  of  her  children  "**  ? 
warmth  of  eloquence  very  delightnu 
to  her  hearer. 

"But  there  is  another  sobjot  vciy 
interesting  to  me,  which  yon  \f^ 
not  yet  mentioned,  my  dear  M"- 
Vemer,"  said  the  elder  lady,  ("^'^ 
we  will  call  Min  Merton),  when  « 
length  there  waa  a  pause  in  ""^ 
conversation.  "When  we  parted  jw 
were  only  becoming  aware  "^.J^ 
powers  with  which  you  were  gi"^' 
and  now  you  are  an  aathwe* 
Well  X  remembw  the  rtrenge  ne* 


1 846.] 


Female  Authorskijh 


46i 


delight  y<m  betrayed,  and  how  you 
seemed  to  glonr  in  the  wealth  of  mind 
you  had  but  then  known  yourself  to 
possess !  Have  you  found  all  the  hap- 
piness you  expected  in  your  new 
occupation?" 

**  All,  and  more  than  all,"  replied 
Mrs.  Vemer .  "  The  wild  triumpnant 

fladness  of  the  time  to  which  you 
ave  referred  may  have  eivea 
place  to  calmer  and  humbler  feennss, 
but  I  regret  neither  the  time  nor  the 
labour  Inave  bestowed  in  endeavour- 
ing to  bring  nearer  to  perfection  the 
faculties  wherewith  Goa  has  endowed 
me." 

"  I  rejoice  to  hear  you  speak  thus, 
though  I  am  not  surprised,  said  Miss 
Merton.  "  And  yet  1  have  sometimes 
dreaded  that,  with  your  keen  sensi- 
bilities and  earnest  feelings,  there 
might  be  much  to  wound  you  in  the 
path  you  have  chosen." 

"No,  no,  my  dear  friend,"  replied 
Mrs.  Vemer,  smiling,  "my  dis- 
tresses have  been  quite  of  a  dftPerent 
kind,  and  in  no  way  sentimental.  I 
could  be  pathetic  on  the  trials  of  a 
young  author, — I  mean  an  author  in 
a  small  way^  like  myself,  for  instance, 
—who  in  innocency  of  heart  and  not 
without  enthusiasm,  follows  litera- 
ture from  pure  affection." 

"I  diould  like  to  hear  some  of 
these  distresses,"  remarked  Miss  Mer- 
ton. 

"Alas!  my  trials  began  almost 
from  the  day  in  which  a  whisper 
arose  that  I  wrote.  I  was  very 
young,  aud,  as  you  said  just  now,  I 
gloried  in  my  new  discovery  of 
powers  which  I  flattered  myself  were 
not  quite  common.  Stranse  to  say, 
almost  every  body  who  spoke  to  me 
did  write  (especially  in  verse),  had 
written,  or  covld  torite  if  he  chose  it. 
The  most  dismal-lookins  woman  I 
knew  put  on  a  bashful  air,  and  told 
mc  '  sne  too  wrote,  but  it  was  in  the 
comic  style.*  Another  person  told 
me  of  a  young  lady  who  ^  never  gave 
away  a  pincushion  without  a  copy  of 
verses  going  with  it!'  Conceive 
how  humbled  I  felt,  for  it  required 
something  as  large  as  an  iceberg  or  a 
ship  to  inspire  me." 

"And  tnis  was  your  first  trial?*' 

"  To  be  sure  it  was,  and  a  severe 
trial  too,  for  I  began  to  think  that  my 
love  of  versifying  was  but  a  feeling 
common  to  the  whole  world,  and  that 
I  was  very  foolish  to  let  it  engross  so 


muchofmytimeandtboughts.  How- 
ever, somewhat  crest-fallen,  yet  not 
altogether  discouraged,  I  wrote  on. 
Then  the  advice  l^gan.  Oh!  tile 
advice, — ^the  advice  \ — ^I  do  think  that 
it  is  the  worst  trial  of  all." 

"  But  what  sort  of  adviee  ?" 

"  I  mean  adviee  from  people  who 
understood  nothing  of  the  matter  in 
question.  My  friends,  in  their  affec- 
tion and  pride,  shewed  my  composi- 
tions. Said  one, '  There  is  too  much 
sadness  in  them ;  let  her  write  in  a 
more  lively  strain.*  Another,  *Why 
does  she  not  write  sacred  poetry?* 
To  such  people  as  these,  tiie  power  of 
composing  is  no  more  than  a  power 
of  stringing  words  together.  Tell 
them  that  you  can  write  only  accord- 
ing to  the  extent  and  nature  of  your 
talents,  and  they  do  not  understand 
you,  and  what  they  cannot  under- 
stand, of  course  they  will  not  believe. 
Together  with  the  advisers  I  would 
class  the  suggesters  of  subjects,  who 
favour  me  with  a  fact  or  anecdote 
which,  according  to  them,  *  might, 
with  my  talent,  he  made  into  a  beau- 
tiful poem:*  even  as  they  would 
sketch  a  bunch  of  flowers  to  send  to 
a  manufacturer,  thinking  that  with 
his  experience  he  miffht  make  a  beau- 
tiful shawl,  taking  their  sketch  as  his 
model.  Some  would  have  me  turn 
into  rhyme  the  prose  compositions  of 
another  person.  In  short,  the  advice 
and  suggestions  of  this  kind  which  I 
have  received  might  fill  a  volume." 

"  And  you  have  never  attended  to 
either  ?"  said  Miss  Merton. 

"Never.  I  cannot  accuse  myself 
of  that,  at  any  rate.  Now  the  very 
people  to  whom  I  allude  are  in  many 
mstances  persons  of  good  sense,  and 
certainly  prompted  by  the  kindest 
feelings  towards  me,  and  yet  in  this 
instance  they  seem  to  me  to  display 
a  strange  want  of  judgment.** 

"I  should  think,**  remarked  Miss 
Merton,  "that  nothing  could  more 
effectually  prevent  your  bein^  in- 
spired by  a  subject  tluin  the  having  it 
suggested  to  you." 

" Certainly,"  replied  Mrs.  Vemer; 
"  and  not  merely  suggested,  but  adorn- 
ed perhaps  with  a  few  reflections 
whioi,  it  is  thought,  might  be  made 
beautiful  in  verse.  Then  there  are 
advisers  of  another  kind, — adviseni 
whose  views  are  bounded  by  calcula- 
tions of  pecuniary  advantage.  *  Imitate 
Miss  So-and-so,*  says  one,  *herspirite4 


462 


Female  Authorship, 


[April, 


MDgs  sell  well.  *  '  Ton  will  not  find 
your  Btjle  of  poetry  popular,*  wys 
another;  *I  reoommend  you  to  wnte 
in  the  style  of  such  a  person,  whose 
works  hare  paid  well.*  Now  if  those 
rosy  children  you  saw  this  morning 
were  starving,  it  mi^ht  be  my  duty, 
and  certainly  should  be  my  endea- 
vour, to  earn  every  fiurthing  I  could 
for  them,  even  by  becoming  a  mere 
imitator  of  others,  but  not  being  now 
obliged  to  act  upon  mercenary  mo- 
tives, I  certainly  shall  write  m  my 
own  style." 

"  You  reminded  me  just  now,"  said 
Miss  Merton,  ^*of  the  story  of  a  lady 
who,  having  invited  Mathews,  the 
comedian,  to  amuse  a  party,  and  find- 
ins  to  her  disappointment  that  he 
talked  only  like  other  people,  sent 
her  little  girl  to  him  to  say,  ^  Mamma 
says,  if  you  please,  sir,  will  you 
ll>^n  to  be  funny  ? ' " 

*'I  have  often  thought  of  it,  I  assure 
you.    Now  our  ffood  friends  would 
never  think  of  telling  Dr.  Chalmers 
that  he  would  do  well  to  imitate  the 
style  of  the  Pickwick  Papers,  nor  pro- 
bably would  they  tell  Wordsworth 
that  if  he  wrote  in  the  style  of  Horace 
Bmith,  his  works  would   be  more 
generally  read.    They  can  feel  that 
such  advice  would  be  useless,  and 
that  something  more  than  disinclina- 
tion would  prevent  its  beingfollowed 
by  these  great  geniuses.     JSut  they 
will  not  let  us,  little  stars,  possess  our 
small  talents  in  peace ;  they  will  not 
let  us  *  shine  in  our  place,  if  shine 
we  can;  they  will  not  understand 
that  wc  cannot  change  the  nature  of 
our  minds.    Why  must  we  try  *  to 
be  i\inny,*  if  Heaven  has  made  us 
grave  ?    Why  will  they  not  let  us 
obey  the  impulses  and  promptings  of 
'r  own  hearts  and  minds,  without 
eying  any  advice  of  theirs  can 
ce  gay  what  nature  has   made 
?    It  is  strange,"  she  continued, 
r  musing  a  few  moments,  *'how 
irely  involuntary  appear  all  the 
jrts  of  the  imagination.  Suddenly, 
jrhapsi  when  awake   at  night,  a 
icene,  a  story,  will  rise  upon  the 
mind,  complete  in  all  its  parts,  known 
and  understood  in  a  moment,  and 
clothed  in  a  freshness  and  beanty  that, 
alas  I  arc  dimmed,  if  not  lost,  m  the 
after-effort  to  speak  our  vision  in 
words.'* 

"I  should  like  to  know,"  observed 
"  Merton,  "  what  would  be  your 


own  advice  to  one  in  whom  you  dis- 
covered a  talent  Cbr  original  writingr 

^  I  would  say  to  such  an  one/'  re- 
plied Mrs.  Yemer,  ^^  Cultivate  your 
mind  and  store  it  with  information  to 
the  utmost  of  your  power  and  op- 
portunity. Bead  much  and  carefully, 
but  never  with  a  view  to  imitatioo. 
Never  write  but  from  the  spontaneous 
impulse  of  your  own  mind,  UU' 
shackled  by  recommendations  and 
advice  as  to  style  or  subject ;  and  be 
patient  with  critics,  even  the  most 
unwise.*" 

*'  This  last  would  appear  a  very 
necessary  caution,  to  juiue  by  all  you 
have  said  of  your  triab,"  observed 
Miss  Merton,  smiling.  ^  Remember- 
ing how  warmly  indignant  you  used 
to  be  at  ignorant  criticism  of  the 
authors  you  loved,  I  should  hardly 
venture  to  be  critical  on  your  own 
works.*' 

"Ah !  you  used  to  laugh  at  me,  as 
my  husband  does  now,  for  taking  any 
impertinence  offered  to  my  fiivourite 
books  quite  as  a  personal  affront,** 
said  Mrs.  Vemer  gaily.  "  However, 
with  respect  to  myself,  I  do  not  mind 
even  useless  criticism.  Of  coarse  a 
good  deal  is  passed  on  my  produc- 
tions,— ^it  is  so  easy  to  be,  if  not  a 
critic,  at  least  a  criUchiiiy  as  Carlyle 
has  it.  One  person  reads  a  poon  of 
mine,  and  says,  with  a  peculiarly 
knowing  look,  'murmuring  sound,' 
— ^is  not  that  too  much  like  Milton? 

*  Not  distant  far  from  tbence  a  murnar* 
ing  sound.* 

Nay,  I  assure  you  I  scarcely  ex- 
aggerate— and  doubtless  from  that 
day,  my  friend  considers  me  a  pla- 
giarist, and  declares  he  has  *  found  me 
out'  But  they  will  not  always  give 
me  ere  Jit  for  borrowing  m^  ideas 
from  so  high  a  source ;  sometimes  it 
is  a  nassage  in  Mr.  Brown*s  or  Mrs. 
Tomkins's  last  work,  that  some  un- 
lucky expression  of  mine  resembles, 
and  which  I  am  consequently  thought 
to  have  borrow^,  uncomcioiuiff^  of 
course,  as  I  am  delicately  told.*" 

"  "Well,  you  have  certainly  made 
out  a  heavy  list  of  trials,"  said  Mi« 
Merton .    "I  hope  it  is  ended ? " 

"  Oh  dear  no,"  answered  her  friend ; 
"  but  I  will  not  distress  you  too  long. 
I  must  tell  you,  though,  that  there  is 
a  kind  of  praise  more  grievous  to 
endure  than  any  criticism.    There  is 


1846.] 


Female  Author ikip. 


463 


a  certain  condescending  nuinner  of 
pronouncing  the  words,  *  yeiy  pretty/ 
hard  to  be  TOme  patiently ;  and  when 
one  answers,  'I  am  glad  you  like  it,* 
the  rejoinder  of,  'But  I  really  do 
think  so,*  is  still  more  afflicting.  I 
recollect  that  once,  a  person,  wish- 
ing to  convey  an  indu'ect  sarcasm, 
expressed  his  preference  of  the  most 
puerile  and  insignificant  of  all  my 
compositions.** 

^'  That  was,  indeed,  a  refinement  of 
malice,**  said  Miss  Merton.  "  But  to 
be  serious,  tdl  me  something  of  your 
literary  friends ;  those  who,  as  you 
have  told  me,  have  encouraged  and 
cheered  you  on  your  way.** 

"Ah!  that  is  quite  a  different 
thing.  No  dry  sententious  advice, 
such  as  I  have  described,  ever  comes 
from  them.  If  they  wish  me  to  try 
something  new,  they  put  me  in  the 
way  of  thinking  of  it  for  myself;  and 
when  they  think  praise  is  deserved 
they  give  it  freely  and  generously. 
It  is  from  them  that  I  have  met  with 
most  encouragement  void  fnvest  mg' 
ffestions" 

"And  yon,**  said  Miss  Merton, 
"  are  not  one  of  those  poetesses  who 
repine  at  the  comparative  solitude  of 
mind  consequent  on  their  peculiar 
talents?** 

"  No,  no !  but  then  I  am  so  happy 
at  home,*'  said  the  youn^  authoress. 
**  It  is  true,**  she  added,  smiling,  "  that 
there  are  some  whimsical  inconsisten- 
cies in  our  lives,  when  we  are  mana- 
gers of  a  household  as  well  as  author- 
esses; and  the  sudden  transitions 
from  the  ideal  to  the  actual  are  often 
really  comic.  For  instance,  I  am 
writmg  something  very  tragic.  'What 
can  I  do  to  save  you  ?  cries  my  hero. 
'Would  that  the  sacrifice  of...' 
'Six  pound  of  kitchen  candles, 
ma*am,  exclaims  the  cook,  popping 
her  head  into  the  room.  On  another 
occasion,  I  am  describing  my  heroine. 
'  She  was  tall  yet  delicately  formed, 
fair  as . .  .*  'A  quarter  of  pork, 
nia*un,*  savs  the  undaunted  cook, 
'  a  nice  little  quarter,  very  white  and 
not  too  fat.*  Interruptions  of  this 
kind  are  of  course  very  frequent  in 
my  small  establishment.** 

"  Now,  if  you  had  numbered  this 
among  your  trials,  I  should  not  have 
been  surprised,*'  remarked  Miss  Mer- 
ton. ''But  as  to  society,  have  you 
such  as  you  can  like  about  you  here  ?** 

"I  suppose  society  is  much  the 


same  in  evenr  country  ndghbour- 
hood,"  repUed  Mrs.  Yemer.  "It  la 
only  by  a  happy  accident  that  I  now 
and  then  meet  a  person  of  my  own 
tastes  and  habits, — ^indeed  I  speak  of 
them  to  none  but  my  husband  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end,  generally. 
]But  there  is  abundant  kindness 
among  those  who  dwell  about  us, 
and  with  some  of  them,  no  lack  of 
good  sense  and  information.  Few, 
I  believe,  are  aware  of  the  nature  of 
my  pursuits,  for  I  am  somewhat  care- 
ful to  conceal  them.  You  know  how 
much  I  always  detested  the  idea  of 
ever  becoming  the  pet  poet  of  a  cote* 
rie.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  of  my  being 
once  at  a  party  in  which  I  found  my- 
self treated  pro/euumatty  f  Never 
was  any  thing  more  ridiculous.  The 
people  of  the  hou8e,^«xcellent  people 
and  old  firiends, — ^were  whispering  my 
praises,  and  asking  this  person  and 
that  person  whether  they  had  read 
my  compositions.  To  crown  all,  I 
was  specially  introduced  to  a  brother* 
poet  fas  I  was  told),  a  gentleman  who 
san^  nis  own  verses  to  the  amaging 
delight  of  a  group  of  young  ladies, 
who  cried,  'How  exquisite!  how 
touching !'  d  Venvie  Vune  de  V autre. 
Never  have  I  felt  more  foolish  or 
more  provoked  than  I  did  on  that 
happy  occasion." 

"I  hope  you  do  not  dislike  speak- 
ing of  your  pursuits,"  said  Miss  Mer- 
ton. "If  so,  you  have  allowed  me  to 
tax  your  good  nature  cruelly." 

"Believe  me," answered  Mrs.  Ver- 
ner, "  I  am  delighted  to  talk  to  you 
of  any  thing  that  interests  }rou  in 
the  least.  I  avoid  the  subject  in  ge- 
neral, because  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
flattered,  or  criticised,  to  my  face. 
Besides,  I  assure  you,  it  is  thought 
a  very  trifling  talent,— that  of  put- 
ting into  wor£  such  ideas  as  all  peo- 
ple, or  almost  all,  flatter  themselves 
they  possess.  Manjr  a  one  quotes 
Wordsworth  touching  '  voiceless 
poets,*  and  looks  unutterable  things, 
kaving  me  convinced,  of  course,  tmit 
if  the  knguage  of  verse, '  that  lowest 
attribute  of  poetry,'  were  but  siven, 
all  I  could  do  would  speedily  be 
surpassed.** 

"  I  must  confess,'*  observed  Ml 
Merton,  "  that  you  have  given  r 
a  new  view  of  the  trials  of 
thoress.    We  are  acci 
much  of  the  unhappii 
\^omen  in  their  domestic 


464 


Female  Author$hip. 


[April, 


"wani  of  sympatbetie  taste  in  tlieir 
husbands,  if  husbands  they  have; 
too  often,  alas !  of  their  own  errors. 
Pathetic  lamentations,  too,  have  we 
heard,  touching  the  envy  and  jea- 
lousy of  their  less  gifted  sisters,  the 
maliee  and  oold-heartedness  of  the 
world,  till  we  have  almost  been  per- 
suaded that  the  pursuit  of  literature, 
hi  the  case  of  a  woman,  was  incom- 
patible with  the  pOBseasioa  of  hap- 
piness.'* 

"  Ah !  speak  gently  and  think  ten- 
derly of  those  whose  sonowful  words 
might  have  led  you  to  such  a  con- 
dusion,"  Implied  Mrs.  Verner,  with 
much  feeling.  ^  They  may  have 
been  tried  and  found  wanting,  they 
may  have  erred  grievous^,  yet 
look  on  them  with  an  eye  of  pity, 
for  in  their  earnest  mindls  aad  pas- 
sionate hearts  lies  hidden  a  fearful 
capacity  for  suffering.  Think  how 
little  modern  education,  as  it  is  called, 
does  to  prepare  natures  like  theirs 
for  the  trials  and  temptations  of  life. 
Think  of  the  dullness,  the  insipidity 
of  society  in  general,  the  fiat  cam' 
vw/qdacedness  of  ordinary  conversa- 
tion; and  remembering  all  these 
things,  judge  not  harshly  of  those 
ardent  spirits  which  have  failed  in 
a  contest  with  influences  so  uncon- 
genial." 

^'  Much  has  been  said,  and  well 
said,  of  late,  in  various  quarters,'*  re- 
marked Miss  Merton,  "  on  the  sub- 
ject of  female  education.  I  suppose 
that  you  are  no  great  admirer  of  the 
system  generally  pursued  ?** 

"Indeed  I  am  not,**  answered  the 
younger  lady ;  "  and  surely  if  we 
are  to  judge  hi  things  by  their  fruits, 
I  have  some  reason  for  my  dislike. 
Do  you  know  I  could  sometimes 
think  that  youth,  such  as  we  can 
conceive  it, — ^youth  in  its  loveliness, 
and  freshness,  and  ardour,  was  but  a 
dream  of  the  imagination.  Youth 
without  enthusiasm  seems  to  me  a 
melancholy  nght;  and  yet,  nmcmg 
the  young  of  my  own  sex,  with 
whom  I  associate,  and  on  whom  I 
look  with  interest,  it  is  very  seldom 
that  I  see  a  spark  of  enthusiasm. 
The  cheek  does  not  flush,  the  eye 
does  not  bum,  in  the  presence  of 
thinp  beautiful  and  exalted.  When 
I  think  of  my  own  girls,  now  in  the 
freshness  of  heart  and  spirit  that 
belongs  to  childhood,  I  conld  wish 
they  might  remain  children  f<M-  ever, 


tather  than  become  the  duU,  emotion- 
less beings  I  meet  every  where,  under 
the  denomination  of  young  ladies. 
But  we  are  wandering  mmi  oar  rob* 
ject.  We  were  speaung  of  literary 
women, — of  women  of  genius.*' 

"Yes,**  said  Miss  Merton,  «of 
their  trials ;  and  surely,  among  these 
we  may  class  the  isolation  of  their 
state  when  they  enter  upon  die  stage 
of  life.*' 

"  I  agree  with  you  entirdy,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Vomer ;  "  and  renwn- 
her,  that  though  the  process  of  bon^ 
educated'  has  not  had  power  to  stiite 
their  keen  susceptibility,  or  tame  the 
ardour  of  their  qnrits,  yet  as  little 
has  it  taught  them  seU'-dependeDce, 
— as  little, — (peaking  generally  of 
course, — has  it  ftuniuied  them  with 
that  ¥realth  of  nund  or  steadioesBof 
purpose  which,  in  the  absence  of 
support  from  without,  might  jti 
enable  them  to  feel  contented  with 
the  loneliness  of  their  lot,  in  spite  of 
the  longing  for  sympathy  that  be- 
longs to  their  womamy  nature.  Anl 
a  bein^  like  this,  a  young  creatnre 
trembungly  alive  to  the  influeDces 
of  this  beautiful  world,  tremblingly 
conscious  that  but  a  thin  veil  sepa- 
rates this  actual  daily  life  from  the 
world  of  spirits ;  a  being,  with  whom 
the  sense  of  immortiuity  is  as  sn 
actual  presence  lingering  *  abont  h<^ 
bed,  and  about  her  path,*  soidwhoR 
heart  is  stirred,  as  it  were,  by  breath- 
ings of  the  air  of  Paradiae,— ves,  a 
bemg  such  as  this  finds  herself  mi- 
guided  and  alone  in  ihe  nudst  of  a 
society  of  her  own  sex,  whose  tili 
is  of  Berlin  wool,  bonnets,  and  balUi 
and  whose  life  is  worthy  of  their 
conversation.  Yon  smile,  bat  yon 
know  there  is  mudi  tmth  in  what 
I  say.  The  inanity  and  frivolity  of 
which  I  speak  are,  I  believe,  the  R- 
suits  of  a  false  system  of  edoeMioB. 
which  sacrifices  real  good  for  the  a*< 
of  dinday,  and  prodooes  in  the  end  a 
dismal  monotony  of  mediocrity.  , 

**  Among  women  of  ^P^ 
powers,  some  are  happy  enongo  to 
be  taught  fhm  their  eailiest  y^ 
that  it  18  on  no  earthly  arm  thit  they 
should  lean  for  sunport,  and  to  oo 
earthly  sympathy  that  they  shooW 
look  fi>r  comfort,  in  the  trouW« 
which  tfane  must  bring  to  the©- 
Over  their  resUeas  hearts,  the  \f^ 
which  is  of  God  has  breathed  it? 
holy  calm ;  and  lor  them  the  beauty 


1846.] 


Female  AuHankip. 


465 


of  the  QiiMen  world  piexees  the 
earth-bom  cloads  of  doubt  and  of 
sorrow,  which  hide  it  from  duller 
eyes.  Some,  too,  dwdl  in  the  light 
of  love ;  their  daily  cares  endeared 
to  their  hearts  by  the  hdiest  afEec* 
tions. 

**  Blessed,  indeed,  are  such  as  these! 
But  for  those  poor  suffering  ones, 
who  wander  in  the  thorny  paths  of 
life,  pining  for  happiness,  and  going 
astray  after  its  very  shadow, — fet  us 
think  of  them  tenderly,  and  grieve 
for  their  errors,  yet  ibrb^  to 
blame  P 

The  young  authoress  spoke  with 
emotion,  for  the  subject  was  one  on 
which  she  evidently  felt  deeply.  A 
moment  afterwards,  smiling  at  the 
enthusiasm  she  had  betrayed,  she 
added,  *^  We  have  fallen  upon  a  sor- 
rowful theme,  though  our  conversa- 
tion began  gaily,  fiut  whenever  my 
mind  dwelLs  on  the  lone  position 
which  a  woman  of  genius  occupies, 
and  on  the  earnestness  and  sensitive- 
ness of  feeling  which  must  accom- 
pany her  superior  intellectual  gifts, 
— ^remembering  how  much  her  heart 
craves,  and  how  little  the  world  has 
to  give, — ^I  cannot  but  tremble  for 
her.  You  alluded  to  the  env^r  and 
je&lousy  women  of  inferior  abilities 
might  feel  towards  a  gifted  sister. 
I  believe  a  beautiful  sister  has  more 
to  dread  on  this  score  than  the  most 
talented." 

'*  Do  vou  speak  from  experience 
in  both  cnaracters  ?'*  asked  Miss  Mer- 
ton,  smiling. 

*'  I  answer  no  malicious  insinua- 
tions," said  Mrs.  Vemer,  gail^.  "  If 
I  told  you  all  that  the  experience  of 
my  own  heart  and  mind  had  taught 
me,  I  might  reveal  strange  things. 
Who  knows  that  I  have  not  person- 
ally felt  the  dangerous  power  of  the 
*  voice  of  the  charmer,* — the  voice  of 
Bjrmpathy,  or  what  seemed  such,— 
pleading  in  delicious  music  amidst 
the  wearisome  monotony  of  common 
conversation?  Who  knows  that  I 
may  not  have  turned  from  the  vapid 
dnlness  of  every-day  life  to  the  ex- 
citement of  associating  with  what  we 
poeU  call  a  '  kindred  spirit  ?'  The 
neart  is  so  credulous,  so  enterprising 
in  pursuit  of  happiness  !** 

**  Do  you  ask  who  knows  if  these 
things  have  been  so  with  you  ?"  said 
Miss  Merton.    "  I  hope  with  all  my 


heart  that  Mr.  Vemer  knows  they 
^ave  not." 

"  Well,  I  hope  he  does,*'  rejoined 
the  authoress,  laughing ;  *^  at  least,  it 
is  as  well  he  should  Mlieve  that  he 
does.  But,  in  sober  seriousness,  yoa 
may  depend  upon  it  that  the  same- 
ness of  ordinary  existence  is  a  trial 
to  the  unquiet  spirit  of  a  woman  of 
genius.  Even  negative  happiness  is 
not  enough.  There  is  a  longmg,  not 
merely  to  existy  but  to  Uve^  to  expe- 
rience all  varieties  of  feeling,  for 
even  with  painful  emotions  there  is 
blended  something  that  is  not  pain ; 
we  feel  that,  through  our  suffering, 
the  soul  has  gained,  even  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  heart.  Strange  law  of 
our  mysterious  being,  that  wisdom 
must  be  earned  through  suffering  !** 

<•  Where,  then,  is  such  a  being  to 
turn  for  happiness  ?** 

"  To  Him  who  looks  with  pity  on 
the  weaknesses  of  humanity.  Keli- 
gion  alone  can  control  and  guide  the 
wild  impulses  of  a  nature  so  aspiring, 
yet  so  weak,  so  eagerly  thirsting  for 
good,  yet  so  prone  to  be  dazzled  by 
evil.  But  our  conversation  has  again 
deepened  into  seriousness.  You  must 
forgive  me,  for  I  have  thought  much 
on  these  matters.  When  I  was 
younger,  and  less  experienced,  I 
*  walked  the  world*  less  calmly  than 
I  do  now,  for  there  seemed  a  strange 
contrast  between  the  agitated  rest- 
lessness of  mv  own  heart,  and  the 
calm,  cold  surjace  of  society ;  between 
the  earnestness  of  purpose  with  which 
I  desired  to  do  my  part  in  life,  and 
the  quiet  apathy  that  seemed  to  be- 
long to  those  around  me.  For  awhile 
I  was  bewildered.  I  asked  if  I  were 
indeed  dwelling  among  bein^  cou" 
scions  that  their  spirits  were  unmor- 
tal,  and  that  this  world  was  a  place 
of  trial  ?  The  dreams  of  my  cnild- 
hood  fell  from  me,  and  I  saw  the 
world  in  its  bare  reality.  I  looked 
deeper,  and  saw  the  weakness  of  my 
idol,  genius.  By  degrees  I  trust  1 
acquired  content,  and  something  of 
true  wisdom,  but  not  till  after  many 
struggles.  It  is  sad  to  see  wealth 
of  mind  wasted,  and  wealth  of  heart 
lavished  in  vain,  and  yet  we  have 
seen  these  things.** 

^*  Often,  too  often,**  said  Miss  Mor- 
ton. ^'  The  isolated  position  you  de- 
scribe must  indeed  be  full  idj^ttf" 
And  you  think  education  tif^^^ 


466 


Contemporary  Oraioru 


[April, 


mnch  to  prepare  those  gifted  ones 
for  their  peculiar  trials?  Yet  yoi\ 
vroiild  not  have  all  women  educated 
as  if  they  were  women  of  genius,  and 
who  is  to  decide  fitly  on  tne  plan  to 
be  pursued?  For,  if  every  man  is 
not  a  hero  to  his  valet-de-chambre, 
most  children  appear  to  their  parents 
singularly  gifted;' 

*'  Of  course, — like  all  mothers,  I 
suppose,**  replied  Mrs.  Vemer.  "  I 
have  my  own  theories  of  education, 
and  one  of  these  days  we  will  talk 
them  over  together.   Our  great  aim, 


it  seems  to  me,  should  be,  to  put 
young  people  in  the  way  of  edacating 
themselves;  for,  until  they  feel  the 
necessity  for  self-culture,  we  can  do 
little  for  them.  But  we  are  inter- 
rupted in  good  time,"  she  continued, 
as  her  laughing  children  bounded 
into  the  room,  followed  by  her  hus- 
band ;  and  the  grave  diaeossion  gave 
way  to  lighter  sallies,  in  whicS,  if 
there  was  little  wit,  there  was  no 
lack  of  good- humour,  or  of  the  vpixit 
of  love  which  bound  together  the 
members  of  that  happy  bousehi^d. 


CQNTBMFQRART    ORATORS, 


No.  IX. 


BARL  GRET  AND  LORD  MORPXTH. 


I. — ^SARL  GRST. 


The  Whigs  recognise  the  principle 
of  an  hereditary  succession  even  in 
party  leadership:  an  office  under 
government  and  ultimately  a  seat  in 
the  cabinet,  with  occasionally  an  ad- 
vance in  the  peerage,  are  as  certainly 
secured  bv  a  kind  of  law  of  entail  to 
the  Whig  lordling  who  turns  his  atten- 
tion to  politics,  as  is  his  paternal  estate. 
Public  nonours  and  power,  under  the 
favouring  forms  of  the  constitution, 
have  become,  to  a  few  families,  almost 
a  private  property.  We  do  not  say 
that  they  mherit  these  things  ¥rith- 
out  deserving  them ;  far  from  it:  the 
sons  of  the  great  Whig  families  have 
often  developed  into  statesmen,  be- 
coming by  the  force  of  their  talents 
entitled  to  fresh  honours;  and  in 
their  turn  founding  new  families,  all 
with  the  like  claims  on  their  party. 
But  they  certainly  have  had  a  pre- 
ference in  the  mrst  start  into  life 
which  has  not  been  enjoyed  by  com- 
moners ffenerally,  nor  even  by  the 
scions  of  other  noble  families  pro- 
fessing, perhaps,  liberal  x>olitics,  but 
not  being  within  the  charmed  circle. 
An  exclusiveness  in  the  distribution 
of  offices,  and  the  initiation  into  the 
service  of  the  state,  has  characterised 
the  Whig  party  since  it  first  became 
possessed  of  power  under  the  Qonsti- 


tutional  form  of  eovemment ;  nor, 
until  the  bold  oner  of  Lord  John 
Russell  to  Mr.  Cobden,  of  an  olBee 
under  government,  when  that  noble 
lord  was  forming  an  administration 
on  the  resignation  of  SirBobert  Peel, 
before  introducing  his  free-trade  plan, 
has  there  been  any  material  symptom 
of  a  relaxation  of  that  rigid  nue  of 
almost  family  preference.  Air.  Ma- 
caulay*s  elevation  to  the  cabinet  m  a 
brilliant  exception;  but  the  gn>and 
of  his  promotion  has  been,  aa  we 
have  shewn,  exceptional  also. 

On  the  other  hand  it  is  a  singalar 
fact,  that  the  party  in  the  state  whose 
principles  are  generally  declared  to 
be  as  exclusive  as  those  of  the  Wh%s 
are  asserted  to  be  liberal;  a  party 
which  numbers  in  its  ranks  more  oif 
the  aristocracy  of  the  country,  and  a 
less  proportion  of  the  commercial  and 
the  aemocratic  interests ;  has  always 
been  remarkable  for  throwing  ogen 
its  arms  to  talent  wherever  it  was  to 
be  found,  and  for  bestowing  the  most 
valuable  offices  in  the  state  upon  dia- 
tinguished  persons,  more  on  account 
of  their  intellectual  merit  than  of 
their  noble  blood. 

Earl  Grey  and  Lord  Viaoonnt 
Morpeth,  the  eldest  son  of  the  Earl 
of  Carlisle,  are,  at  the  present  time. 


1846.] 


Earl  Qrey. 


46? 


next  to  Lord  John  RoflBell,  the  two 
mo«t  prominent  inheritors  of  the  po- 
litical heirloom  of  Whig  influence. 
The  career  of  each  has  in  several  re- 
spects run  parallel  to  that  of  the 
other:  their  claims  on  their  part^ 
are  as  nearly  as  possible  equal :  their 
talents,  allowing  for  certain  differ- 
ences of  character,  about  which  more 
hereafter,  are  as  nearly  as  possible 
equal  also :  their  public  services,  al- 
though in  different  spheres  of  action, 
have  borne  the  same  proportion: 
they  were  born  in  the  same  year: 
they  entered  parliament  in  the  same 
year,  each  for  a  nomination  borough, 
and,  within  a  very  few  months  of 
each  other,  they  severally  secured 
the  representation  of  a  great  county : 
each  nas  shewn  a  marked  indepen- 
dence of  individual  character,  while 
in  the  main  paying  due  homage  to 
the  claims  of  party;  each  has  earned 
a  reputation,  both  for  oratorical  skill 
and  official  capability,  in  the  House 
of  Commons ;  so  that  they  are  quali- 
fied, not  by  their  hereditary  rank 
merely,  but  also  by  their  talents  and 
standmg,  to  take  a  leading  part  in 
the  House  of  Peers.  In  fact,  these 
two  noblemen  present  themselves  in 
marked  and  almost  natural  contrast. 
The  practice  of  sending  the  eldest 
sons  of  peers,  who  hold  by  courtesy 
titles  of^nobility,  into  the  House  of 
Commons  as  representatives  of  the 
people,  18  one  of  the  most  singular  of 
those  compromises  which  are  tne  very 
essence  oi  political  and  social  life  in 
England.  Of  the  advantage  derived 
hy  the  public  from  this  arrangement 
there  cannot  be  the  slightest  doubt 
A  senate  composed  of  men  inexpe- 
rienced in  public  affairs,  from  their 
very  station  comparatively  ignorant 
of  public  wants,  and  who  would  legis- 
late more  by  their  will  than  their 
reason,  without  bein^  subjected  to  re- 
straint or  responsibility, — such  a  body 
of  privil^;ed  dictators  would  be  al- 
most as  dangerous  as  a  purely  de- 
mocratic assembly.  Their  laws  would 
have  no  moral  sanction.  However  the 
constitution  might  assert  or  strive  to 
enforce  thsir  claim  to  hereditary  wis- 
dom, certain  it  is  that  the  merest 
crudities  of  a  purely  popular  repre- 
sentative would  find  more  willing 
support  from  the  people  than  the 
most  elaborate  productions  of  such 
king-made  oracles.  But  when  they 
have  previously  served  and  under- 


gone training  in  the  Honse  of  Com- 
mons, they  have  secured  a  personal  as 
well  as  a  legal  claim  on  the  respect  of 
the  nation.  They  are  then  recognised 
by  their  deeds,  not  bv  their  titles 
only.  The  history  of  tne  chief  party 
contests  of  their  time  is  a  record  of 
their  speeches  and  votes:  Uiey  are 
identified  in  the  minds  of  the  people, 
of  whatever  classes, — Tory,  VVhiff, 
or  Radical,  it  is  all  the  same — witn 
the  triumph  of  some  favourite  prin- 
ciple ;  or  it  may  be  only  with  its  de- 
feats, yet  defeats  which  are  not  the 
less  cherished,  for  they  are  looked 
upon  as  the  precursors  of  future  vic- 
tories. Long  before  the  time  comes 
at  which  in  the  order  of  nature  they 
are  elevated  to  the  peerage,  their  in- 
tellectual and  political  standing  be- 
comes ascertained,  and  they  take  a 
position  at  once.  Their  claim  comes 
backed  by  the  suffrage  of  the  public ; 
and  it  is  yielded  to  at  once.  The 
most  active  among  the  peers,  those 
most  entitled  by  rank  ana  experience 
in  the  Upper  House  to  hold  perma- 
nently the  lead  on  either  side,  at  once 
give  way  when  one  of  these  chosen 
men  of  the  House  of  Commons  comes 
up  with  his  certificate  of  superiority. 
Besides  the  education  in  practical 
statesmanship  which  youn^  noble- 
men so  situated  receive  during  a  few 
years*  campaigning  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  a  moral  influence  is  exer- 
cised over  them  which  is  also  of  the 
highest  advantage  to  the  nation. 
They  learn  both  by  precept  and  ex- 
ample the  value  of  pubhc  opinion, 
that  indefinite  but  omnipotent  and 
omnipresent  agent  in  the  political 
affairs  of  free  countries.  Few  greater 
calamities  can  befall  a  nation  than  a 
necessary  separation  and  antagonism, 
both  of  feeling  and  of  intei^  be- 
tween the  privileged  and  the  unpri- 
vileged classes.  If  a  nobility  'so 
situated  be  high-spirited,  powerful, 
and  deeply  imbued  with  a  sense  of 
hereditary  right,  they  will  restlessly 
strive  at  an  oligarchical  tyranny. 
Revolution,  in  states  so  situated,  is 
always  more  than  a  possibility,  and 
democracy  lours  in  the  distance.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  this  privileged  and 
isolated  nobility  be  not  animated  by 
the  higher  range  of  ambitious  motives, 
they  will,  from  combining  too  much 
leisure  with  too  much  wealth,  be- 
come depraved  in  their  moral  habK 
spreading  the  poison  of  a  vicious 


i 


468 


Contemporary  Oratort* 


[April, 


ample  thimigli  iht  wbole  sodal  sys* 
tern.  (Keach  evil,  history,  past  and 
present,  affOTds  too  many  fiital  in- 
staoeea.  There  most  be  a  safety- 
valve  for  the  passions,  whether  poli- 
tical or  nersonal.  In  our  system  it 
is  provided.  The  young  noble,  by 
the  law  and  the  constitution  a  com- 
moner, can  only  obtain  his  right  to 
sit  and  speak  in  the  representative 
assembly  by  an  appeal,  more  or  less 
real  and  sincere,  to  the  free  suffrages 
of  the  people.  Coriolanus  must  sue 
ibr  votes  in  the  market-place,  or 
his  ambition  will  chafe,  and  his  ta- 
lents rust,  while  meaner  men  sway. 
Therefore  (the  simile  is  rude)  his 
nose  must  come  to  the  grindstone. 
Onoe  in  pariiament,  emulation  quells 
the  baser  passions  in  the  soul,  and 
the  whole  of  the  intellectu^  and 
moral  powers  of  the  youne  aristocrat, 
aecordmg  to  his  degree  of  talent  and 
intelligence,  are  devoted  to  the  one 
great  object — distinction.  That  dis- 
tinction can  only  be  obtained  by 
commanding  public  opinion;  first, 
that  of  the  House,  then  that  of  the 
country  at  large.  Fortunately  the 
steady  character  and  practical  genius 
of  the  British  people  render  appeals 
to  political  passions  comparatively 
useless.  In  the  House  tney  are  a 
sham— oratorical  flourishes,  pretences 
to  turn  a  period,  laughed  at  for  what 
they  mean,  admired  for  how  they  are 
expressed.  In  the  country,  they 
evaporate  with  the  excitement  of  the 
election ;  disappear,  like  the  fleetins 
glories  of  the  travelling  theatre,  with 
the  removal  of  the  last  plank  of  the 
hustings.  It  is  tnm-and-tum  with 
such  people :  I  am  beaten  to-day ;  it 
will  be  yours  to-morrow:  so  they 
laugh  at  each  other,  for  the  defeat 
that  has  been  or  is  to  be.  Something 
real  is  wanted,  then,  to  give  the 
jroung  peer  in  masquerade  influence 
m  this  the  largest,  greatest,  highest 
permanent  assembly  of  his  feUow* 
men  that  is  in  the  country.  He  must 
be  well  read  in  the  laws  of  the  past 
and  the  facts  of  the  present.  He 
must  not  only  be  more  philosophical 
than  the  lawyers,  but  also  more  prac* 
tical  than  the  practical  men,  or  neither 
will  submit  to  be  led  by  him.  He 
finds,  too,  that  here,  where  all  men 
are  equal,  certain  principles  of  free- 
•'om  are  held  in  common.  His  mind 
omes  imbued  with  them.  If  he 
n  in  play,  he  ends  in  earnest. 


Men  fipesh  fhmi  the  ibetory  or  the 
desk  are,  be  finds,  as  wdl  versed  in 
afikirs  as  he :  nay,  some  of  th«n  al- 
most equal  him  in  his  school  learn- 
ing and  his  oratory.  There  is  no 
patent,  no  privilege,  in  talent  If 
ne  would  be  a  great  man,  he  mnst 
work,  too, — work  with  the  head  and 
heart.  He,  too,  competes  in  the 
noble  strife,  tasks  his  intdlect,  tnini 
his  powers,  to  rise  to  the  height  of 
statesmanship  and  eloquence  — to 
make  his  personal  warrant  his  social 
superiority.  His  heart,  too,  wanns 
in  the  contest ;  insensibly  he  becomes 
more  national,  leas  exclusive.  Naf, 
by  the  time  he  entera  the  exdusiTe 
walls,  the  privileged  assembly,  he 
almost  wi^es  he  could  diqwnse  vitn 
his  rights.  Acted  upon  thus  by 
public  feeling  in  tiie  Lower  House, 
he  reacts  upon  it.  By  his  example 
of  liberalism  (not  political  but  sodai) 
he  makes  them  love  the  aristooati^ 
And  how  can  democracy  shew  itself 
where  the  ftiture  nobles  of  the  land 
are  to  be  found  stretching  the  most 
free  of  all  free  constitutions  ahnoit 
to  its  extreme  point  of  tension  ? 

But,  if  the  country  gains  by  thii 
system  of  political  training,  it  is  at- 
tended with  some  disadvantages  to 
the  individual  statesman  or  orator 
who  is  thus  removed  to  the  Upper 
House.  Men  who  have  made  a  great 
figure  in  the  House  of  Ccwun^i 
often  fail  in  the  House  of  Lords. 
The  habits,  the  tone  of  thinking,  tw 
style  of  eloquence,  that  are  adapted 
to  the  one  do  not  suit  the  other. 
What  wonder,  if  a  roan,  who  hu 
laboriously  trained  himself  up  to  one 
standard,  should  be  at  fault  wb^ 
suddenly  required  to  adept  *»»"**" 
to  another  quite  different?  ^^ 
Broueham  has  in  this  respect  sue^ 
eeeded  admirably  in  effecting  tD« 
transformation  from  the  omxo^ 
into  the  peer.  At  firrt,  he  iw»  ^. 
sufficiently  aware  of  this  necessity  ot 
hi%  new  poaitfon,  and  some  ver7 
strange  scenes  occurred ;  but  now  as 
is  quite  another  man.  It  is  not  erery 
one,  however,  that  has  the  s^J 
plasticity  of  mind :  and  hence  (0«< 
very  usual  question,  when  a  popo^*' 
leader  becomes  elevated  to  the  PJ^J^' 
age,  "  How  will  he  do  in  the  Lord«- 

Earl  Grey  has  of  late  been  veO^ 
often  made  the  subject  of  thisqo<^ 
tlon ;  partly  because,  by  the  death  o* 
his  celebrated  parent,  he  has  been  so 


1846.] 


Earl  Greym 


46d 


recently  Tafsed  to  the  Upper  House, 
and  piotly  because  it  is  generally 
understood  that  an  attempt  will  be 
made  to  elevate  him  to  the  position 
of  leader  of  the  Whigs  in  the  House 
of  Peers,  on  the  Marquis  of  Lans- 
downe  hereafter  resigning  in  his  fk- 
Your  that  sometknes  most  arduous 
post.     There  is  reason  to  believe, 
also,  that  Earl  Grey  conceives  him- 
self to  be,  as  a  debater,  a  match  for 
Lord  Stanley, — in  short,  a  sort  of 
natural  antagonist  (of  course,  in  a 
parliamentary  sense)  of  that  distin- 
guished speaker ;  so  that  when  causes 
now  existing  shall  have  ceased  to 
operate,  and  when  Lord  Stanley  shall 
have  assumed  that  position  m  the 
House  of  Lords  which,  in  a  reor- 
ganisation of  parties,  will  become  at 
once  a  right  oad  a  sphere  of  duty, 
£arl  Grey  will  be  enabled  to  stand 
up  as  the  assertor  of  principles  ma- 
terially differing  from  those  which 
Lord  Stanley  is  known  to  entertain, 
and  thus  once  more  realise  those  old 
ideas  of  party  opposition  which  re- 
cent events  have  so  much  tended  to 
postpone,  if  not  to   neutralise.    If 
these  aAsumpttons  be  true,  if  Lord 
Lansdowne  be  really  disposed  to  yield 
to  Earl  Grey  the  management  of 
what  is  certainly  at  the  present  time 
the  most  compactly  organised  party 
in  the  country,  it  is  a  step  pcculiarlv 
interesting  to  the  people  of  Endand, 
from  the  great  influence  whicli  the 
acknowledged  head  of  a  party,  what- 
ever may  or  may  not  be  his  talents, 
has  upon  the  course  of  l^slation. 
It   becomes  important   to  inquire, 
Whether  the  probable  elevation  of 
Earl  Grey  to  this  hi^h-priesthood  of 
Whiff  pnnciples  be  justifiable  or  de- 
sirable on  the  score  of  his  possession 
of  commanding  talents,  or  superior 
political  wisdom,  or  whether  it  is 
only  a  new  instance  of  that  here- 
dituy  suceession  of  the  Whig  families 
to  power  and  honours,  the  prevalence 
of  which  has  already  been  noticed  ? 

There  is  one  other  ground  on 
which  the  promotion  of  Lord  Grey 
miffht  be  justified,  that  there  is  no 
Whig  in  the  Upper  House  with  so 
many  claims.  Mere  rank  alone, 
without  oratorical  powers,  or  some 
commandinff  c[ualities  to  which  de- 
ference would  instinctively  be  yielded, 
will  not  in  these  days  justify  a  man's 
being  placed  at  the  head  of  a  party. 
The  Maiquis  of  Lansdowne's  claims 


are  not  fbunded  on  bis  rank  alone. 
Although  his  stilted  and  somewhat 
pompous   style  of  oratory  is  now' 
rather  out  of  date,  vet  there  was  a 
period  when  he  was  looked  upon  as 
one  of  the  foremost  men  of  his  time. 
If  he  has  soarody  fulfilled  that  pro- 
mise of  fViture  excellence  which  led 
his  contemporaries  to  compare  Lord 
Henry  Petty  with  William  Pitt,  still 
his  past  successes  are  not  forgotten ; 
and  ne  has  also  that  kind  of  personal 
weight,  derived  from  his  i^  and 
political  experience,  which  mspires 
respect  among  those  who  have  grown 
up  around  him,  and  who  have  for  so 
many  years  stood  towards  him  almost 
in  the  relation  of  pupils.    Setting 
him  for  the  moment  on  one  side,  who 
is  there  to  take  his  place?    Lord 
Melbourne,  of  course,  must  be  looked 
upon  as  having  virtually  given  up 
the  contest ;  his  name  is  only  asso- 
ciated with  an  administration  whose 
political  history  was,  in  spite  of  some 
good  intentions,  little  more  than  a 
series  of  defeats.      The  Marquis  of 
Clanriearde,  though  at  times  he  dis- 
plays great  vigour  and  considerable 
tact,  fails  to  inspire  that  personid 
respect  which  is  necessary  in  a  leader. 
I^rd  Normanby,  although  he  has 
filled  high  officiaJposts,  has  no  weight 
in  the  House  of  Peers.    The  Earl  of 
Clarendon  is  in  every  way  superior, 
as  a  thinker  and  as  a  debater ;  there 
is  the  stamp  of  sterling  talent  in  all 
he  says  ami  docs.    But  he  is  to  all 
appearance  either  an  indolent  or  an 
unambitious  man,  or  his  ambition  is 
confined  in  its  objects ;  he  has  done 
too  much  to  be  altogether  "passed 
over,  yet  not  enough  to  secure  our 
admiration,  and  induce  us  to  fix  on 
him  as  even  a  probable  person  to  be 
the  future  head  of  his  party.    With 
these  names,  we  have  exhausted  the 
list  of  Whig  leaders  in  the  House  of 
Peers,  who  in  any  degree  are  pro- 
minent for  their  talents.    The  ora- 
torical strength  of  the  Whigs  lies  in 
the  House  ci  Commons;  nor  is  it 
likely  that  those  who  there  exercise 
so  much  influence  over  the  public 
mind,  would  be  in  any  hurry  to  leave 
it.    Lord  Morpeth  will,  in  tne  course 
of  things,  be  obliged  to  do  so ;  but 
wherever  there  is  a  choice,  it  is  not 
probable  that  it  will  lie  in  the  di- 
rection  of  what  a  popular  phrase 
terms  being  "  pitchforked."    If,  ther 
Earl  Grey  s  personal  ambition  heir 


470 


Contemporary  Orators, 


[April, 


seoonded  by  the  Buffrages  of  his  own 
pftTtv,  he  Bnall  aim  to  toke  and  (what 
would  be  more  difficult)  to  keep  the 
lead  of  the  Whigs  in  the  llouse 
of  Lords,  it  is  obvious  that  the  diffi- 
culties of  his  task  will  be  very  much 
diminished  by  the  comnarative  me- 
diocrity of  those  with  wnom  he  will 
be  placed  in  immediate  competition. 

With  the  political  mantle  of  his 
father,  the  present  Earl  Grey  would 
by  no  means  inherit  his  responsibili- 
ties. The  conditions  of  eminence  are 
not  what  they  were  twenty  or  thirty 
years  ago.  Then,  to  be  a  party  leader 
— of  the  chosen  few,  at  least,  whom 
history  deigns  to  notice — implied  the 
possession  of  an  absolute  mastery 
oyer  the  elements  of  political  war- 
fare. He  to  whom  nis  compeers 
yielded  precedence  was  distinguish* 
able  from  them  not  merely  oy  his 
talent,  but  also  by  the  degree  of  his 
talent.  There  was  in  him  a  marked 
individuality  of  character ;  his  intel- 
lect was  of  such  towering  proportions, 
that  like  the  stature  of  a  giant  it  was 
confessed  at  once ;  and  all  men  gave 
way,  by  an  instinct  of  deference,  to 
one  in  whom  they  recognised  a  supe- 
rior. He  had  not  to  work  his  way 
to  the  command  by  slow  and  labor- 
ious efforts  and  shifting  tactics,  car- 
rying with  him  the  traces  and  the 
disffraces  of  many  defeats,  of  many 
yieldings,  of  many  compromises,  sucn 
as  men  must  suffer  who  seek  to  attain 
the  height  by  the  tortuous  path. 
He  took  the  initiative  in  government, 
stamped  the  impress  of  his  mind  upon 
that  of  his  countrymen.  He  laid 
down  principles — principles  which,  if 
they  were  not  the  creation  of  his 
own  mind,  were  at  least  taken  at 
first-hand  from  the  well -stored 
armoury  of  the  constitution ;  and 
never  ceased  his  efforts,  or  swerved 
fipom  the  course  he  had  marked  out, 
till  he  had  broueht  his  fellow-sub- 
jects either  to  admowledge  them  as 
true,  or,  at  all  events,  to  array  them* 
selves  against  him,  and  trust  the 
issue  to  a  combat  in  which  he  was 
himself  at  the  head  of  his  own  follow- 
ing, and  where  he  also  secured  the 
glory  of  the  victory.  Then,  the  po- 
litical history  of  an  ap^e  was  written 
in  the  movements  of  parliamentary 
leaders:  office  gave  power,  and  the 
real  head  of  a  party  was  at  once  the 
'ium  of  its  principles,  the  source 
rguinents,  and  the  regulator 


ofaUitsminntestmoyementa.  Tbere 
was  dignity  in  his  high  station. 

Statesmen  then  were  the  pupils  of 
statesmen  till  they  attained  their  fall 
vigour,  till  they  were  politically  of 
age,  and  fit  to  begin  the  world  for 
themselves.  They  had  not  yet  be- 
come the  full-grown  puppets  of  agi- 
tators out  of  doors — ^the  glittering 
tools  of  more  hard-handed  and  deter- 
mined men  than  themLsdves.  Things, 
and,  to  say  truth,  men  also,  have 
vastly  changed  since  then.  A  party 
leader  is  now  an  anomaly;  tlie 
very  name  itself  a  penrenion 
of  language.  The  initiative  in 
legislation  is  assumed,  not  in  the 
cabinet,  but  in  the  market-place,  or 
at  the  hustings.  The  loudnt  voice, 
the  longest  purse,  the  most  self- 
denying  demagoffuism,  the  most  cau- 
tious audacity,  tne  most  calcolating 
treason, — ^these  are  now  the  quali- 
fications for  that  mastership  of  the 
nation,  which  used  till  recent  times 
to  be  the  certain  property  of  those 
men  alone  who  possessed  the  loftiest 
intellect,  the  most  far-seeing  views, 
the  most  prominent  int^rity  of  cha- 
racter, the  most  determined  spirit  in 
asserting  and  maintaining  tiie  prin- 
ciples in  the  truth  of  which  they  ber 
lieved,  the  most  commanding  or  tiie 
most  persuasive  oratory ;  who  rallied 
round  them  the  sympathies  of  their 
politically-hereditiuy  followers,  and 
were  elevated  to  power  alike  by  the 
affection  of  the  people  and  the  con- 
fidence of  the  crown.  Whatever 
their  politics,  they  were  to  be  de- 
pended upon  as  men ;  if  they  could 
not  be  relied  on  and  followed  for 
their  wisdom,  their  consistency  could 
be  calculated  on,  and  their  principles 
counteracted. 

But  it  is  the  perverse  practice  of 
party  leaders  in  the  present  day — 
forced  on  them,  perhaps,  by  an  un- 
happy necessity  of  carrying  meaaoies 
by  new  uses  of  constitutional  powers 
— ^to  abandon  the  highest  privileges  of 
the  statesman,  to  aestroy  the  noble 
and  exalted  ideal  which  history  leaves 
us,  and  of  which  even  memory  recslb 
living  examples.  And  this  is  as 
true  (though,  perhaps,  in  a  modified 
degree)  of  the  Whig  as  of  the  Con- 
servative leaders, — of  the  Lord  Mel- 
bournes  and  the  Lord  John  Bnssdls, 
as  of  the  Sir  Kobert  Peels  and  the 
Lord  Lyndhursts.  They  lead  but  to 
mislead.    Their  principle  of  political 


1846.] 


Earl  Grey. 


471 


action — ^tlie  recognition  of  the  pres- 
sure from  without — perils  the  credit 
of  either  their  understanding  or  their 
character.  Each  ^reat  era  of  then: 
political  life  is  divided  hy  an  abrupt 
line  of  demarcation.  Up  to  a  certain 
day,  they  oppose  with  an  hypocritical 
earnestness,  or,  according  to  their  in- 
tellectual and  moral  idiosyncracy, 
they  attack  with  a  bold  (almost  a 
virulent)  fierceness,  certain  principles 
and  opinions  which  are  before  the 
public,  whether  in  or  out  of  parlia- 
ment. In  the  mildest  instances,  they 
offerto  them  an  obstinate  obstruction. 
But  from  that  particular  day  they 
become  altered  men.  With  an  ear- 
nestness which  we  are  justified  in 
supposing  to  be  equally  hypocritical, 
as  being  so  sudden,  they  advocate 
the  principles  they  before  opposed, 
while  all  weir  virulence  and  fierce- 
ness are  reserved  for  those  they  have 
abandoned.  In  the  milder  instances, 
they  yield  with  an  alarmins  but  a 
contemptible  alacrity.  To  iflustrate 
the  relative  position  of  statesmen  of 
the  old  order  and  of  the  new,  one 
has  but  to  compare  the  course  of  the 
late  Earl  Grey  as  to  the  question  of 
parliamentary  reform,  with  that  of 
Sir  Robert  Feel  as  to  Koman  Catholic 
emancipation  and  repeal  of  the  Corn- 
laws.  Putting  all  party  feeling  on 
one  side,  this  question  is  far  too  im- 
portant to  the  well-being  of  the 
country  to  be  much  longer  disre- 
garded. The  PRIDE  of  public  men 
alone,  if  political  morality  has  ceased 
to  influence  them,  must  bring  about 
a  change. 

Earl  Gre^*s  prospects  as  a  politi- 
cian, and  still  more  if  he  should  be 
the  leader  of  the  Whigs  in  the  House 
of  Lords,  will,  however,  be  materially 
advanced  by  this  lowering  of  the 
standard  of  parliamentary  and  poli- 
tical greatness.  Compared  with  the 
giants  who  have  passed  away,  he  is  a 
dwarf  in  parliamentary  ability ;  but 
among  the  shifting  shadows  who 
play  oefore  us  in  the  little  sphere 
marked  out  of  a  blank  future  by  the 
maffic- lantern  of  a  Cobden  or  an 
0*Connell,  he  assumes  something  like 
body  and  consistency.  Nay,  he  has 
some  qualities  of  mind  which,  if  not 
exactly  amiable  and  admirable  in 
themselves,  at  least  spring  from  a 
moral  integrity  which  will  not  yield 
to  external  influences,  and,  therefore, 
ipdicate  his  possession  of  that  firmness 


and  frankness  of  character,  which 
one  would  desire  in  either  an  enemy 
or  a  friend.  On  one  ground  the 
public  may  always  feel  perfectly  safe 
with  Earl  Grey.  However  unpo- 
pular his  opinions  may  be,  either 
with  his  own  party  or  with  the  gpreat 
bulk  of  the  nation,  he  always  fear- 
lessly avows  them ;  so  that,  as  far  as 
public  discussion  goes  (wespeaknot  of 
cabinet  squabbles),  you  always  know 
the  man  with  whom  you  nave  to 
deal.  He  will  not  shirk  an  avowal 
to-day  when  it  might  damage  him, 
to  make  it  openly  to-morrow  when 
it  will  be  profitable.  So  much  for 
the  morality  of  his  political  character ; 
his  discretion  is  another  affair.  Per- 
haps his  frankness  may  sometimes  be 
too  self-seeking,  boidering  on  the 
reckless. 

Earl  Grey  has  been  denounced  as 
'*  crotchetty,**  because,  on  one  or  two 
occasions,  he  has  taken  a  course  or 
held  an  opinion  adverse  to  that  of  his 
colleagues.  That  on  such  occasions 
he  has  sealed  his  verbal  dissent  by  a 
resignation  of  his  office,  has  afforded 
one  guarantee  of  his  sincerity.  It 
may  fairly  be  assumed,  that  a  re- 
sistance or  an  independence  which 
terminates  in  a  self-chosen  political 
martyrdom  (for  such  is  the  loss  of 
office  to  young  ambition),  is  not  mere 
intractability  or  restiveness,  but  that 
it  springs  from  some  more  deeply- 
rooted  sentiment.  At  all  events,  it 
augurs  political  disinterestedness,  and 
contrasts  favourably  with  the  conduct 
of  those  who  wheel  round  suddenly  at 
the  word  of  command,  voting  tonday 
against  the  creed  of  yesterday,  with 
a  callous  indifference  or  an  audacious 
infidelity.  We  rather  dwell  upon 
this  virtue  of  Earl  Grey,  because  he 
is  in  want  of  a  good  word ;  in  the 
paucity  of  his  political  attractions 
he  needs  every  favourable  construc- 
tion that  can  with  any  degree  of  de- 
cency be  extended  to  him.  In  the 
cases  just  referred  to,  he  was  charged 
with  vanity  and  arrogance.  As  bemg 
comparatively  an  official  subordinate, 
it  was  said  that  he  thought  too  much 
of  himself, — as  though  statesmen  or 
public  servants  of  the  second  or  third 
degree  were  not  entitled  even  to  lay 
claim  to  a  conscience,  much  less  to 
indulge  in  the  moral  luxury  of  a  life 
of  hypocrisy.  But  circumstance" 
alter  cases.  Earl  Grey,  as  Lc 
Howick,  m  the  House  of  Commc 


472 


Contemporary  Orators, 


[April, 


never  Bcemed  to  look  on  himself  a8''a 
subordiiiate,  except  as  some  yoong 
prince  of  the  blood  might  play  the 
enngrn  or  the  midshipman.  From 
the  Irst,  he  has  appeared  to  have  his 
eye  steadilv  fixed  on  some  position 
to  which  ne  aspired,  and  to  have 
trusted  to  his  rank,  the  gratitude  of 
party,  and  the  force  of  his  own  in- 
tellectttal  energies,  as  the  means  of 
securing  it.  He  scorned  to  be  an 
apprentice,  bnt  rather  regarded  him- 
self as  one  of  the  master^s  family, 
ready  to  be  taken  into  the  firm  when 
his  time  came.  Whether  this  spirit 
of  independence  was  only  arro^nce, 
or  whether  it  was  a  self-reliance, 
premature  only  in  the  occasion  of  its 
exhibition,  can  only  be  decided  by 
the  future  conduct  of  Earl  Grey, 
when  his  responsibilities  shall  have 
been  increased,  and  criticism  will  be 
guided,  not  by  the  little  jealousies  of 
party,  bnt  by  the  observation  and 
the  good  sense  of  the  public. 

Earl  Grey  can  never  take  the 
highest  rank  as  an  orator.  An  effec- 
tive speaker,  and  a  ready,  practised 
debater,  he  already  is ;  but  he  wants 
those  personal  attributes  which  are 
so  essential  in  completing  the  full 
charm  of  eloquence,  that  there  is 
scarcely  an  instance  on  record  of  a 
man  becoming  a  first-rate  orator 
without  them.  Yet  it  would  not 
seem  that  there  is  any  necessary  con- 
nexion between  the  personal  pecu- 
liarities, whether  favourable  or  un- 
favourable, of  a  speaker,  and  the 
intellect,  the  imagination,  or  the  pas- 
sions of  his  audience.  One  would  sup- 
pose that  mind  would  address  itself 
at  once  to  mind,  that  the  kindred  spirit 
would  communicate  with  no  direct 
dependence  on  the  physical  medium. 
Indeed  there  is  not  any  positive 
proof  on  record  that  physical  defects, 
whether  of  voice,  of  person,  or  of 
aspect,  have  neutralised  the  effect  of 
eloquence  when  the  spirit  that  kindles 
it  was  really  within  a  man  —  deep- 
seated  in  the  soul.  The  intellectual 
pride  of  man  would  rather  favour 
the  opposite  view,  seeking  to  esta- 
blish the  dominantpower  of  the  intel- 
lect, and  making  the  body  a  merely  se- 
condary and  subservient  vehicle.  But 
the  fact  is,  that  you  seldom  see  a  man 
even  aspiring  to  eminence  as  a  speaker, 
much  less  succeeding,  unless  he  has 

?n  in  some  degree  befriended  by 
^;  either  in  the  gift  of  an  har« 


momons  or  sonorous  voice,  or  an 
imposing,  or  at  least  not  unattrKtirc 
countenance,  and  a  tolerably  weD- 
formed  person.     It  may  be  that  an 
instinct  guides  saeh  men  to  tbdi 
more  natural  vocation,  or  that  the 
predilection  created  by  their  personal 
advantages  in  a  first  attempt  nerves 
them  to  others,  and  so  on  till  they 
attain  to  that  decree  of  excellence 
which  would  enable  them  to  chann, 
even  were  they  suddenly  deprired 
of  those  advantages.     In  the  ease  of 
Earl  Grey,  the  want  of  a  prepossess- 
ing exterior,  and  of  a  flexible  har- 
monious voice,  verv  materially  de- 
tracts from  his   efrectiveness  as  s 
speaker,  and  precludes  the  ho'peoOj^ 
attaining  the  first  rank  among  con- 
temporary orators,    however  great 
may  be  his  intellectual  superiority 
over  many  of  them.     All  references 
to  personal  defects  are  invidious^  and 
should  certainly  be  as  brief  as  pos- 
sible.   They  might,  in  thb  ease,  be 
passed  over  almost  entirely,  but  that 
It  is  desirable  to  correct  one  impres- 
sion which  party  feeling  has  circu- 
lated in  the  pubnc  mind, — ^that  Lord 
Grey  is  an  ill-tempered  man.    That 
he  looks  morose,  even  at  times  ill- 
tempered,  cannot  be  denied ;  but  the 
tone  and  temper  of  his  speeches,  and 
his  ^neral  conduct  as  a  member  of 
parliament,    belie    the    assaznption 
that  this  expression    is   any  thing 
else    than   a  settled    form    taken 
by  his  features,  not  from  mental, 
but  fVom   purely  physical    causes. 
We  think  we  could  point  to  one  or 
two  noble  lords,  and  more  than  one 
or  two  honourable  gentlemen,  ^ho 
are  infinitely  more  irritable,  morose, 
jaundiced  with  apparent  disappoint- 
ment, than   Earl  Grey,  only  that 
Nature  has  given  them  a  mask  io 
eonceal  their  thoughts,  more  peri<^ 
in  its  proportions  and  more  deceitful 
in  its  expresmon. 

But  in  spite  of  the  load  of  a^^^'^ 
circumstances  against  which  ^1 
Grey  has  to  bear  up, — ^notwithstand- 
ing his  harsh,  shrill,  discordant  voic^ 
his  unexpressive  countenance^  «J" 
features  so  far  removed  from  the 
standard  of  manly  beauty,  he  has 
proved  himself  no  ineffective  ant^ 
nist  of  the  chief  speakers  of  the  day. 
His  intellectual  powers,  aided  by  ^Jf 
extensiveknowledgeofthemostTsn^ 
kind,  which  he  can  bring  to  bear  alike 

upoQ  abstract  questions  of  policy  ^^ 


1 846.] 


Earl  Orey. 


473 


the  most  minute  affiurs  of  daily  l^gis* 
lation,  have  carried  him  through  the 
natural  difficulties  of  his  position. 
When  he  left  the  House  of  Com- 
mons he  had  worked  himself  up,  hy 
his  talents  alone,  to  a  position  among 
the  Whig  speakers  scarcely  inferior 
to  that  of  Lord  Falmerston,  and  de« 
cidedly  above  that  held  by  many 
others  who  started  with  him  in  the 
race.     If  he  had  not  yet  arrived  at 
that  point  in  parliamentary  import- 
ance when  a  member  is,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  *'  expected**  to  speak  — 
when  the  debate  is  not  oonndered 
complete  till  he  has  contributed  his 
share  to  the  general  stock  of  ail- 
ment or  illustration — at  kast  he  sel- 
dom or  never  rose  but  to  cast  a  new 
light  on  the  subject,  to  throw  down 
the  gauntlet  of  opinion,  to  give  a  new 
and  unexpected  turn  to  the  debate, 
or,  at  all  events,  to  compel  speakers 
who  succeeded  him  to  notice  his  views. 
With  a  very  analytical  mind  (in  this 
respect  he  stands  out  in  favourable 
contrast  with  his  contemporaries),  he 
was  remarkably  skil^l  in  hunting 
out  and  exposing  a  fallacy,  quite  re- 
morseless in  controverting  any  pro* 
position  or  opinion  contnury  to  those 
principles  of  constitutional  sovem- 
ment  or  political  economy  which  he 
holds,  i>artly  bjr  hereditary  desoeat, 
and  partly  by  his  own  free  adoption. 
In  this  pursuit  he  seemed  to  ieel  a 
keen  intellectual  pleasure,  as  though 
he  did  it  not  merely  as  a  duty  to 
party,  but  also  as  a  ncarsonal  satisfac- 
tion to  himself.     His  views  were 
always  clear  and  defined,  from  his 
having  laid  down  in  his  own  mind 
certain  principles  as  what  ought  to 
be  the  basis  of  public  polity,  up  to 
which  he  reasoned.  His  public  course 
appears    to    have   been   uniformly 
guided  by  his  sincere   convictions, 
whether  right  or  wrong ;  not,  as  in 
the  case  of  some  of  his  colleagues,  by 
the  desire  to  obtain  popularity.    If 
any  thing,  he  is  disposed  to  push  the 
doctrines  of  the  pditical  economists 
too  far — to  take  human  nature  too 
little  into  account. 

Forced  to  depend  for  influence  as 
a  speaker  not  on  his  personal,  but  on 
lus  mental  powers,  one  oonsequenee 
is  that  the  reasoning  faculty  too 
much  predominates.  A  denumstra- 
tion  is  all-sufficient  with  him.  No 
allowance  is  made  for  the  wants  or 
tte  weaknesses  of  huxnaa  uatuxef 


for  temporal^  detraeting  causes ;  for 
those  infirmities  of  our  race  which 
make  the  perfect  practical  application 
of  abstract  propositwns,    however 
true  they  may  be,  a  p^reat  difficulty, 
if  not  an  impossibility.    He  takes 
the  mUUu  quo  but  little  into  account. 
That  which  is  to  politicians  genially 
a  most  important  element,  scarcely 
enters  into  Earl  Grey's  calculations. 
With  him,  whatever  ought  to  be, 
must  be.    He  is  alto^ther  too  con- 
fident, not  so  much  m  himself,  as  iu 
the  aU-suffidency  of  reason  to  decide 
on  anv  case  that  may  be  subjected  to 
it.    He  does  not  seem  to  be  conscious 
of  that  higher  wisdom  which  is,  in 
most  reqpects,  above  the  ken  of  the 
mere  reasoning  faculty,  being  founded 
upon  experience  and  strengthened  by 
humility,  till  it  becomes  a  kind  of 
intellectual  faith.   He  has  none  of  the 
nhUoeophy  of  Edmund  Burke.    He 
lays  down  excellent  principles,  but, 
unlike  Lord  John  Kussell,  at  in- 
convenient times.    It  is  his  fault  to 
be  too  fond  of  argument ;  nay,  of  what 
a  popular  expression  terms,  not  un- 
happily, "  argufying.**   At  times  this 
haoit   degenerates  into  mere   cap* 
tiousness.    Like  Lord  Denman,  he 
will  fix  with  earnestness  and  inten- 
sitv  on  some  muior  pomt,  which  he 
will  elevate  into  undue  importance, 
but  which  a  more  enlarged  mind 
would  pass  over  as  being  amon^  the 
necessary  conditions  of  a  proposition, 
to  be  admitted  without  question.  On 
the  other  hand,  this  disposition  to 
cavil  and  dispute,  to  rest  great  ques- 
tions upon  trifling  points,  this  mi- 
croseopic  view  of  constitutional  prin- 
ciples, often  becomes  of  great  public 
value  when  the  rights  of  the  subject 
are  concerned,  at  a  period  when  a 
general  confidence  in  the  mteerity 
and  public  spirit  of  public  men  leatls 
us  to  acquiesce  in  a  relaxation  of  those 
safo^purds  of  liberty  which  our  more 
suspicious  ancestors  watched   in   a 
spirit  of  obstinate  obstruction. 

With  such  peculiarities  of  person, 
of  temperament,  and  of  intellectual 
bias,  it  is  not  probable  that  Earl 
Grev  will  be  able  to  take  the  lead 
of  the  Whig  party  in  the  House  of 
IPeers.  He  wants  disnity,  both  per- 
sonally and  mentallv.  The  very 
qualities  which  made  nim  useful  as  a 
subordinate,  or  as  a  colleague  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  would  unfit  him 

for  a  positWa  of  ^oouniiad  or  respon- 


474 


Contemporary  Orators, 


[April, 


sibility  in  the  Upper  House.  The 
political  philosopny  which  prevails 
among  tne  peers  is  very  different 
from  that  chance-medley  which  is 
the  natural  result  of  popular  elec- 
tion in  the  other  place.  A  species  of 
freemasonry  is  established  there. 
They  can  afford  better  to  dispense 
with  popular  fallacies.  Much  more 
is  taken  for  granted  than  in  the 
House  of  CoAimons ;  and  a  man  like 
Earl  Grey  would  be  apt  to  find  his 
weapons  get  rusty  for  want  of  use, 
unless,  indeed,  he  were  to  keep  them 
in  play  by  demolishing  the  select 
few  wnose  garrulity  is  recognised 
and  kept  up  for  the  general  amuse- 
ment. His  powers  of  argumentation 
would  be  almost  thrown  away  upon 
such  men  as  Lord  Lyndhurst,  or 
even  Lord  Brougham ;  and  the  prin- 
ciples which  he  used  to  lay  down  with 
so  much  authority,  and  so  little  fear 


of  contradiction,  inthe  House  of  Com- 
mons, would  stand  but  a  poor  chance 
with  the  Duke  of  Wellington  on  the 
one  hand,  or  the  Bishops  of  London 
or  of  Exeter  on  the  other.  He  will 
find  the  straw-splitting  system  of  lit- 
tle use  in  the  House  of  Lords.  K 
he  is  permanently  to  take  his  place 
among  the  great  men  in  that  assem- 
bly, he  must  altogether  elevate  his 
tone,  enlarge  his  news,  purge  his  in- 
tellectual prejudices,  consolidate  his 
principles.  lie  must  exhibit  less  of 
speculative  democracy,  less  of  the 
tyranny  of  the  political  economist, 
less  devotion  to  theory,  more  amenity 
to  the  practical  necessities  of  a  com- 
promising age.  Above  all,  be  most 
not  expect  from  the  House  of  Lonb 
that  consideration  he  received  ftm 
the  House  of  Commons,  as  the  son  of 
the  man  who  carried  the  Reform- 
bUl. 


II. — LORP  MORPETH. 


LoRB  MoRPETH*8  position  as  a  pub- 
lic man  must  be  peculiarly  gratify- 
ing to  his  personal  feelings.  His  am- 
bition ought  to  be  more  tnan  satisfied 
with  the  rank  he  holds  as  an  orator 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  while  the 
personal  esteem  and  respect  enter- 
tained for  him  by  his  own  party 
afford  to  a  man  of  his  peculiar  tem- 
perament a  far  more  agreeable  re- 
ward than  even  the  admiration  which 
his  displays  of  intellectual  ability 
have  elicited.  Li  the  hardness  en- 
gendered by  party  strife,  it  is  rare  to 
nnd  personal  qualities  so  much  re- 
garded in  a  public  man  as  they  are 
m  the  case  of  Lord  Morpeth ;  and 
still  more  so  where  the  individual 
has  entered,  as  the  noble  lord  has 
done,  with  keenness,  and  as  much 
heat  as  his  nature  will  allow,  into 
almost  all  the  conflicts  of  the  time. 
The  circumstances  attending  his  re- 
tirement some  few  years  ago  from 
public  life,  and  those  which  have 
characterised  his  return,  have  con- 
tributed still  more  to  invest  him  with 
a  personal,  more  than  even  a  politi- 
cal interest.  When  he  was  ejected 
from  Yorkshire  on  the  final  downfall 
of  the  Whig  party,  and  when  he 
made  that  somewhat  rash  resolution 
never  to  re-enter  the  House  of  Com- 
mons unless  as  the  representative  of 
the  same  county,  few  men  could 
have  Bupp — ^  •-  **^e  then  triumph- 


ant state  of  i\ie  Coiwervatire  party, 
that  circumstances  would  have  arisen 
so  soon  to  restore  him  to  the  post  be 
had  before  held,  or  to  take  aiwy 
from  the  rashness  of  that  vow  by 
accomplishing  its  fiilfilment.    That  a 
man  evidently  so  ambitious  of  dis- 
tinction as  a  statesman  and  an  o^^J^' 
should  have    voluntarily   debarred 
himself  from  his  greatest  enjoyment 
on  what  might  seem  so  sentimental 
a  ground,  is  at  the  same  time  init- 
self  a  strong  proof  of  some  very  de- 
cided personal  character,  some  qujl'' 
ties  of  the  heart  as  well  as  of  the 
mind,  distinguishing  him  from  those 
who  prove  the  difference  by  their 
astonishment,  or  by  their  deprecia- 
tion of  whnt  might  seem  such  Quix- 
otic conduct.     But  I^rd  A£(Wjrt« 
almost  stands  alone  in  this  P"!f*^ 
of  exciting  personal  regard,  w*^®  ^ 
at  the  same  time  secures  P^^'f  ^ 
esteem.    It  is  a  r^ard  felt  by  tn^ 
even  who   in   pontics   differ  niow' 
widely  from  him ;  who,  in  fact,  were 
disposed  to  look  at  his  former  <»• 
^nettings  with  democracy  as  ^^^^ 
ing  a  most  dangerous  example*  An 
involuntary  blending  of  the  V^^^ 
with  the  political  character,  J^?^ 
accompanied  by  intellectnal  c1«m«* 
and  not  carriea  to  excess,  ij  ^^ 
agreeable  to  the  English  peopjCi^*^ 
love  to  see  men  sincere  and  in  ^ 
nest,  even  if  against  them,  and^*^ 


.-J 


1846.] 


Lord  Morpeth^ 


[415 


cannot  be  bronght  to  understand  that 
cold  abstraction  of  character  by  which 
the  man  removes  himself  from  the 
direct  agency^  of  human  sympathies, 
living  in  the  intellect  and  the  reason 
alone,  a  mere  intelligent  machine  for 
working  out  propositions.  State- 
craft,  to  their  apprehension,  is  no- 
thing but  downright  hypocrisy,  and 
no  state  necessity  excuses  in  their 
eyes  double-faced  policy,  or  tergiver- 
sation of  principle.  A  CTeat  propor- 
tion of  Lord  Morpeth^  popularity 
with  all  sections  of  the  Liberal  party, 
is  to  be  traced  to  his  instinctive  unfail- 
ing honesty  of  purpose.  He  might 
be  sometimes  personally  ridiculous,  or 
oratorically  he  might  absurdly  illus- 
trate that  vaulting  ambition  which 
overleaps  itself,  but  he  was  alwa3r8 
morally  respectable.  Nay,  this  fea- 
ture in  his  character  received  not 
lon^  since  an  almost  ludicrous  illus- 
tration. In  a  dispute  as  to  a  ques- 
tion which  could  only  be  decided  by 
personal  assertion.  Lord  Morpeth  as- 
sumed the  affirmative.  Upon  this 
all  the  Liberals  cried  out,  **  Oh  ! 
then  it  must  be  so !"  A  comparison 
not  very  favourable  to  his  colleagues, 
but  mightily  so  to  our  assumption  as 
to  his  peculiarity  of  character. 

Lord  Morpeth  contrasts  favourably 
with  other  Whig  noblemen  in  either 
House  of  Parliament,  in  being,  to  all 
appearance,  wholly  free  from   the 
pnde  of  rank  or  class.    In  the  asser- 
tion of  those  views  and  principles 
which  are  popular  with  the  miadle 
and  lower  classes,  he  has  gone  farther 
than    any  of  his    colleagues;    and 
his  evident  sincerity  of  disposition 
compels  us  to  believe  that  ne  feels 
all  he  utters.    He  not  only  entertains 
popular  opinions,  but,  what  is  in- 
finitely more  captivating  with   the 
multitude,  he  expresses  them  popu- 
larly. There  is  a  frankness,  a  warmth, 
a  courtesy  unaccompanied  by  insult- 
ing condescension,  that  attaches  to 
him  men  of  all  shades  of  opinion.    In 
this  respect  the  ^oung  noble  who 
most  resembles  him  is  Lord  John 
Manners.    Starting  from  wholly  op- 
posite points  in  the  political  arena, 
their  course  seems  to  run  together 
thus  far :  that  they  think  the  time 
is  come  for  social,  more  than  for 
political,  concession  on  the  part  of 
men  of  rank  and  station,  to  those 
^ho,  in  the  singular  changes  this  age 
has  seen,  have  secured  to  themselves 
VOL.  zzxux.  IfO«  cxcvi. 


so  much  of  the  real  power  of  the 
country. 

As  a  politician.  Lord  Morpeth 
has  alr^y  run  nearly  to  the 
full  length  of  the  tether  allowed  by 
the  principles  of  his  party;  as  an 
orator,  he  is  still  in  process  of  de- 
velopement.  The  Lora  Morpeth  re* 
turned  to  parliament  in  1846  is  audi 
an  improvement  on  the  Lord  Mor- 
peth who  was  ejected  in  1841,  that 
still  greater  advances  towards  per- 
fection may  be  hoped  for.  Whether 
the  Rrafls  which  toe  vigorous  native 
stock  has  received  from  republicanism 
in  the  United  States,  and  from  class 
self-seekine  in  the  Anti- Corn-law 
League,  win  bring  with  them  strength 
or  weakness,  cannot  at  present  be 
ascertained ;  but  there  is  a  good  sound 
root  and  stem  of  John  Buubm  in  the 
noble  lord's  mind,  on  which  one  may 
place  great  faith.  At  present,  he 
seems  to  be  rather  feeling  his  own 
strength;  playing  with  his  new- 
founa  muscle  and  sinew ;  trying  ex- 
periments with  ed^;ed  tools,  of  the 
real  danger  of  which  he  is  not  yet 
fully  cognisant.  His  speeches  are  aa 
yet  powerful  efforts,  rather  than 
finished  works  of  oratorical  art.  It 
is  the  peculiarity  of  some  men  always 
to  be  tnought  young,  or  at  least  im- 
mature. A  privilege  in  private  life» 
this  is  in  the  politiou  world  rather  a 
disadvantage.  Whoever  thinks  of 
Lord  Morpeth  or  Mr.  Disraeli  aa 
steady,  staid,  middle-aged  men ;  the 
one  of  forty,  the  other  of  forty-four  ? 
Of  the  rdlders  of  Lord  Morpeth*a 
speeches,  who  regard  him  as  a  sort 
of  parliamentary  pupil  of  Lord  John 
Russell,  but  few  reflect  that  he  has 
been  in  the  House  of  Commons  (an 
interval  excepted)  now  twenty  years. 
Those  who  are  accustomed  constantly 
to  see  and  hear  him,  if  the  fact  did 
not  stare  them  in  the  face,  would 
scarcely  give  the  noble  lord  credit 
for  the  experience  which  so  long  a 
public  life  ought  to  have  brought 
with  it.  They  would  expect  from 
him  idtra-liberal  opinions ;  or  warm, 
hearty,  English  B3mipathy,  always 
bordering  on  rashness ;  or  ambitious 
efforts  at  political  philosophy;  or 
high-flown  attempts  at  the  sublime 
in  oratory ;  any  thing,  in  short,  but 
wisdom  or  common  sense.  When 
Lord  Morpeth  w^as  in  parliament 
before,  the  idea  of  youthfulness  and 
crudity  (as  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Dis 

XX 


476 


Contemporary  Orators. 


[April, 


raeli)  had  obtained  such  l\ill  posses- 
sion of  the  minds  of  thoee  accustomed 
to  watch  those  matters,  that  even 
superior  power  scarcely  received  its 
due  meed  of  respect  when  at  intervals 
it  was  displaveo,  but  was  postponed 
in  the  general  estimation  to  the  claims 
of  unambitious  but  consistent  dul- 
ness.  Time  alone  will  remove  this 
ridiculous,  but  provoking  prejudice. 
It  is  fast  givmg  way  already. 

Carry  back  tne  imagination  six  or 
seven  years.  You  are  walking  down 
to  the  House  of  Commons,  Kraking 
inquiringly  in  the  stream  of  horse- 
men and  pedestrians  that  flows  con- 
tinuously towards  St.  Stephen*s  be- 
tween the  hours  of  four  and  five,  for 
the  notables  of  the  day.  Some  one 
strides  rapidly  towards  you  in  the 
distance.  Heavens,  at  what  a  rate 
he  walks!  Nearer  he  comes.  He 
must  be  somebody ;  but  you  will  scarce 
have  time  to  take  a  steady  view,  ere 
he  will  shoot  past  you.  Has  he 
something  on  his  mincf,  that  those  two 
large,  wide-open  eyes  stare  so  fixedly 
on  vacancy,  half-starting  from  their 
sockets  ?  Or  is  it  only  that  he  wiU 
tie  his  white  cravat  so  tight  that  his 
full  round  face  and  toppling  hat 
look  like  a  large  thistle  on  its  fragile 
stem  ?  And  why  stalketh  he  on  (un- 
mindful of  the  July  sun !)  with  that 
blank,  fixed  look,  as  of  unutterable 

Sain  P  Is  he  possessed  P  Hath  he  a 
emon  P  or  a  steam  leg  ?  or  think- 
eth  he  that  he  bestrides  a  velocipede? 
Ko  sign  I  On,  on !  the  figure  comes, 
Old-Uamlet-like,  but  t'other  way; 
and  with  a  sharp,  quick  noise  of 
iron  heels.  Anotner  instant  and  it 
has  whisked  by  you ;  disappeared,  past 
the  tall  Hibernian  porter,  tnrough  the 
little  door  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons :  a  brief  but  startling  appari- 
tion of  two  eyes,  a  flushed  face 
(which  you  think  you  must  have 
seen  before,  or  something  very  like 
it),  a  fawn-like  figure  with  tapering 
legs,  in  a  swallow-tailed  coat,  and 
faultless  inexpressibles ! 

Havinff  made  your  way  into  the 
strangers^  gallery,  by  means  of  an 
order,  you  are  observing  the  differ- 
ent great  men  of  the  day.  There  he 
is !  standing  by  the  side  of  a  little 
^een  table  near  the  bar,  with  papers 
m  his  hand,  waiting  to  catch  the 
Speaker's  eye.  How  restless  the 
light,  graceful  figure  is !  Is  he  going 
to  dance  ?   The  feet  seem  as  if  mov- 


ing to  some  "  ditty  of  no  tone."  Po- 
sittvely,  if  the  Spei^er  does  not  aJl 
upon  him  soon  be  willpirouettc  with 
airy  bound  along  the  floor,  and  come 
down  with  an  h  plomb  upon  the  table. 
Ah !  he  is  at  last  released  from  pain 
— the  pain  of  standing  still.  He 
trips'gracefiilly  up  to  the  gentlemen 
in  wigs,  the  Spier's  deputies  in 
martyrdom,  debvers  his  papers,  and 
drops  into  his  seat ;  for  (it  is  six 
years  ago)  he  is  in  office — ^high  in 
office ;  and  to-night  he  is  to  introduce 
to  the  house  one  of  the  Whig  mea- 
sures fot  the  conciliation  of  Ireland. 
A  little  later  and  our  tantalising 
friend  rises  to  speak,  standing  at  the 
table  with  his  ministerial  despatch- 
box  before  him,  a  mountain  of  pa- 
pers, and  two  oranges  snug  in  a 
comer— awful  symptoms  of  a  Jong 
speech.  Now  you  have  a  moment 
to  study  his  countenance.  Surely  » 
is  familiar  to  you!  Did  yon, jn 
the  old  days,  visit  the  Haymartet 
Theatre  P  Did  you  ever  see  the  Great 
Ketu-edasAplloBelviP  Do  you  ever 
ponder  on  the  graphic  works  of  our 
great  Ihnncr-satirist,  the  mystenoitf 
«H.  B.,"  he  who  foreshadows  poli- 
tical events,  gratping  their  hidden 
causes,  or  seiang  on  their  ridiculous 
aspects,  with  such  wondrous  sagacity 
and  wit  P  No  ;  nor  have  you,  to 
your  knowledge,  ever  seen  Lorn 
Morpeth  before.  Yet  you  know 
those  lineaments !  Sir,  it  is  Me  att*r 
face  you  are  thinking  of       _  , 

He  has  begun  to  speak.    He  5i« 
delivered   an   ambitious   exorfiuni, 
stilted  and  high-flown  in  language, 
but  elevated  and  generous  in  *"*^' 
ment.    His  voice  is  rather  hmm 
high  in  its  tone,  and  too  uniform  m 
its  sound.    But  there  is  ^nfff  ^ 
earnestness,  and  here  and  t**^^  . 
touch  of  manly  feeling  that  almjj 
startles  by  its  contrast  with  the  odo, 
overgrown-boyish,  yet  not  '"^E^^] 
sessing,  figure  and  manner,    ^n^  r\ 
tion,  also,  is  too  formal,  it  has  *^ 
much  of  the  schools ;  and  tha«  » 
altogether  an  artificial  and  a'f'*"^^ 
eifort  at  eloquence,  that  nisk«f  om 
wish  Lord  Morpeth  would  trust  more 
to  his  own  unfettered  impulses,  a^ 
not  so  much  to  the  lessons  °^rt 
learned  of  some    elocution -niasKj 
who  has  tried  to  teach  him  wW| 
never  yet  was  taught,  and  never  wu 
be.    The  style  is  too  much  that  oi 

the  "  young  gentiemen's  ws^^^ 


1 846.] 


Lord  Morpeth, 


477 


on  examination-day.  Bat  the  more 
you  hear,  the  more  you  like  both 
the  speaker  and  the  sentiments :  in 
spite  of  all  his  peculiarities  he  has 
warmed  you  up.  If  you  don't  think 
>vith  him,  at  least  you  feel  with  him. 
You  have  forgotten,  too,  the  little 
traits  of  the  ludicrous,  in  the  pctlpa- 
ble  moral  integrity  of  the  man  before 
you,  instinct  with  a  consciousness  of 
the  deep  responsibilities  of  his  ex- 
alted rank  and  station. 

Such  was  the  Lord  Morpeth  of 
1 840.  To  come  at  the  Lord  Morpeth 
of  1846,  you  have  but  to  soften  down 
the  ludicrous  ideas,  and  extend  the 
influence  of  those  which  are  associated 
with  resnect  for  high  moral  and  in« 
tellectual  qualities.  Five  years,  whUe 
they  have  added  some  silver  to  the 
grey  hair  which  it  seems  is  the  here- 
ditary peculiarity  of  his  family,  have 
smoothed  off  many  of  the  angu- 
larities and  strengthened  the  tone  of 
his  mind.  His  language,  still  am- 
bitious, is  less  inflated,  his  manner 
less  bombastic,  his  style  generally 
more  finished.  He  is  certainly  de- 
veloping, not,  perhaps,  into  a  great 
orator,  but  at  all  events  into  a  pow- 
erful and  accomplished  sneaker,  with 
great  sway  over  the  feeiines  of  his 
auditory.  There  are  in  nim  the 
materials  of  a  statesman,  but  of  a 
statesman  in  whom  the  good  rather 
than  the  great  will  predominate. 

Contrasted  with  Earl  Grey,  he 
gains  by  the  comparison.  Although 
the  former  had  the  start  of  him  in 
official  life,  he  is  equally,  if  not  more 
efficient,  from  his  greater  patience 
and  amenity.  Lord  Morpeth  never 
excites  bitterness  of  feelmg ;  Lord 
Grey  does.  With  equal  honesty  of 
purpose,  he  takes  circumstances  more 
into  view,  and  does  not  run  counter 
to  public  fceh'ng  where  no  good,  but 
rather  harm,  would  ensue.    He  takes 


broader  views,  more  germane  to  the 
great  object  of  all  statesmanship  and 
legislation,  than  the  strict  logical  con- 
clusions of  Earl  Grey.  He  reasons 
to  a  great  extent  through  his  feelings ; 
Lord  Grey  subdues  all  feeling  to  we 
harsh  necessities  of  experimental  po- 
licy. The  one  gives  the  rein  in  a 
great  measure  to  his  83rmpathie8, 
feeling  that  they  will  not  lead  him 
far  wrong :  with  the  other,  to  think, 
to  reason,  to  prove,  is  to  be  wise ;  he 
sets  up  the  wisdom  of  man's  limited 
capacity  above  that  higher  wisdom 
which  IS  based  on  our  moraJ  instincts. 
The  one  warms,  inspires  you;  the 
other  convinces,  perhaps,  but  chills. 
The  one  makes  the  (untried)  prin- 
ciples of  modern  political  economists 
subservient  to  general  policy  and  the 
wants  of  human  nature ;  the  other 
has  a  cast-iron  mould  for  all  things. 
The  one  would  expand  legislation  as 
far  as  possible,  trusting  much  to  the 
good  old  forms  in  which  the  English 
nation  has  ^own  up;  the  other 
would  centralise,  and,  by  centralising, 
paralyse.  The  one  trusts,  perhaps, 
a  little  too  much  to  the  heart ;  but 
certainly  the  other  depends  too  en- 
tirely on  the  head.  It  almost  fol- 
lows that  the  one  should  be  more 
popular  than  the  other, — ^at  least,  so 
IS  the  fact.  Both,  no  doubt,  deserve 
credit  for  good  intentions.  Their 
future  career  will  be,  at  no  very 
great  distance  of  time,  perhaps,  again 
side  by  side.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that 
neither  the  popular  sympathies  of 
Lord  Morpeth,  nor  the  personal  am» 
bition  of  Earl  Grev,  will  lead  them 
to  disregard  or  undervalue  the  dan- 
gers to  which  their  own  character  as 
statesmen  and  the  welfare  of  their 
country  will  be  exposed,  if  they  too 
readily  yield,  on  insufficient  grounds, 
to  the  "  pressure  from  without." 


478 


The  SikhS'-^their  Rise  and  Progress. 


[April, 


THE  SIKHS— THEta  KISE  AND  PROGRESS. 


*Ibe  fonnder  of  the  sect  by  whom, 
under  the  denomination  of  Sikhs, 
the  Fnnjaub  has  for  half  a  century 
been  governed,  and  to  a  great  extent 
inhabited,  was  Nanac  Shah,  a  Hmdu 
of  the  tribe  of  Yedi,  in  the  Chastrya 
caste.  He  was  bom  in  the  year  of 
Christ  1469,  at  a  village  called  Tal- 
wandi,  in  the  district  of  Bhatti,  and 
province  of  Lahore;  and  from  his 
earliest  years  is  described  as  devoting 
himself  to  the  study  of  truth,  and  to 
the  contemplation  of  the  Supreme 
Being.  Many  marvellous  stones  are 
told  of  him,  of  course,  which  all  re- 
solve themselves  into  this :  that  be- 
coming satisfied  of  the  many  absurd* 
ities  that  abound  in  the  popular 
belief  of  his  countrymen,  and  discre- 
diting the  fables  with  which  Ma- 
liommedanism  is  overspread,  he  not 
only  adopted  as  his  own  creed  a 
pure  Theism,  but  did  his  best  by 
persuasion  and  argument  to  bring 
others  to  the  same  way  of  thinking. 
Kanac,  however,  appears  to  have 
been  a  wise,  as  well  as  righteous  re- 
former. He  assumed,  and  with  jus- 
tice, that  in  the  religions  both  of  the 
Hindus  and  the  Moslems,  there  was 
a  common  foundation  of  truth.  He 
disavowed,  therefore,  every  thing 
like  an  intention  to  root  out  either 
system ;  but  sought  to  reconcile  the 
cusciples  of  each  to  reason,  and  to 
one  another,  by  inviting  them  e<]^ually 
to  return  to  the  pure  and  sunple 
faith  iVom  which  both  had  been  in- 
duced to  stray.  Accordingly  he  in- 
terfered but  little  with  the  usages  of 
common  life  to  which  those  with 
whom  he  conversed  were  accustomed. 
He  endeavoured,  indeed,  to  break 
down  among  Hindus  the  religious 
distinctions  of  caste,  by  proclaiming 
wherever  he  went  that  m  the  sight 
of  Grod  all  men  were  equal.  And  on 
the  other  hand,  he  invited  the  Ma- 
hommedans  to  abstain  from  practises, 
such  as  the  slaughter  of  the  cow, 
which  were  offensive  to  the  preju- 
dices of  their  neighbours;  but  be« 
yond  these  limits  he  never  ventured. 
Nanac*s  teaching  was  simple,  gra- 
cious, and  therefore  sublime.  He 
endeavoured  with  all  the  power  of 
his  own  genius,  aided  by  Uie  author* 


ity  of  writers  of  acknowledged  wdglit 
on  both  sides,  to  impress  upon  Hin- 
dus and  Mahommeoans  alike,  a  be 
lief  in  the  unity  of  the  Godhead; 
while  in  their  dealings  one  with  an- 
other he  inculcated  love  of  tolen- 
tion  and  an  abhorrence  of  war;  and 
his  life  was  as  peaceable  as  bis  dtx- 
trines. 

The  opinions  of  Nanac  bad  gained 
so  much  ground  while  he  lived,  that 
at  his  death  Guru  Angard,  hia  mc- 
cessor,  found  himself  at  the  head  of 
a  numerous  and  continuallv  increw- 
ing  party.  Like  the  founder  of  tie 
sect,  Angard  was  a  teacher  ^^^^ 
ence  and  devotion  towards  one  God, 
and  nniversd  peace  among  men; 
neither  does  any  change  SPP^";.^ 
have  been  introduced  into  the  iiai 
tenets,  till  persecution  and  wrong 
drove  a  people  benevolent  in  pnno- 

Ele  to  gird  on  the  sword,  which  tbg 
ave  never  since  laid  aside.  1« 
outrage  in  question  befd  in  160^ 
when  Argun -mal.  Guru  or  cjuei 
teacher  of  the  body,  excited  the  jea- 
lousy of  the  Mohammedan  nitosw 
the  province,  and  was  put  to  dwi* 
He  had,  by  collecting  the  sacred  trea- 
tises of  his  predecessors  into  a  to- 
lume,  and  blending  ^'»th  themW 
own  views  on  various  "°P^J**^ 
points,  given  a  consistency  and  f<«^ 
to  the  religion  of  the  Sikha,  anch  « 
it  had  not  previously  been  aeen  w 
possess.  And  the  dominant  jWV 
taking  the  alarm,  and  as  titdiwo 
records,  having  their  bad  pMO^' 
ministered  to  by  a  rival,  <»n*^;^ 
gun  to  be  cast  mto  prison,  where 

Ai-gun  left  a  son,  NaT  GoTJDd^ 
name,  who,  though  young,  poj*^ 
both  talent  and  energy  of  cJSSiBL 
and  who  succeeding  to  the  chictsnipj 
gave  at  once  and  for  ever  a 
turn  to  the  tastes  and  tef^  ^A 
followers.    He  put  ^^mvAo^ 
hands,  and  in  the  name  of  a  ^**^ 
of  peace  waged  implacable  war 
the  persecutors.    He  likein«^j^j, 
broke  in  upon  the  ordinary 
of  his  people,  that  he  pcnw^f*  ^ 
to  eat  the  flesh  of  all  """^^J^ 
the  cow;  thus  markisg bi> '^Tii-* 

the    MsAtammpAuiM    bv  fSI»ffSfflii^ 


1846.] 


The  Sikhs-^their  Rise  and  Progress. 


479 


the  use  of  swines'-flesh,  which,  though 
esteemed  by  the  lower  tribes  of  Hin- 
dus, is  to  the  Moslem  an  abomina- 
tion. Nar  Govind  is  said  to  have 
worn  in  his  girdle  two  swords ;  and 
being  asked  why  he  did  so,  made  an* 
swer,  ^'One  is  to  avenge  the  death 
of  my  father,  the  other  to  destroy 
the  miracles  of  Mahommed." 

Five    sons   survived   Argun,    of 
-whom  two  died  without  descendants ; 
two  more  were  driven  to  the  moun- 
tains by  the  persecutions  of  the  Ma- 
hommedans ;   while    the    fifth,    his 
eldest,  died  before  his  father,  leaving 
two   sons,  Daharmal  and  Kar  Ray. 
The  latter  succeeded  his  grandfather 
in  1644,  and  owing,  probably,  to  the 
vigour  of  Arungzebes'  government, 
passed  his  days  in  peace.    But  in 
1661,  the  year  of  his  decease,  a  vio- 
lent contest  arose  about  the  succes- 
sion, which  was  referred  to  Delhi, 
and  by  the  imperial  court  sent  back 
again  to  be  decided  by  the  free  votes 
of  the  Sikhs  themselves.  For  as  yet, 
it  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  the  in- 
fluence of  the  chief  was  purely  spi- 
ritual.   He  did  not  affect  temporal 
authority,  neither  was  he  followed 
into  the  field  as  one  who  sought  to 
establish  the  independence  of  a  peo- 
ple, or  his  own  right  to  rule  over 
them.     His  was  the  leadership  of  a 
sect;  and  as  Arungzebe  appears  to 
have  granted  free  toleration,  so,  in 
matters  of  civil  arrangement,  both 
Nar  Bay  and  his  religionists  paid  to 
Arungzebe  a  willing  obedience.   Ac- 
cordingly the  Sikhs,  in  1664,  elected 
Nar  Creshn  to  be  chief,  in  preference  to 
Bam  Bay,  both  being  sons  of  Nar  Ray ; 
and  on  the  demise  of  Creshn  passed 
over  Bam  Bay  Moullin,  and  placed 
his  uncle,  Tegh  Behadur,  at  their  head. 
This  was  one  of  the  sons  of  Nar  Go- 
vind, whom  persecution  had  driven 
to  the  moimtains;  and  now,  again, 
he  appears,  chiefly  through  the  ma- 
lice of  his  nephew,  to  have  suffered 
much  disquiet.    It  must  be  acknow- 
ledged, however,  that  over  this  por- 
tion of  Sikh  history  a  considerable 
doud  has  fallen.    The  truth  is,  that 
the  sect  was  well-nigh  crushed,  in 
consequence  of  the  endeavour  of  Nar 
Govind  to  raise  it  into  political  im- 
portance ;  and  not  till  the  dissolution 
of  the  Mogul  empire,  which  ensued 
upon  the  Seaih  of  Arungzebe,  did  it 
exhibit  any  marked  signs  of  retum- 
iog  vitality. 


Tegh  Behadur  suffered  a  violent 
death,  and  his  son  Guru  Govind, 
cherished  an  implacable  hatred  of 
the  murderers.  Circumstances,  more- 
over, favoured  him  more  than  they 
had  done  his  warlike  predecessor  and 
namesake ;  and  he  took  full  advan- 
tage of  them.  He  made  his  first  ap- 
pearance at  the  head  of  an  armed 
Band  among  the  hills  of  Serinagar ; 
and  when  forced  by  superior  num- 
bers to  abandon  that  theatre  of  ope- 
ration, he  repaired  to  the  Funjaub, 
where  a  Hindu  chief,  in  active  rebel- 
lion against  the  government,  wel- 
comed him  gladly.  He  was  put  in 
possession  of  Mak-haval,  a  town  on 
the  Sutlej,  and  of  the  villages  de- 
pendant upon  it,  and  set  up  forth- 
with for  a  prince  as  well  as  a  high- 
priest.  Crowds  of  warriors  gathered 
round  his  standard,  and  he  gained 
over  converts  to  his  religious  opi- 
nions from  day  to  day.  All  these 
he  encouraged  to  devote  themselves 
to  steel,  by  carrying  arms  constantly 
about  them,  and  using  them  freely. 
He  would  admit  of  no  avenue  to 
advancement  except  personal  merit. 
He  changed  the  name  of  the  sect  from 
Sikh  to  Singh,  that  is.  Lion ;  and  con- 
ferring upon  all  his  followers  alike  the 
title  which  heretofore  only  the  Baja- 
puts  had  borne,  taught  them  to  aspire 
after  a  similar  mmtary  reputation, 
and  to  achieve  it.  He  it  was  who 
commanded  the  Sikhs  to  wear  blue 
dresses,  and  not  to  cut  the  hair  either 
oftheir  heads  or  beards.  LikeArgun- 
mal,  he  was  an  author  as  well  as  a 
soldier;  for  he  added  to  the  Ade- 
Grant'h  of  the  former  his  own  not 
less  sacred  volume,  called  the  Podshah 
Ka-Grant'h,  or  book  of  the  Tenth 
Kin^,  a  title  which  he  boldly  assumed 
to  himself,  because  he  was  the  tenth 
Guru,  or  spiritual  chief,  from  Nanac. 

Guru  Govind  was  for  awhile 
successful  in  every  undertaking.  He 
overthrew  Bajas  and  Zemundars  on 
both  sides  of  the  Sutlej,  till  an  ap- 
peal was  made  to  Delhi,  and  Arung- 
zebe sent  an  army  against  him.  He 
fought  with  the  resolution  of  despair, 
but  was  beaten  from  one  post  to  an- 
other; and  at  length,  after  losing 
wives,  children,  and  hosts  of  adhe- 
rents, became  a  solitary  wanderer 
and  a  maniac.  He  was  the  last  spi- 
ritual head  of  the  Sikhs,  whom  a 
prophecy  is  said  to  have  forewarned 
that  they  should  never  be  able  to 


480 


The  Sikhs-^their  Rise  and  Progresi. 


[April, 


number  more  than  ten  high-priests. 
But  if  as  a  religious  body  they  lost 
their  consistency,  as  a  nation  they 
became  for  awhile  more  terrible 
than  ever.  One  Banda,  or  Bairagi,  a 
devoted  iriend  and  follower  of  Guru 
Govind,  seized  the  moment  of  Arung- 
zebe*8  death  to  raise  their  banner 
again.  He  won  many  battles,  com- 
mitted frightful  atrocities,  overran 
all  the  country  between  the  Sutlej 
and  the  Jumna,  and  was  at  last 
wholly  routed  by  AbdeLSamad  Khan, 
one  of  the  ablest  and  most  successful 
of  the  generals  of  the  Emperor  Fo- 
rokhseer.  The  wreck  of  the  more 
resolute  among  his  troops  sought 
shelter  among  the  mountains  north- 
east of  the  Puigaub,  whither  the 
pursuers  were  unable  to  follow  them, 
banda  himself,  with  many  more,  was 
taken  and  put  to  death,  while  the 
mass  of  the  people  bent  to  the  storm, 
and  for  awhile  ceased  to  be  over- 
whelmed \>Y  it. 

It  was  thirty  years  subsequently  to 
these  events,  when  Nadar  Shah  car- 
ried his  victorious  arms  into  Hin- 
dostan,  that  the  Sikhs  appeared  again 
as  a  party  in  the  arena.  They  de- 
scended from  their  fastnesses,  and 
fidling  upon  the  peaceful  inhabitants 
of  the  Funiaub,  robbed  them  of  the 
property  wnich  they  were  endeavour- 
ing to  secure  from  the  rapacity  of 
the  Persian  plunderer.  In  like  man* 
ner  they  hung  upon  the  rear  of  the 
Persian  army  durine  its  return,  and 
stripped  it  of  much  of  the  boot^ 
which  had  been  gathered  in  Delhi 
and  elsewhere.  Emboldened,  like- 
wise, by  the  state  of  feebleness  into 
which  the  empire  had  fallen,  and 
seeing  that  both  into  Cabul  and  the 
Pui^jaub  the  death  of  Kadir  had  in- 
troduced anarchy,  they  began  to  aim 
at  permanent  ccmquesta;  and  being 
joined  bv  their  ancient  oo-religion- 
ists,  and  finding  willing  converts 
every  where,  they  gradufldly  possess- 
ed themselves  of  the  whole  extent  of 
the  country  of  the  five  rivers.  They 
appear,  however,  at  this  time,  to 
hftve  been  destitute  of  a  head,  either 
^  or  religious.  Like  the  Anglo- 
ns,  they  followed  a  multitude  of 
r  chiefs,  who  in  a  great  council, 
i  the  Guru-mata,  of  which 
1  Govind  is  said  to  have  been 
iav^tttor,  made  choice,  ere  an 
'ition  was  begun,  of 
iiould  lead  in  it; 


*ii 


but  the  authority  of  the  ebi^  as  it 
was  conferred  upon  him  for  a  special 
purpose,  so,  as  soon  as  the  object  for 
which  it  had  been  given  was  attained, 
it  ceased  of  its  own  accord.  Sueh  a 
state  of  things,  though  it  might  ren- 
der them  formidable  for  attack,  re- 
duced them  in  defensive  war£ue  to 
great  weakness ;  and  their  inability  to 
withstand  a  resolute  and  united 
enemy  was  proved  in  the  contests 
which  they  endeavoured  to  soslain, 
now  against  the  Afigbana,  and  now 
against  the  Mahrattas.  Ahmed  Shah, 
as  is  well  known,  chastised  thmi  se- 
verely, and  established  his  son,  Ti- 
mour  Khan,  as  governor  at  Lahore ; 
but  he  could  not  lon^  maintain  himsdf 
there,  and  was  driven  oat  Next 
came  the  Mahrattas,  who  after  se- 
ducing Surhind,  marched  to  the  ca- 
pital of  the  Puivjaub,  and  took  pos- 
session. But  the  battle  of  Panqmt 
in  1762,  broke  their  strength  for 
ever,  and  Lahore  and  all  the  di^iicts 
dependant  on  it,  passed  once  more 
under  AfPghan  rule.  Then  fol- 
lowed a  great  battle,  or  rather  sur- 
prise, when  Ahmed  fell  upon  the 
Sikhs  unexpectedly,  and  cut  to 
pieces  20,000  of  them.  But  Ahmed 
abode  in  the  country  not  more 
than  a  year,  and  his  return  to 
Cabul  gave  the  signal  for  fiesh 
risings,  and  led  the  way  to  new  out- 
rages. Finally,  the  chiefs  began  to 
quarrel  among  themselves,  feuds  beine 
transmitted  from  fiither  to  son ;  and 
the  nation  became,  in  consequence, 
formidable  to  itself  and  to  the  weak 
governments  which  bordered  upon  it 

The  Sikhs  were  in  this  state 
when  Daulut  Rao  Scindia,  bei^g 
supported  by  an  army  of  whidi 
French  officers  were  at  the  head,  not 
only  checked  th^  incursions  into 
the  upper  province  of  Hindoatan, 
hut  compelled  their  chiefs  south  of 
the  Sutlej  to  pay  tribute,  and  aoeept 
his  nrotectkm.  And  had  it  not  been 
for  nis  war  with  the  English,  there  is 
little  doubt  but  that  he  would  hare 
made  himself  master  of  all  the  fertile 
provinces  that  lie  between  that  river 
and  the  Indus. 

Daulut  Rao  Scindia,  after  retreat* 
ing  across  the  Sutlej,  was  forced  to 
capitulate ;  whereupon  the  Punjaob— 
and,  to  a  considerable  extent,  the 
country  between  the  Botlej  and  the 
Jumna—submitted  to  the  rule  of  the 
Sikhs.    These  set  up,  when  ia  power, 


1846.] 


The  Sikhi'^their  Rise  and  Progress. 


481 


t^  same  Ibm  or  system  of  govern* 
menft  under  which  the;^  haa  liyed 
und  fought  during  their  seaeon  of 
difficulty*  The  smaller  proprietors 
of  the  soil,  the  heads  of  villages  and 
towns,  and  so  forth, — ^the  whole 
body,  in  short,  of  local  governors 
and  magistrates,  paid  obedience  to 
one  or  other  of  twelve  chie&;  for 
twelve  aristocrats  seem  to  have  di- 
vided the  land  amonff  them,  and  to 
have  ruled  over  it  wiui  an  authority 
co-equal — at  least,  in  name — from 
about  the  year  1765  to  1773.  The 
aasociations  over  which  each  sirdar, 
or  chief,  held  rule  were  called  Mis- 
suls.  They  varied  both  as  to  extent 
and  military  stren^;  the  largest 
being  able  to  furnish  10,000  horse 
for  war,  the  smallest  being  assessed 
at  2^00.  For  it  is  worthy  of  re- 
mark, that  though  for  purposes  of 
domestic  administration  each  chief  or 
sirdar  was  i)erfectly  independent  of 
the  others,  in  case  of  danger  from 
without,  all  were  ezpectea  to  act 
under  a  common  standard.  And  the 
Gnm-mata,  or  great  council  of 
the  nation,  composed  entirely  of 
chieft,  determined  on  whom  should 
be  conferred  the  honour  as  well  as 
the  responsibility  of  commanding  the 
whole. 

Rui^eet  Singh,  the  Lion  of  the 
Funjaub,  and  the  true  founder  of  the 
Sikh  empire,  derived  his  descent 
from  one  of  these  feudal  chiefs.  His 
grand&ther,  Churut  Singh,  was  sir- 
dar of  the  Sookeer- chuck  Missul, 
and  seems  to  have  been  one  of  the 
least  powerful  of  the  confederation, 
his  retainers  numbering  no  more  than 
3600  horse.  Like  his  brother-chiefs, 
he  was  constantly  at  war,  invading 
the  territfnies  of  a  neighbour  or  re- 
pelliiu^  invasion ;  and  was  killed  in  a 
firadaT  batUe  by  the  bursting  of  his 
own  matchlock,  though  not,  as  the 
reeords  of  his  nation  aver,  till  he  had 
slain  a  multitude  of  hisenanies.  He 
disd  at  a  moment  of  much  peril  to 
his  tribe,  inasmuch  as  his  son,  Maha 
Siagh,  was  a  boy  of  only  ten  years 
old ;  and  in  thePunjaub,  not  less  than 
elsewhere,  the  reign  of  a  minor  is 
ahnoBt  always  a  feeble  one.  But 
the  Missul  held  together,  and  Maha 
exhibiting,  as  he  advanced  towards 
nttn*8  estate,  great  vigour  both  of 
body  and  miii^  it  soon  began  to  en* 
large  its  influence.  Moreover,  Maha, 
like  a  pohtic  chieftain,  married  the 


daughter  (^  a  sirdar,  who  proved 

very  serviceable  to  him ;  and  almost 
as  soon  as  his  son  and  heir,  Eunjeet, 
was  bom,  looked  about  for  siznilar 
benefits  to  the  nation  through  him. 
Accordingly,  the  Lion  of  the  Funjaub, 
who  first  saw  the  light  in  the  year 
1780,  was,  in  1786,  wedded,  or,  at 
least,  betrothed,  to  a  bride  of  his 
father*s  selection. 

The  education  of  Buiyeet  Singh 
appears  to  have  been  entirely  neg- 
lected. He  never  learned  so  muw 
as  to  read  or  to  write.  Nature,  too, 
seems  to  have  acted  the  part  of  a 
step-mother  towards  him ;  for  he 
was  attacked  by  the  small-pox  in  his 
infancy,  and  not  only  had  his  face 
scored  and  deeply  indented  by  it,  but 
lost  the  sight  of  one  of  his  eyes.  He 
was  unfortunate,  moreover,  in  this 
respect,  that  his  father  died  in  the 
verv  flower  of  his  days,  being  as  vet 
under  thirty ;  and  Bunjeet,  at  twelve 
years  of  age,  was  left  to  the  guidance 
of  tutors.  Thev  indulged  him  in 
every  whim  and  caprice,  insomuch 
that,  up  to  his  seventeenth  year,  his 
life  was  one  of  constant  and  frightful 
dissipation.  Indeed,  the  national 
character  was  by  this  time  wholly 
changed  from  that  which  its  founder 
designed  it  to  be.  Excesses  of  all 
sorts^  over-eating,  over-drinking,—- 
the  coarse  feeding  of  the  North  com- 
bined, with  the  hideous  vices  of  the 
East,  to  render  the  Sikh  the  most 
dissolute  and  depraved  among  all  the 
families  of  men.  And  from  his 
twelfth  to  his  seventeenth  year  Run- 
jeet  Singh  appears,  in  all  these  re- 
spects, not  to  have  come  short  of  the 
most  dissolute  of  his  subjects  and 
countrymen. 

Bunjeet  Singh  was  yet  in  the  midst 
of  his  career  of  vice,  when  Shah 
Mahommed,  from  Cabul»  broke  in 
upon  the  Fni^aub  with  a  powerful 
army.  Chief  afber  chief  went  down 
befiire  him;  and  Bunjeet,  anumg 
others,  fied  from  his  home  and  his 
ffovernment.  But,  in  his  case,  mis- 
fortune appears  to  have  operate  be- 
nefidally.  He  awoke,  as  it  were,  to 
a  sense  of  his  proper  duties,  and 
forthwith  devoted  himself  to  tlie 
management  of  public  aflairs,  and,  in 
due  time,  to  the  aggrandisement  of 
his  Missul.  He  could  not,  indeed, 
ofl'ar  to  Sliab  Mahommed  resistance 
in  the  field.  His  military  strengtli 
was  brok^,  and  himself  a  fugitive 


482 


The  Sikks— their  Rise  and  Progress. 


[April, 


but  he  managed  to  ingratiate  hinudf 
into  the  good  giaoea  of  the  Affghan, 
md  gathered  up,  by  little  and  utUe, 
the  fragments  of  nls  principality. 
At  last,  when  Mahommed,  after  his 
insane  march  upon  Delhi,  returned, 
in  1798,  if  not  defeated,  at  all  events 
baffled,  to  his  own  land,  Runjeet 
contrived  to  lay  the  victor  under  an 
obli^^on,  and  made  the  most  of  it. 
While  crossinff  the  Indus,  eight  or 
ten  of  the  Afghan  guns  were  upset, 
and  sank  into  the  river.  There  was 
no  time  to  raise  them,  for  Persia  was 
up,  and  the  Doorannee  empire — ^very 
imperfectly  consolidated,  at  the  best 
—could  not  be  exposed  to  invasion  in 
any  of  its  faces  without  imminent 
hazard.  Whereupon,  Mahommed 
commissioned  his  friend  Bunjeet  to 
recover  and  send  him  back  his  artil- 
lery; and  Bunjeet  obtained,  as  the 
reward  of  the  service,  a  grant  of 
Lahore.  Let  us  do  the  old  Lion 
justice.  He  raised  the  guns— if  we 
recollect  right,  twelve  in  number-^ 
and  retaining  only  four  for  his  own 
use,  sent  the  other  eight  to  Feshawur. 
Having  thus  tasted  the  sweets  of 
eommanc^  and  feeling  the  ^wth  of 
ambition  within  him,  Runjeet  pro- 
ceeded, with  equal  boldnem  and  ad- 
dress, to  extend  the  limits  of  his 
empire.  Sometimes  by  a  skilful 
diplomacy,  sometimes  by  violence,  he 
ffained  an  ascendancy  over  his  neiRh- 
bours,  till  both  in  the  Funjaub  and  in 
the  territories  east  of  the  hutlej  they 

Said  him  tribute.  So  early  as  1802 
e  had  assumed  a  commanding 
position  among  the  Siich  sirdars,  and 
appwed  nowise  disposed  to  rest 
contented  with  it ;  and  the  dissensions 
which  soon  after  arose  in  the  royal 
family  of  Cabul  presented  an  open- 
ing to  his  spirit  of  enterprise,  of 
which  it  took  immediate  advantage. 
He  marched  into  Mooltan,  and  though 
unsuccessful  at  first,  ceued  not  to 
renew  his  attempts  till  he  had  sub- 
dued it.  Eastward  and  northward, 
likewise,  his  victorious  banners  were 
borne;  and  he  was  looking  with  a 
covetous  eye  upon  the  provinces  be- 
yond the  Indus,  when,  in  1805,  the 
eruption  of  the  Mahrattas,  bringing 
jovd  Lake  and  an  English  army  in 
heir  train,  recalled  him.  The  part 
vhieh  Runjeet  was  now  required  to 
)lay  provea  both  difficult  and  deli- 
iate.  His  respect  for  the  power  of 
England  would  have  led  him  to  re- 


fuse an  asylum  to  the  Mahiatiaji,  had 
not  the  religious  prejudices  of  bis 
subjects,  and  in  some  sort  his  own, 
fallen  into  the  opposite  scale;  and 
how  to  make  the  balance  hang 
evenly,  puzzled  him  much.  He 
managed  matters,  however,  with  con- 
summate address.  Afiecting  good 
will  for  both  parties,  and  seeking  only 
to  reconcile  tnem,  he  managed  to  get 
rid  of  both  without  a  eoUuioD,  imd 
marked  his  delight  at  their  departure 
by  committing  such  fearful  excesses, 
in  the  course  of  the  great  religious 
festival  of  the  Hoolee,  that  for  four 
months  he  was  not  able  to  mount  his 
horse. 

The  fame  of  Runjeet  Sinsh  was 
now  spread  throughout  the  whole  of 
the  country  of  the  five  rivers ;  and 
most  of  the  chiefs  having  heetaae  his 
tributaries,  the  Missul^  or  tribes, 
were  absorbed  and  consolidated  into 
a  kingdom.    He  aspired,  next,  at  the 
subjugation  of  the  sirdars  to  the  left 
of  the  Sutlej,  and  gave  out  that  the 
Jumna  was  the  proper  line  of  de- 
markation  between  his  dominions  and 
those  of  the  English.    But  he  had 
not  pushed  his  conquests  far  (though 
wherever  he  went  Victory  followed 
in  his  footsteps),  ere  the  chiefe  sent 
to   implore  the   protection   of  the 
British  government;  and,  in  1807, 
Mr.,  now  Lord  Metcalfe,  set  out  upon 
the  mission,  which  first  established 
between   the  Sikhs   and   ourselves 
specific  relations.    At  first,  Runjeet 
exhibited  little  disposition  to  listen  to 
the  counsels  of  moderation  whidi  the 
English  envoy  conveyed  to  him.   He 
was  in  the  full  tide  of  conquest,  and 
conquerors  are  seldom  willing  to  stop 
in  their  career  and  to  go  backwards. 
But  Runjeet  wta  too  prudent  to  hold 
otherwise  than  in  profound  respect  a 
power  which,  in  half-a-oentnry,  had 
supplanted  that  of  the  Mogul,  and 
become  masters  of  the  very  empire 
where,  at  first,  its  representatives  oad 
craved  for  leave  to  cany  on  trade, 
and  submitted  to  all  manner  of  con- 
tumelies and  insults  for  the  purpose 
of  securing  it.    Moreover,  an  event 
occurred  m  the  heart  of  his  camp, 
which  save  the  Sikh  monarch  a  yerj 
exfdted  opinion  of  the  qualities  of  the 
Company  s  troops.   Mr.  Metcalfe  was 
attended  in  his  mission  by  an  escort 
of  Sepoys,  two  or  three  companies  of 
a  regiment  of  infantry,  and,  either  by 
accident  or  designedly,  the  soldiers 


1846.] 


The  Sikhs^-their  RUe  and  Progress, 


483 


eompoong  them  were  Mnssulmans. 
The  season  of  a  Mussulman  festival 
came  round  while  the  envoy's  tents 
were  pitdied  in  Runjeet*8  camp ;  and 
the  Sepovs,  attending  to  the  require- 
ments of  their  religion,  proceeded  to 
keep  the  feast  as  uieir  law  directed. 
The  proceeding  gave  mortal  offence 
to  the  Sikhs,  who,  heing  lashed  to 
fury  hv  the  declamations  of  some 
bigotted  priests,  seized  their  arms 
an4  attacked  the  mission  camp.  No- 
thing could  exceed  the  discipline  and 
good  conduct  of  the  guard.  They 
formed,  met  the  assailants,  and,  after 
a  sharp  encounter,  drove  them  hack 
with  loss,  though  the  numbers  which 
acted  directly  against  them  could  not 
fall  short  of  2000  or  aOOO.  Bunjeet 
Singh  was  an  eye-witness  to  the  bat- 
tle, and  the  impression  which  it  made 
upon  him  operated  beyond  the  period 
wnen,  with  some  difficulty,  he  caused 
the  tumult  to  cease. 

Beyond   all   question   the   proof 
which  he  seemed  to  have  received  of 
the    immeasurable    superiority    of 
English  disciplined  troops  over  his 
own  irregular  levies,  induced  Bunjeet 
to  listen  with  a  more  favourable  ear 
to  the  remonstrance  of  the  envoy. 
He  declined,  indeed,  to  relinquish 
the  conauests  which  he  had  actually 
achievea,  and  seemed  loath  to  come 
under  any  engagement  never  to  j^ush 
them  farther.    But  when  a  British 
army,   under   Colonel   Ochterlony, 
took  the  field,  and  advanced  from 
Delhi  for  the  avowed  purpose  of 
sup]porting   the   arguments   of  the 
xnmister,  Bunjeet  became  convinced 
that  they  were  unanswerable.  One  by 
one  his  garrisons  withdrew  from  the 
posts  of  which  he  had  put  them  in  oc- 
cupation, While  the  English  advanced, 
and  established  themselves  in  force 
at  Umbala.    It  is  marvellous  how 
mudi  weight  a  few  batteries  of  nine- 
pounders,  especially  if  bayonets  and 
sabres  in  adequate  numbers  be  be- 
side them,  carrv  in  the  controversies 
of.  nations.     Bunjeet  admitted,  at 
length,  that  the   Sutlej,   not  the 
Jumna,  would  make  the  best  boun- 
dary on  the  south-eastern  part  of 
his  dominions ;  and,  on  the  25th  of 
April,  1809,  a  treaty  was  ratified  on 
both  sides,  of  which  it  is  not  necessary 
to  give  in  this  place  more  than  the 
suLbstanoe. 

The  treaty  in  question  determined, 
1.  That  there  should  be  perpetual 


amity  between  the  British  govern- 
ment in  India  and  the  court  and 
nation  of  his  highness  Maha  Bigah 
Bunjeet  Singh;  that  the  British 
and  Sikh  nations  should  deal  with 
each  other  on  terms  of  reciproc»l 
good- will;  that  the  former  should 
never  interfere  with  the  proceedings 
of  the  latter,  so  long  as  they  confined 
themselves  to  the  north-west  bank 
of  the  Sutlej. 

2.  In  return  for  this,  the  Maha 
Bajah  agreed  to  maintain  no  more 
troops  on  the  left  of  the  Sutlej  than 
shomd  be  absolutely  necessary  for 
self-defence ;  and  to  abstain  from  all 
encroachments  on  the  rights  of  the 
chiefs,  whom  the  British  government 
had  taken  under  its  protection. 

3.  That  the  slightest  violation  of 
the  engagements  thus  enteied  into 
on  both  sides  with  good  faith,  should 
put  an  end  to  the  treaty,  whether  the 
provocation  came  from  the  Sikhs  or 
from  the  English. 

Having  arranged  this  important 
business  the  British  minister,  with 
his  escort,  withdrew;  and  Bunjeet 
falling  back  behind  the  Sutlej,  a  pro- 
clamation vras,  by  authority  of  the 
governor-general,  put  forth  for  the 
guidance  of  the  protected  chiefs.  The 
document  in  question  explained, 
*^  That  the  territories  of  Terhend  and 
Matooa  (for  such  was  the  designation 
assumed  by  the  Sikhs  of  Puteeala, 
Naba,  Keend,  and  Eykul)  being  taken 
under  British  protection,  Bunjeet 
Singh  was  prohibited  and  had  agreed 
not  to  interfere,  after  the  6th  of  May, 
1809,  in  any  way  with  the  people  or 
their  rulers.  At  the  same  time  the 
British  government  set  up  no  claim 
to  supremacy  or  rule.  It  demanded 
no  tribute,  nor  any  other  mark  of 
dependence,  but  left  the  chiefs  at 
liberty  to  exercise,  each  wiUiin  the 
limits  of  his  own  dominions,  plenary 
authority  as  heretofore.  The  chiefs, 
on  the  other  hand,  were  required  to 
facilitate,  by  every  means  in  their 
power,  the  movements  of  such  British 
troops  as  mi^ht,  firom  time  to  time, 
be  employed  m  insuring  to  them  and 
their  subjects  invasion  from  the 
Punjaub.  Moreover,  in  the  event  of 
an  invasion  actually  taking  place,  the 
chiefs  were  informed  that  the  Britiidi 
ffovemment  would  expect  them  to 
join  the  British  army,  with  as  mp' — 
armed  followers  as  they  migh' 
spectively  be  able  to  muster. 


484 


The  Sikhs — their  Rise  and  Progress. 


[April, 


certain  poets,  and  amonff  others  Loo- 
diana,  were  surrendered  to  the  Eng- 
lish^ in  order  that  garrisons  heing 
stationed  there,  the  means  might  be 
at  hand  of  overawing  the  Funjaubees, 
and  a  base  of  operations,  in  the  event 
of  war,  established.  The  protected 
chiefs  were  to  giunt  free  egress  Irom 
these  posts,  and  ingress,  to  all  mer- 
chants and  others  passing  to  and  fro 
on  their  lawful  business ;  and  were 
not  to  impose  any  tribute  on  horses 
while  proceeding  through  their  terri- 
tories for  the  purpose  of  beinff  used 
by  the  British  cavalry.  Finally,  the 
protecting  power  claimed  the  right 
to  decide  in  all  questions  of  disputed 
succession,  and  declared  itsell'  en- 
titled to  occupy  in  the  event  of 
a  failure  of  rightful  heirs.  It  does 
not  appear  that  against  the  different 
clauses  of  this  proclamation  any  re- 
monstrance was,  from  any  quarter, 
sent  in ;  and  when,  in  process  of  time, 
one  or  more  reigning  members  be- 
came extinct,  the  sovereignty  over 
their  possessions  passed  into  our 
hands;  no  one  presuming  to  deny 
the  justice  of  an  arrangement  which, 
among  a  people  where  the  privilege 
of  adoption  is  never  conceded,  is  both, 
by  rich  and  poor,  admitted  to  be 
legitimate. 

Shut  out,  by  these  means,  from 
schemes  of  con(|uest  on  one  side  of 
the  Sutlej,  Kunjeet  Singh  forthwith 
devoted  his  energies  to  the  extension 
and  consolidation  of  his  power  on 
the  other ;  and  the  better  to  ensure 
its  permanency,  he  began  in  this 
same  year,  1809,  to  re^ment,  and  in 
some  sort  discipline  his  troops,  after 
the  European  fashion.  His  admira- 
tion of  Mr.  Metcalfe's  body-guard 
led  him  into  this;  and  though  he 
employed  to  accomplish  his  purpose 
only  deserters  from  the  English  na- 
tive r^^iments,  with  Hindus,  who 
had  served  and  earned  their  pensions, 
the  progress  which  his  men  made 
was  very  creditable.  His  battalions 
of  foot  he  ixed  at  400  rank  and  file 
each.  He  had  likewise  his  regular, 
as  well  as  irregular  cavalry ;  while 
his  artillery  he  placed  under  a  distinct 
command,  and  took  infinite  pains  to 
increaae  both  its  weight  and  its  effi- 
ciency. Thus  supported,  he  soon 
made  himself  master  of  the  whole  of 
the  Funjaub;  and  renewed,  with 
greater  success  than  formerly,  the  in- 
ywuxttk  of  Mooltan;  while  events  were 


already  in  progress  at  Cabal,  and 
throughout  the  extent  of  the  Doo- 
rannee  empire,  which  opened  for  him 
further  and  not  less  important  con- 
quests elsewhere. 

In  1809,  Shah  Sujah-ool-Mulk, 
our  unhappy  puppet  of  1839,  was 
driven  from  nis  throne.    In  1 8 1 7  he 
sought   shelter   at    Lahore,  where 
Bunjeet,  under  circumstances  of  pe- 
culiar cruelty  and  wrong,  forced  nim 
to   give    up  the   Koh-i-noor,    the 
largest  diamond  in  the  world.    This 
done,   he   marched   an   army  into 
Eashmere,   of  which,   though    re- 
pulsed at  the  bqffinninf^  he  succeeded, 
m  the  course  oftime,  m  making  him- 
self master.    Mooltan  also  was  ef- 
fectually  subdued;    and,    in   1818, 
partly  by  guile,  partly  by  hard  fight- 
ing, Fewawur  fell  mto  his  hands. 
Whithersoever  he  went,  in   short, 
victory  attended  him ;  not  always  in 
the  first  instance,  nor  without  fre- 
quent reverses ;  but  alvrays  crowning 
his  efforts  in  the  end,  except  when 
he  came  in  contact  with  the  English. 
And  this  he  did  in  1819,  under  cir- 
cumstances of  which,  perhaps,   be 
mi^ht  have  had  some  reason  to  com- 
plain, had  he  not  been  as  far-aighted 
in  his  views  of  policy  as  he  was 
energetic  in  war.    It  happened  that 
one  of  the  protected  chiefs,  whose 
residence  and  capital  lay  on  the  lefl 
of  the  Sutlej,  had  estates  or  territories 
from  which  he  drew  rents,  on  the 
right  bank  of  the  river.    Runjeet, 
interpreting  his  treaty  with  us  some- 
what  favourably  for   himself,  de« 
manded  tribute  fhnn  this  Ts^Bh  for 
the    lands  which   he   held   north- 
west of  the  boundary ;    and    the 
tribute  not  being  immediately  paid, 
he  sent  an   armed   forc^  to  com- 
pel it.    The  Rajah  complained  to  the 
protecting  power,  and  a  British  corps 
took  the  field.    Rnnjeet  had  no  wish 
to  force  on  a  war  with  England ;  he 
therefore  ordered  hia  am^  collec- 
tors to  retire  from  the  dispated  ter- 
ritory, and  sacrificed  the  tribute. 

It  was  in  the  month  of  March, 
1823,  that  a  couple  of  European 
military  adventurers  presented  them- 
selves, for  the  first  time,  at  the 
durbar  of  the  Maha  R^jah.  These 
were  MM.  Ventura  and  Allard; 
the  former  an  Italian,  the  latter  a 
Frenchman  by  birth,  but  both  OfflScen 
who  had  served  with  distiBctiaa  in 
the  French  army  under  Napoleon. 


1846.] 


The  Sikks^'ikeir  SUe  and  Pregresi. 


485 


M-  Yentura  had  obtained  the  rank 
of  colonel  of  infantry,  M.  Allard  a 
similar  rank  in  the  cavalry ;  and  both 
Lad  fought  in  many  battles,  including 
the  last,  and,  to  the  empire,  the  moet 
fatal  of  them  all,  the  great  fight  at 
"Waterloo.  Seeing  their  fortunes 
marred  in  Europe,  thev  sought  em- 
ployment in  Persia;  there  they  do 
not  seem  to  have  been  very  well 
treated,  nor  much  to  have  im- 
proved the  state  of  the  shah's  army. 
but  however  this  may  be,  thev  grew 
weary  of  the  sort  of  life  which  the^ 
led  at  Tehran,  and,  making  their 
vray  through  Affghanistan,  they 
came  to  Lahore,  and  desired  to  enter 
into  the  service  of  the  king.  Runjeet 
appears  to  have  been  suspidous,  at 
the  outset,  of  their  motives.  He 
could  not  understand  either  their 
position  or  their  views;  and  the 
Bikhs  being  a  jealous  and  prejudiced 
people,  perhaps  he  might  not  feel 
that  it  would  be  altogether  safe  to 
take  them  into  his  confidence.  He 
proceeded,  therefore,  with  great 
caution ;  and,  getting  them  to  write 
in  French  a  little  statement  of  their 
past  career  and  future  purposes,  he 
sent  it  to  parties  in  Loodiaua  whom 
he  eould  trust,  and  got  it  faithfully 
translated.  The  experiment  seemed 
to  satisfy  him.  He  took  them  at 
once  into  his  service,  as  military  in** 
Btructors;  and,  committing  his  in- 
fantry to  the  one,  and  his  cavalry  to 
the  other,  saw,  with  equal  wonder 
and  admiration,  the  rapid  progress 
which  both  arms  made  in  their  know- 
ledge of  military  movements  and 
exercises.  By  and  by  another  French 
gentleman,  M.  Court,  who  had  be^i 
well  educated  in  the  Polytechnic 
jSchool,  arrived ;  and  he,  on  the  re- 
isommendation  of  his  predecessors, 
undertook  the  training  of  the  Sikh 
artillery.  We  need  not  stop  to  ex- 
plain what  remarkable  progress  the 
Bikha  make  under  their  European 
teaehers.  Moreover  others,  sn«a  as 
M.  AvitabUe,  came ;  and  the  result 
of  their  combined  efforts  was  to  nve 
to  the  Maha  Rajah  an  army,  before 
which  none  throughout  the  East,  ex- 
cept that  of  England,  could  stand. 
Or  the  exact  amount,  in  point  of 
numbers,  to  which  it  was  raised,  we 
cannot  speak  with  accuracy;  but 
this  much  is  certain,  that  Bir  John 
Kean^  on  his  return  from  Cabul, 
i^viewed  about  40,000  of  them ;  and 


declared  in  London  that  be  had  sel- 
dom looked  upon  a  finer  body  of  men, 
or  inspected  a  cavalry  or  an  artillery 
better  mounted,  equipped,  and  worked 
even  in  Europe. 

If  we  take  the  amount  of  Runjeet*s 
force,  when  it  stood  the  highest,  at 
150,000  of  all  arms,  we  shall  pro- 
bably not  go  mu^  beyond  the  mark. 
He  himself  called  it  200,000  re- 
gular and  irre^^lar ;  the  former 
consisting  of  disciplined  infantry,  the 
latter  of  matchlo(^  men,  fantastically 
dressed  according  to  their  own 
taste.  His  regular  cavalry,  about 
15,000  strong,  carried  swoids,  ca- 
rabines, and  some  of  them  lances; 
wearing  casques,  or  steel  helmets, 
with  shawls  wrapped  round  them; 
and  armour  over  their  quilted  jack- 
ets, either  mail  or  cuirasses.  The 
artillery  cannot  be  said  to  have  been 
formed  into  a  distinct  corps ;  for 
though  it  numbered  400  pieces,  there 
were  but  4000  gunners  drilled  to  use 
them,  the  working  of  each  piece  beinff 
entrusted  to  the  regiment  to  which 
it  was  attached.  Ail  accounts  unite, 
however,  in  describing  the  guns  as  ex- 
cellent ;  and  the  skill  of  the  gunners, 
whether  with  shot  or  shell,  as  highly 
creditable.  The  muskets  and  bayo- 
nets with  which  the  regular  infantry 
were  armed,  come,  like  their  cannon, 
from  the  great  fonndery  at  Lahore. 
They  are  much  inferior  to  those  in 
use  with  European  armies ;  and  the 
troops  that  wield  them  are  described 
by  Mr.  Osborne  and  others,  as  slow 
in  their  manner  of  working. 

It  may  be  so  as  far  as  parade 
manxBuvrefl  are  concerned,  but  the 
Sikhs  have  shewn  themselves  rapid 
marchers,  and  so  they  will  again 
in  the  event  of  a  prolongation  of 
the  war,  which  the  bloody  battles 
of  Mootkee  and  Ferozeshah  seem 
onljr  to  have  begun.  Moreover, 
their  capability  of  sustaining  iatiffae 
is  great.  Long  of  limb,  and  thin 
and  spare  in  their  figures,  they  ac- 
complish marches  which,  in  respect  of 
their  extent,  would  sorely  try  an 
Englishman.  They  have  repeatedly 
compassed  300  miles  in  eleven  days, 
a  feat  seldom  surpassed  even  in  a 
temperate  climate,  and  gigantic  where 
the  thermometer  stands  at  112^  *** 
the  shade. 

From  the  ratification  of  thr 
in  1809  up  to  1819  there  w 
or  no  direct  or  diplomatic  int< 


486 


The  Sikhs^their  Rise  and  Progrets. 


[April, 


between  the  soptenie  govenuneiit 
and  the  oonrt  of  Lahore.  At  the 
latter  of  these  dates  Sir  Alexander 
Barnes  arrived  at  Bnnjeet*8  durbar, 
bringing  with  him,  as  a  gift  from  the 
prince-regent,  four  enormous  dray- 
norses,  and  having  carried  back 
some  valuable  information  to  Cal- 
cutta, was  again  in  1831  employed 
on  a  similar  errand,  and  the  move 
was  followed  up  not  Ions  afterwardi 
by  a  personal  mterview  between  the 
MahaBajah  and  the  Governor-gene- 
ral. It  took  place  at  Buper,  and 
ended  in  a  solemn  renewal  of  the  en- 
gagements of  1809,  of  which,  having 
some  notable  plans  under  considera- 
tion, Runjeet  contrived  in  due  time 
to  obtain  the  written  minutes.  The 
next  thing  heard  of  him  was  that  he 
had  assembled  a  large  army  and  was 
about  to  march  into  Scinde.  And 
very  much  surprised  was  he  when 
the  British  government  made  him 
aware  that  no  such  scheme  of  con- 
quest could  be  permitted;  and  that 
if  he  ventured  to  cross  the  line  which 
separated  his  present  dominions  from 
those  of  the  Ameers  an  army  from 
Bombay  would  forthwith  compel 
him  to  return. 

Bunjeet  Sinj^h  was  very  indignant 
on  receiving  this  announcement.  He 
contrived,  however,  though  not  with- 
out sendinp^  the  British  envoy  away, 
to  hide  his  chagrin,  and  being  as 
prudent  as  he  was  bold,  3delded  with 
a  good  grace  where  resistance  seemed 
to  be  hopeless.  And  partly,  perhaps, 
because  nis  conduct  on  the  occasion 
was  appreciated,  partly  because  his 
good  will  was  worth  more  than  the 
cost,  Lord  Auckland,  in  the  treaty  of 
1838,  secured  to  him  for  ever  the 
provinces  which  he  had  wrested  fVom 
the  Aifffhans.  Nevertheless,  it  is 
now  well  understood  that  his  chiefs 
looked  with  much  dbfavour  on  his 
acquiescence  in  the  policy  of  England 
at  that  time,  and  scarcely  had  he  paid 
Nature's  great  debt  ere  the  hostile 
feelinff  which  the  natives  cherished 
towaras  the  English  connexion  shewed 
itself. 

The  Lion  of  the  Pui^aub  died  at  a 
yeiy  critical  moment  for  the  interests 
and  influence  of  the  English  in  India. 
We  had  entered  upon  our  insane  ex- 

"^ition  to  Cabul,  and  were  already 

Wed  in  difficulties  which  seem 

'inaccountably  to  have  taken 

surprise,  when  the  old  quwi 


feding  his  end  approadi,  gathered 
the  whole  of  his  principal  officers 
aboDt  him  and  caused  them,  in  his 
presence,  European  as  well  as  native, 
to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  his 
son,  Kurmk  Singh.  This  ceremony 
took  place  on  the  28th  of  June,  1839, 
and  m  afewda^  subseqnenUy  the 
Maha  Bajah  expired.  Now  Kurrad^ 
Singh  was  a  very  weak  man,  altoge- 
ther incapable  of  sustaining  the  bur- 
den of  such  an  empire  as  was  tiius 
hud  upon  his  shoulders,  and  though 
he  received  it  peaceably  enough  mit 
a  short  time  elapsed  ere  difficulties 
b^an  to  gAther  round  him.  He 
found  in  office  men  whom  his  fiither 
had  trusted,  Bajah  Dheian  ^ngh, 
with  his  son  the  Bajah  Mera  Singh, 
and  his  brothers  Croolab  Singh  and 
Soochet  Singh,  and  natundly  gave  to 
them  the  confidence,  which  they  ap- 
pear never  in  the  previous  reign  to 
have  abused.  But  though  able  mm 
and  sprung  from  a  good  nunOy,  they 
had  been  bom  poor,  and  worked 
their  way  from  the  station  of  private 
troopers  in  one  of  Bunjeet*s  regi- 
ments of  regular  cavalry.  Success 
appears  to  be  as  fruitful  of  ani- 
mosities among  the  Sikhs  as  among 
ourselves,  and  the  four  adventuvers, 
envied  at  every  stage,  newfound  that 
they  were  hated.  Other  great  men 
conspired  to  supplant  them  in  their 
master^s  councils,  and  succeeded. 
They  were  wrath,  and  entered,  with- 
out delav,  into  schemes  of  venge- 
ance. Tney  found  also  in  Noo  Nenal 
Singh,  the  son  of  the  new  sovereign, 
and  a  brave  and  clever  youth,  a  not 
unwilling  instrument  wherevdth  to 
work.  Under  the  pretext  of  forcing 
the  Maha  imah  from  the  presence  of 
a  dangerous  favourite,  tney  broke 
into  the  palace  with  armed  men, 
slew  their  rival,  Cheyt  Singh,  in  tiie 
king*8  presence,  and  cast  into  prison 
a  whole  family  of  nobles.  Then 
followed  a  proclamation,  which  set 
forth  that  Ivurruck  Singh  was,  from 
mental  imbedli^,  incapable  of  car- 

?ring  on  the  afllairs  of  ffovemmoit 
hen  was  Noo  Nehal  placed  as  le- 
gent  on  the  throne,  and  Biyah  Men 
ingh,  though  he  conceded  to  his  fk- 
ther  the  foremost  place  in  r^;ard  to 
rank,  became,  in  the  exercise  of  a 
paramount  influence  in  the  palace,  at 
once  a  rival  and  eye-sore  to  his 
nearest  of  kin. 
We  have  already  explained  that, 


1840.] 


The  Sikks-^their  Rise  and  Progress. 


487 


from  the  moment  that  the  Sikhs  de- 
voted themselves  '*  to  steel,"  all  the 
Humane  and  pure  moral  teaching  of 
Naubc  Shah  ceased  to  he  remem- 
bered. Instead  of  ahjurinff  war,  they 
'wa^ed  it  incessantly,  and  indulged 
besides  in  vices  of  every  sort,  as  well 
those  which  hmtalise  amid  their  ten- 
dency to  render  the  perpetrator 
effeminate,  as  in  crimes  of  violence 
and  an  utter  disregard  to  human  life. 
The  court  of  Noo  JNehal  soon  hecame 
a  perfect  sink  of  dehaucherv,  while 
his  father  was  understood  to  he  wast- 
ing away  in  his  seclusion  hy  a  dis- 
ease which  common  report  attri- 
buted to  poison.  At  last  the  ill-fated 
Kurruck  Singh  died,  and  his  hody 
vrao,  with  great  pomp,  consumed  to 
ashes.  But  Noo  Nehal  reaped  no 
accession  to  his  honours  from  the 
event,  for,  returning  on  his  elephant 
from  his  father^s  ohsequies,  the  ani- 
mal hacked  against  the  gateway  of 
the  palace  and  brought  down  a  mass 
of  brickwork  upon  the  head  of  its 
rider.  An  unworthy  favourite,  who 
occupied  the  same  houdah  vdth  him, 
was  Killed  upon  the  spot,  while  the 
skull  of  Noo  Nehal  received  so  se- 
vere a  fracture  that,  after  lingering  a 
few  hours  insensible,  he  expired. 

So  sudden  a  death  to  the  young 
monarch  occasioned  a  ^eat  sensation 
among  the  Sikhs.  It  dissolved,  more- 
over, the  whole  frame- work  of  society, 
for  there  was  no  direct  heir  to  claim 
the  throne — ^none,  at  least,  possessing 
personal  weight  enough  to  ensure  a 
readv  acquiescence  in  the  demand. 
As  far  as  England  is  concerned,  how- 
ever, the  probabilities  are  that  the 
death  of  Noo  Nehal  is  not  much  to  be 
regretted.  He  never  made  any  secret 
of  nis  hatred  of  us,  and  had  planned, 
and  would  have  doubtless,  sooner  or 
later,  carried  it  out,  a  project  for  in- 
volving us  simultaneously  in  a  war 
with  the  Punjaub,  witn  Nepaul, 
Birmah,  and  Cabul.  At  the  same 
time,  there  is  no  denying  that  his 
death  has  precipitated  the  struggle. 
The  revolutions  which  followed  it 
in  the  Punjaub,  fruitfal  as  they  have 
been  of  evil  to  the  natives  of  that 
state,  never  shook  the  hatred  where- 
with the  chiefs  and  soldiery  regard 
us.  Indeed,  so  implacable  is  this 
feeling,  that  the  refusal  of  his  tem- 
porary successor,  Shere  Singh  by 
name,  to  fall  upon  the  rear  of  Gene- 
ral Pollock's  army  and  cut  off  its 


convoys,  cost  the  individiial  hia  life. 
But  we  are  anticipating. 

When  Noo  Nehal's  fate  was  an- 
nounced to  the  minister  DlKJan  Sing, 
he  cast  his  eyes  at  once  upon  Shere 
Sing,  one  of  twin  sons  whom  Mehtab, 
one  of  Runjeet*s  wives,  had  bom, 
but  of  whom  the  old  Lion  never  would 
acknowledge  the  legitimacy  Shere 
Singh  was  a  man  of  considerable 
energy  of  character,  and  proceeded 
at  once  from  his  retirement  near 
Umretzur  to  assume  the  reins  of  go- 
vernment ;  but  the  widow  of  Kur- 
ruck Singh  opposed  him,  giving  out 
that  her  daughter-in-law,  the  relic 
of  Noo  Nehiu,  was  enceinte^  and  that 
it  was  her  dutv  to  act  as  regent  till 
the  child  should  be  bom.  At  first 
the  tale  was  credited,  so  both  Shere. 
Sin^h  and  Dhejan  Singh  withdrew 
again  from  the  capital ;  but  the  false- 
hood came  to  lignt  as  soon  as  men 
recalled  to  their  remembrance  that 
the  interesting  lady  numbered  no 
more  than  eignt  years  of  age.  Ac- 
cordingly, Shere  Singh  took  the  field 
again  and  prevailed.  But  these  claims 
and  counter-claims,  as  they  could  not 
be  maintained  without  constant  ap- 
peals to  the  troops,  so  they  soon 
converted  the  Sikh  army  into  a  body 
asdisorgan^ed  and  mercenary  as  were 
the  Pnetorian  bands  of  Rome.  Ri- 
vals bid  for  their  services,  and  were 
served  and  betraved  altematel]^. 
Thus  Shere  Singh  having  gained  his 
end  by  largesses,  kept  his  place  only 
till  he  forgot  to  be  profuse  among 
his  troops,  and  was  murdered  at  a 
review,  Uie  very  minister  who  raised 
him  to  the  throne  bein^  a  party  to 
the  deed.  Other  assassmations  and 
military  riots  followed,  till,  in  the  end, 
all  government,  or  semblance  of  a  go- 
vernment, ceased,  and  the  arm^,  after 
existing  by  plunder  as  lonff  as  it  could 
be  had  on  the  Sikh  side  of  the  Sutlej, 
advanced  towards  the  river  and  threat- 
ened the  protected  principalities. 

Here,  then,  we  stop  for  the  pre- 
sent.   Before  we  meet  our  readers 
again,  the  resulto  of  the  operations 
which  have  been  carried  on  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Loodiana  will  have 
transpired;  and  as  soon  as  we  fbei 
ourselves  in  a  position  to  deal  faheK 
by  so  important  a  subject,  we  will  r 
fail  to  give  a  sketch  both  of  them  f 
of  the  circumstances  which  shall 
pear  to  have  led  to  them  and  or 
out  of  tbemt 


Murilloi  or,  the  Painter  loitkout  Ambition, 


[April, 


HE  PAINTER  WITUOUT  AMBITIOK. 


It  ia  through  the  asaietance  of  the 
fine  aria  that  we  are  hcttcr  acquainli;d 
with  two  of  the  most  striking  epochs 
in  tlic  history  of  Europe  than  with 
any  other  period  in  history.  Wc 
allude,  first,  to  that  of  the  Reforma- 
tion, the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  and 
CardJD&l  Wmecy,  in  England,  with 
its  corresponding  period  in  Italy  and 
Germany,  the  reign  of  the  Emperor 
Charles  V.,  extending  to  Bpain,  to 
that  of  his  successor  and  son,  I'hillp 
II.,  the  bushand  of  our  Queen  Mary. 
The  second  period  alluded  to  in  the 
hbtory  of  Europe,  arrived  a  hundred 
years  after;  it  extends  OTcr  about 
flfly  years  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, coDiprisin^  the  ministries  of 
Cardinal  Ilicheheu  and  bis  successor 
Mazarin  in  France,  corresponding  in 
England  with  the  reign  of  Charles  I,, 
the  Rebellion,  and  the  restoration  of 
the  Stuarts  to  power.  It  ia  espe- 
cially to  painters  that  we  arc  in- 
debted for  our  knowledge  of  the  car 
dinal  ministers  of  both  France  and 
Spain,  of  their  sovereigns,  their 
friends,  their  enemies,  and  the  courts 
that  they  so  despotically  governed. 

The  sUlc  of  the  fine  arts  in  Eu- 
rope at  both  these  periods  (the  llc- 
foniiatiun  and  the  Hebelhon)  was 
glorious.  At  the  time  of  the  Re- 
formation, Holbein  resided  in  Eng- 
land;  Albert  Dnrcr  flourished  in 
Germany ;  Titian,  Tintoret,  Geor- 
gione,  and  Paul  Veronese  were  pro- 
tected by  the  Emperor  Charles  v.; 
Rapjiacl,  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Janet, 
and  Frismaticcio,  by  Francis  I. ; 
Michael  Augeiowasratherpcrsccuted 
than  protected  by  the  different  suc- 
cessivc  popes;  and  Pierin  del  Vago, 
along  with  several  other  artisHi, 
worked  at  Genoa  for  the  great  aud 
generous  Andrea  Doria. 

:u  and  Mazarin  were  equally 
ay  surrounded  by  a  halo  of 
painting,  owin^  to  their 
wealth  ■ ' — 


large  a  ., 
miidation  of  all  the  collee- 
^rancc ;  and,  notwithstand- 
iTCTtj'  and  the  bad  fortune 
'veretgns  of  England  and 


cordingly,  Rubens,  Vandyke,  Velis- 
qiiez,  and  Murillo,  along  with  the 
famous  miniature  painters,  Olivir, 
Pttitot,  and  Cooper,  having  Irans- 
niitled  to  posterity  the  likenesses  of 
all  those  by  whom  they  were  sur- 
rounded, we  know  the  air  and  codb- 
tenancc,  the  figure  and  costume  of 
the  moat  celebraled  persons  of  Eu- 
rope: and  thus  arc  we  become  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  the  beaulis 
and  wits,  aud  the  military  and  poli- 
tical leaders  of  the  day. 

We  know  the  peculiar  eipreslon 
of  the  unfortunate  Charles;  the  grace 
of    Henrietta     Maria  ;     the   porliv 

Srandeur  of  her  mother,  Mary  of 
tedccis;  the  BtcmnessofWallsleiii, 
accordmg  so  exactly  with  Schiller 
and  Coleridge's  description  of  lliat 
extraordinary  man ;  the  warrior  loots 
of  the  great  commander,  SpinoU; 
the  fatuity  of  Buckingham,  »o  eJ- 
actly  ill  accordance  with  his  charac- 
ter and  conduct ;  and  the  vutanlj 
of  feature  of  the  minister  of  SiBin, 
Olivares,  joined  to  bis  expression  of 
sicra  good  sense. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  last 
great  pwntcr  of  Europe,  Mnnlro, 
left  but  few  portraits  behind  nun  ol 
peraons  known  to  posterity.  Mnrilfo 
appears  to  have  been  as  S^K  "I 
portrait-painting  as  he  was  in  lu^ 
or  religious  ait.  The  portraits  M 
has  left  are  iwrfcct  in  point  of  trutO 
and  nature,  hut  Murillo  was  an  un- 
ambitious man.  He  neither  wugbi 
the  society,  the  approbation,  aoi '«' 
pationage  of  kings  or  ministers.  U 
his  character  of  a  mild  and  g«»'« 
nature,  there  was  a  sighing  and  strug- 
gling for  independence  of  '■"■"'JJ 
well  as  habits,  that  was  the  msriw 
characteristic  of  his  life.  Hisrepf^ 
sentations  of  himself  more  P"""/ 
this  spirit  of  independence  tnM  '"' 
eonlemplative  and  poetical  Mtuje, 
and  there  is  more  energy,  viTwHy- 
and  animal  life  expresswr'''*" '""  i 
be  expected  in  the  gentleness  m 
love  of  quiet  and  retirement  th« 
belonged  to  Blurillo's  character. 

There  arc  two  portraits  ofMunli" 
at  Paris ;  one  Is  reckoned  the  cM- 
rf'iCTiore  of  the  Spanish  gallerjia  tse 
louvre,  the  other  belongs  to  Loua 
Philippe.    Both  hare  been  eitp«T«* 


1846.]  Murillo ;  or,  the  Painter  unthout  Ambition. 


48d 


and  are  well  known  in  England 
through  the  engravings.  The  one 
belonging  to  the  king  represents  him 
older  and  more  grave  m  character 
than  the  former.  The  former  would 
suit  the  character  of  Columhus ;  it 
represents  boldness,  acuteness,  and 
sagacity.  The  latter  is  more  rcli-* 
gious  in  feeling  and  intent  on  his  art. 
Another  portrait,  by  and  of  Murillo, 
is  said  to  belong  to  Don  Bcrardo  de 
Friate  in  Spain,  was  engraved  there, 
and  the  engravings  sold  in  London ; 
and  a  fourth  portrait  is  known  in 
Holland  and  Belgium,  and  has  been 
engraved  in  those  countries. 

There  are  also  portraits  in  the 
Louvre  of  Murillo*s  mother  and  of 
his  servant ;  but  the  most  celebrated 
portrait  by  the  hand  of  Murillo  is 
now  in  England,  and  belongs  to  Lord 
Lansdowne,  who  bought  it  from  Mr. 
Watson  Taylor.  It  was  brought  to 
England  by  a  Frenchman,  but  was 
seen,  in  1806,  in  its  original  place, 
that  is,  hanging  up  in  the  repertory 
of  the  Hospital  de  los  Venerables  at 
Seville.  It  represents  the  superior, 
Don  Justino  Francisco  Neve,  the 
dear  friend  and  patron  of  Murillo,  in 
whose  arms  he  oicd.  It  is  an  whole- 
length  of  an  ecclesiastic,  sitting  in  his 
arm-chair,  and  very  perfect  as  por- 
traiture. There  is  also  in  the  Louvre 
the  portrait  of  Don  Andreas  de  An- 
trade,  with  his  dog,  a  whole-length. 
Of  this  picture  there  are  several  re- 
petitions in  England.  One  of  these 
repetitions  belongs  to  the  queen; 
another  is  at  Longford  Castle  in 
Wiltshire.  However,  Murillo's  por- 
traits are  rare.  He  painted  many 
abbots,  bishops,  monks,  and  generals 
of  monastic  orders  in  Spain,  for 
whose  convents  and  chapter-houses 
he  had  commissions  for  large  works 
of  a  religious  nature.  Of  these  per- 
sons, few  are  known  out  of  Spain, 
and  even  in  Spain  their  very  names 
and  histories  are  unknown  or  for- 
gotten. 

Murillo*s  reputation  as  a  painter 
rests  on  the  ideal  in  which  he  soared 
— on  the  earthly  nature  of  the  Span- 
iard raised  by  his  imagination  and 
traced  to  a  heavenly  nature— on  a 
poetical  feeling  which  came  not  forth 
in  words,  but  that  went  direct  from 
the  mind  to  the  hand ;  at  the  same 
time  his  art  was  so  entirely  national, 
that  the  most  ignorant  can  imme- 
diately distinguisn  his  pictures  from 


those  of  any  of  the  Italian  school. 
The  religious  fbeling  of  his  faith  and 
creed  is  expressed  in  every  perform- 
ance. We  read  in  his  divine  pictures 
the  history  of  Spain  and  of  the 
Spaniards ;  the  strong  and  fiery 
passions  of  the  South,  held  down  by 
the  Inquisition ;  and  the  gloom  and 
superstition  of  its  kings  and  nobles. 
In  Murillo*s  compositions  may  be 
read  many  a  well-known  story  in 
Spanish  life,  and  of  the  greatest  in- 
dividuals of  the  nation ;  the  wisdom 
of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  the  gloom 
and  intellect  of  the  Emperor  Cnarles 
v.,  the  crime  and  superstition  of 
Philip  n.,  the  s^acity  and  wisdom 
of  Ximenes  and  Olivares,  and  even 
the  weakness  of  the  imbecile  Charles 
II.,  that  monarch  who  so  much  ap- 
preciated Murillo*s  paintings,  that  he 
passed  a  law  prohibiting  their  ex- 
portation out  of  Spain,  thus  shewing 
sense  and  feeling  enough  to  estimate 
their  merit. 

Alongside  of  the  national  charac- 
teristics of  the  Spaniards  expressed  in 
Murillo*s  composition,  is  a  colouring 
that  tells  of  the  brilliancv  of  a  fine 
climate ;  it  is  the  beautiful  on  earth, 
in  air  and  vegetation,  allied  to  faith 
in  God  and  in  the  saints ;  all  these 
deeply  imbued  with  the  ferocity  of 
the  early  religious  wars,  which  made 
and  created  those  same  saints  and 
martvrs.  The  'moral  gloom  with 
which  Murillo  was  surrounded  only 
cleared  off  now  and  then  under  the 
influence  of  a  bright  sun  by  day, 
and  a  clear,  starry  firmament  by 
night. 

Like  Spagnoietto,  Murillo*s  repre- 
sentation of  our  Saviour  are  dis- 
agreeable in  the  extreme.  They 
express  human  nature,  not  divine 
nature;  Spaniards  in  feature,  pas- 
sions, and  countenance.  Of  all  the 
great  painters,  it  is  Titian  who  has 
best  combined  the  divine  and  human 
nature  of  our  Lord,  blended  and 
miuffled  as  Scripture  has  authorised 
our  belief.  It  must  be  rather  to  the 
pictures  of  the  Virgin  Mary  and  the 
martyred  saints  that  we  must  turn  to 
become  acauainted  with  Murillo. 
See  the  Maaonnas  in  Marshal  Soult*8 
gallery,  the  way  that  they  float  in 
air  on  the  canvass.  They  are  evi- 
dently painted  at  the  hour  of  setting 
sun  in  the  south  of  Europe,  and  nr 
in  the  street  of  a  crowded  metronr' 

under  the  influence  of  »  chul 


490 


Murillo ;  or,  the  Painter  without  AmHtiaiu  [April, 


easterly  "wind  or  a  November  fog. 
Hie  play  of  colouring  in  these  pictures 
is  so  narmonious,  that  the  idler 
lingers  long  before  them,  scarcely 
able  to  tear  himself  away,  and  yet 
not  able  to  explain  why  he  is  so 
attracted  there.  One  might  suppose 
that  Milton  had  contemplated  the 
crowd  of  sunny  cherubims  in  which 
the  fiepire  of  the  Madonna  is  encir- 
cled, tnose  lorely  beings 

"  In  the  coloar  of  the  roinbow  live. 
And  play  in  the  plighted  clouds." 

It  is  but  Murillo,  Correggio,  and 
Guido  that  can  paint  cherubims. 

But  it  is  difficult  to  bring  the  mind 
to  a  belief  that  the  same  artist  who 
painted  these  heavenly  visions,  and 
thus  represented  assumptions  and 
martyrdoms,  could  have  excelled  in 
low  life  in  the  manner  in  which 
Murillo,  as  a  painter,  is  classed  in  the 
gallery  at  Munich.  There  he  is 
known  but  as  the  painter  of  real  life. 
The  ragged  beggar-boys  of  Seville 
are  there  depicted,  devouring  grapes 
and  melons,  and  playing  at  cms  as 
eagerly  as  if  they  staked  thousands. 
Ail  objects  are  represented  with  a 
truth  that  has  caused  it  to  be  said, 
with  re^rd  to  these  paintings,  *'  that 
the  indiiference  to  the  extenial  and 
the  internal  freedom  amidst  rags  and 
poverty,  raises  these  same  paintings 
of  beggar  children  to  all  that  art  can 
depict  or  express." 

Tainting  began  at  once  in  Spain ; 
not  like  vie  schools  of  Italy,  gradu- 
ally and  successively,  but  dividing 
immediately  into  the  schools  of 
Seville  and  Madrid.  That  of  Madrid 
owed  its  origin  to  El  Mudo  (Nava- 
rette),  ha\nng  belonging  to  it  the 
families  of  Italian  origin  of  Castillo, 
Carducci,  and  others,  who  formed 
Sanchez  Coello  (the  favourite  painter 
of  Philip  II.),  Pereda,  Collantes,  and 
others. 

The  school  of  Seville  owed  its 
origin  to  Luis  de  Vargas,  and  Fietro 
Campana,  both  of  whom  were  formed 
and  educated  in  Italy,  and  this  same 
school  continued  with  Alonzo  Cano, 
Zurbaran,  Velasquez,  &c  and  ended 
with  Murillo. 

Murillo,  like  Velasquez  his  con- 
temporary and  master,  was  bom  at 
Seville;  and  baptised  on  the  1st  of 
January,  1618,  under  the  name  of 
Bartolome  Estebao,     jB^s  parents 


were  of  humble  origin,  his  youth 
>7as  passed  in  obscurity,  withoat 
education,  without  pleasures,  witfaoot 
resource ;  ^  amost  melancholy  youth,** 
as  one  of  his  biographers  remaurks  of 
him,  often  leads  to  greatness.  At 
last  Juan  de  Castillo,  a  distant  re- 
lation, took  the  boy  out  of  compassion 
and  charity  to  his  home,  whose  re- 
putation, destined  to  be  so  celebrated 
m  the  history  of  art,  was  to  carry 
down  the  name  of  the  master  to 
posterity.  Castillo  drew  correctly, 
out  could  only  instruct  the  youth  m 
the  dry  and  cold  colouring  of  a  pro- 
fessor of  Seville ;  and  Munllo  shortly 
left  him  to  go  to  Cadiz,  where,  as  it  may 
be  said,  he  became  self-taught.  Hie 
poor  boy,  deprived  of  all  instruction, 
of  all  study,  had  to  gain  his  daily 
bread  by  nis  pencil,  of  which  he 
scarcely  Knew  tne  use,  and  ooold  not 
make  great  proficiency  in  an  art 
which  ne  used  but  as  the  means  of 
procuring  daily  food  and  clothing. 
He  sola  his  religious  pMnriyy 
(painted  on  wood)  by  the  aonn,  to 
persons  going  to  America,  and  to  the 
newly  converted  population  of  Peru 
and  Mexico;  but  in  painting  these 
daubs,  he  ac(juired  the  habit  of 
handling  a  pamt- brush,  "lanaging 
his  colours,  and  nothins  more. 

Murillo  had  attained  the  age  of 
twenty-four,  when,  fortunately  for 
him,  an  enthusiastic  Spanish  nainter, 
Pietro  de  Moya,  passed  tnron^ 
Seville,  to  which  town  Murillo  had 
returned.  Moya  had  been  in  Lon- 
don, and  had  been  instructed  by 
Vandyke,  and  brought  with  him,  on 
his  revisiting  Spain,  the  brilliant 
colouring  and  the  good  taste  with 
which  Vandyke  inspired  hh  ad- 
mirers. 

At  the  sight  of  Moya*8  paindnss, 
Murillo  fell  into  an  ecstasy  of  cfe- 
liffht ;  he  was  touched  with  tne  spark 
wnich  sets  the  fire  of  genius  into  a 
flame.  But  what  could  he  do?  He 
had  neither  money  nor  patronue; 
and  soon  after  Moya*s  visit  to  Sevme, 
Vandyke  died,  so  that  it  would  have 
been  useless  to  have  gone  to  England ; 
a  journey  to  Italy  was  too  expenave 
to  think  of  undertaking ;  ana  Moya 
himself,  then  but  a  schoUur,  was  going 
to  Granada.  In  a  fit  of  despair, 
Murillo  took  a  desperate  resolution ; 
he  bought  a  large  canvass,  cutting  it 
into  small  pieces,  which  he  covered 
with  little  figures  of  the  Madonnai 


Id46.]  Muriito;  or,  the  Painter  without  Ambition. 


491 


of  the  lofant  Saviour,  with  c|ienibims 
and  garlands  of  flowers;  and  after 
disposinff  of  these  trifles  at  the  fair 
at  SeTiue,  vdth  a  few  pence  in  his 
pocket,  fieither  asking  advice  nor 
taking  leave  of  anv  one,  he  set  out 
on  foot  for  Madrid.  It  was  in  the 
year  1643.  Arrived  at  Madrid,  he 
presented  himself  to  Velasquez,  then 
in  all  the  glory  of  his  reputa- 
tion and  his  good  fortune.  The 
king's  favourite  painter  received  the 
young  artist  kindly,  encouraged  him, 
promised  him  work,  gave  him  the 
means  of  studying  the  works  of  the 
great  Italian  masters  in  the  palaces 
and  at  the  Escurial,  and  in  his  own 
studio  Velasquez  finally  instructed 
and  advised  mm. 

Murillo  passed  two  years  in  study- 
ing the  great  colourists.  The  mas- 
ters he  preferred  were  Titian,  Kuhens, 
and  Vandyke,  Spagnoletto,  and  Velas- 
quez. Less  anxious  for  renown  than 
for  independence  he  left  Madrid, 
notwithstanding  Velasquez^s  wish  to 
retain  him  in  that  city,  and  returned 
to  Seville  in  1645.  It  was  said  that 
Murillo  took  a  disgust  t6  courts  and 
cities,  in  consequence  of  the  disgrace 
of  the  prime  minister  Olivares,  whidi 
happened  in  1643.  He  was  a  great 
patron  of  the  arts,  and  was  sent  into 
exile,  where  he  shortly  after  died. 
His  loss  was  deeply  deplored  by 
Velasquez;  and  it  is  probable  that 
the  pure  and  simple-mmded  Murillo 
may  have  taken  a  disgust  to  Madrid 
in  consequence  of  this  public  event. 
No  persuasions  of  Velasquez  could 
get  him  to  profit  by  the  king^s  bount]^, 
or  recommendations  to  pursue  his 
stupes  at  Rome.  Painters  are  as 
excitable  as  patriots  or  poets. 

Hardly  hai  Murillo*s  absence  been 
noticed  in  his  native  town ;  but  the 
astonishment  was  great  when  the 
following  year  he  painted  for  the 
CJonvent  of  San  Francisco  three 
pictures,  one  was  ^*The  Death  of 
Saint  Claire,**  a  picture  that  formed 
the  principal  ornament  latterly  of 
the  i^guado  Gallery  at  Paris.  Every 
one  inquired  where  Murillo  could 
have  learned  this  noble  and  attractive 
style,  which  partook  of  the  manner 
of  Spagnoletto,  Vandyke,  and  Ve- 
lasquez, and  that  was  thought  from 
its  variety  to  be  superior  to  all  that 
they  had  produced. 

Notwitnstanding  the  envy  which 
generally  follows  success,  notwith- 
VOL.  xxzin.  vo.  cxcvi. 


standing  the  rivalry  and  hatred  of 
Valdez  lical,  of  Herrera  the  younger, 
whom  Munllo  had  dethroned  from 
being  at  the  head  of  their  profession 
as  painters,  he  soon  rose  from  indi- 
gence and  obscurity  to  renown ;  and, 
m  1648,  he  was  m  a  position  good 
enough  to  obtain  in  marriage  the 
hand  of  a  rich  and  noble  lady,  Doiia 
Beatrix  de  Cabrera  y  Sotomajor. 

From  the  year  that  Munllo  re- 
turned to  Seville  (1645),  until  his 
death  in  1682,  he  rarely  left  his 
native  place,  nor  indeed  scarcely  his 
studio;  spending  there  thirty-seven 
years  in  constant  and  incessant  em- 
plo^ent,  and  by  that  means  pro- 
ducing the  enormous  number  of 
pictures  that  wero  the  work  of  his 
pencil.  Given  up  to  his  art,  he 
sought  neither  the  patronage  of  the 
great  nor  the  applause  of  the  multi- 
tude, but  nu^e  his  happiness  in 
placing  his  talent  at  the  cusposal  of 
those  persons  who  pleased  himself  in 
indul^  his  taste  for  composing  hia 
pictures  m  retirement,  and  for  l^ing 
completely  independent  in  his  daily 
habits  of  life.  The  chapters,  the 
monasteries,  and  the  grandees  of 
Spain  sent  incessant  requests  and 
orders  to  the  artist  of  Seville ;  and 
there  were  few  cathedrals,  sacris- 
ties, or  convents,  that  did  not 
possess  some  representation  of  their 
patron  saint  by  his  hand.  Most  of 
the  illustrious  and  ancient  families 
of  Spain  also  aspired  to  the  portrait 
of  some  ecclesiastic,  friend,  or  rela- 
tion painted  by  him. 

The  Convent  of  Capuchins  at 
Seville  at  the  beginning  of  this  cen- 
tury, possessed  nineteen  first-rate 
pictures  painted  by  Murillo,  and  the 
Hospital  de  la  Caridad  had  in  its 
littie  church  eight  of  his  most  fa- 
mous compositions.  He  received 
from  the  hospital  for  the  painting  of 
''  Moses  Striking  the  Rock,*'  13,300 
reaux  de  vellon ;  for  the  **  Miracle 
of  the  Loaves  in  the  Desert,"  15,975 ; 
and  for  all  the  eight  pictures  to- 
gether, 32,000  reaux  de  vellon,  a 
sum  amounting  to  about  850/.  of  our 
money — a  large  sum  for  those  days, 
and  K>r  Spain.  The  most  laborious 
and  productive  time  of  his  life  was 
from  his  fiftieth  to  his  sixtieth  year ; 
proving  in  art  as  in  literature,  that 
the  greatest  works  of  a  man  of  genius 
are  towurds  his  decline,  when  he  can 
unite  experience  and  habit  to  inveu" 


4U 


Murillo ;  cf^  the  Painter  without  Ambition.  [April, 


but  the  love  of  ease  and  retirement 
of  the  painter  was  not  to  be  con- 
quered by  ambition  or  honours.  He 
mused  the  commands  of  his  sove- 
reign under  various  pretences,  and 
continued  to  live  on  at  Seville  in  in- 
dependence, that  is,  in  constant  la- 
bour and  study  of  his  art.  Pictures 
vrere,  however,  sent  by  him  to  the 
royal  collection. 

But  Murillo  was  not  so  totally  en- 
grossed with  his  art  as  to  rorget 
others.  With  the  aid  of  his  artist- 
friends,  and  the  public  authorities, 
he  established  an  academy  at  Seville, 
of  which  he  became  director.  It  was 
opened  in  1660,  at  a  time  of  public 
rejoicing  in  Spain, — at  the  peace  of 
the  Pyrenees  and  the  marriage  of 
Louis  XIV.  to  the  Infanta  lySiria- 
Theresa.  Neither  in  this  work  nor  in 
any  other  did  Murillo  receive  any 
assistance  from  his  own  family.  His 
eldest  son  went  to  the  West  Indies 
as  a  merchant;  his  second  son  be- 
came a  canon  Of  the  cathedral  at 
Seville;  and  his  daughter  took  the 
veil  in  the  convent  of  the  Madre  de 
Dios. 

In  1681  Murillo  went  to  Cadiz  to 
paint  the  altar-piece  of  ^*  The  Mar- 
riage of  St.  Catherine,**  for  the  Con- 
vent of  Capuchins;  he  fell  from  a 
scaffolding  erected  near  the  painting, 
was  much  hurt,  and  returned  to  his 
home  at  Seville,  ill,  inconsequence 
of  his  fall.  After  lingering  for  some 
time  he  died  in  April,  1682,  and  was 
buried  in  a  vault  in  the  church  of 


Santa  Cms,  under  the  chapel  where 
is  the  painting  of  ^  The  Descent  from 
the  Cross,**  by  Pietro  Campana,  and 
where  Murillo  was  accustomed  to 
pass  some  part  of  each  day  in  prayer 
and  meditation.  This  magnificent 
picture  had  been  ever  the  object  of 
Murillo*s  admiration  and  reverence 
throughout  his  life.  And  in  that 
same  chanel  where  so  many  holy 
thoughts  nad  entranced  him,  in  the 
same  spot  where  his  mind  had  ever 
been  intent  on  religious  meditations 
and  feelings,  his  body  found  a  rest- 
ing-place. There  is  a  harmony  and 
a  peace  in  the  whole  of  Munllo*8 
life  and  death,  very  powerful  in  his 
religious  and  poetical  Ufe;  and  in 
him  is  found  a  painter,  as  Words- 
worth is  a  poet. 

It  is  related,  that  one  day  when 
the  churdi-doors  were  about  to  be 
closed  towards  evening,  the  sacristan 
reminded  MurUlo,  then  in  medita- 
tion before  his  favourite  picture,  that 
it  was  time  to  depart.  '*  1  wait,**  said 
Murillo,  still  in  his  ecstasy,  '^I  wait 
until  these  holy  persons  have  taken 
away  the  body  of  our  Lord." 

.Alter  Murillo*s  death,  it  was  disco- 
vered how  entirely  dianterested  his 
life  and  character  had  been.  No 
further  fortune  did  he  possess  than 
a  hundred  reals,  that  he  nad  received 
the  day  before  he  died;  and  that 
money,  with  sixty  ducats  found  in  a 
drawer,  comprised  the  whole  of 
earthly  possessions. 


1846.] 


On  some  Illustrated  ChildrerCt  Books, 


495 


ON  SOME  1LLUSTRATBD  CHILDREN'S  BOOKS.* 


BT  MICHAEL  AKGBLO  TITMAB8H. 


Tbe  character  of  Gruff-and-Tackle- 
ton,  in  Mr.  Dickens^s  last  Christmas 
story,  has  always  appeared  to  me  a 
great  and  painful  blot  upon  that 
otherwise  charming  performance. 
Surely  it  is  impossible  that  a  man 
whose  life  is  passed  in  the  making  of 
toys,  hoops,  whirlieip,  theatres,  dolls, 
jack-in-boxes,  and  ingenious  knick- 
Knacks  for  little  children,  should  be  a 
savage  at  heart,  a  child-hater  by 
nature,  and  an  ogre  by  disposition. 
How  could  such  a  fellow  succeed  in 
his  trade  P  The  practice  of  it  would 
be  sufficient  to  break  that  black  heart 
of  his  outright.  Invention  to  such  a 
person  woiSd  be  impossible ;  and  the 
continual  exercise  of  his  profession, 
the  making  of  toys  which  he  despised 
for  little  beings  whom  he  hated, 
would,  I  shotud  think,  become  so 
intolerable  to  a  Gruff-and-Tackleton, 
that  he  would  be  sure  to  fly  for 
resource  to  the  first  skipping-rope  at 
hand,  or  to  run  himself  througn  his 
dura  ilia  with  a  tin  sabre.  The  ruf- 
fian I  the  child -hating  Herod  I  a 
squadron  of  rocking-horses  ought  to 
trample  and  crush  such  a  fellow  into 
smdUer  particles  of  flint.  I  declare 
for  my  part  I  hate  GrufiT-and-Tack- 
leton  worse  than  any  ogre  in  Mother 
Btmch.  Ogres  have  been  a  good  deal 
maligned.  They  eat  children,  it  is 
true,  but  only  occasionally^— children 
of  a  race  which  is  hostile  to  their 
Titanic  progeny;  they  are  good 
enough  to  their  own  young.  Witness 
the  ogre  in  Hopomythumb,  who  gave 
his  seven  daughters  seven  crowns, 
the  which  Hopomythumb  stole  for 
his  brothers,  and  a  thousand  other 
instances  in  fairy  histonr.  This  is 
INirenthetic,  however.  The  proposi- 
tion is,  that  makers  of  children's 
toys  may  have  their  errors,  it  is  true, 
but  must  be,  in  the  main,  honest  and 
kindly-hearted  persons. 

I  wish  Mrs.  Marcet,  the  Right 
Honourable  T.  B.  Macaulay,  or  any 
other  person  possessing  universal 
knowledge,  would  take  a  toy  and 


child's  emporium  in  hand,  and  ex- 
plain to  us  all  the  geographical  and 
historical  wonders  it  contains.  That 
Noah's  ark,  with  its  varied  contents, 
— its  leopards  and  lions,  with  glued 
pump-handled  tails;  its  light-blue 
elephants  and  X  footed  ducks ;  that 
ark  containing  the  cylindrical  family 
of  the  patriarch  was  fashioned  in 
Holland,  most  likely,  by  some  kind 
pipe-smoking  friends  of  youth  by  the 
siae  of  a  slimy  canal.  A  peasant  in  a 
Danubian  pine- wood  carved  that  ex- 
traordinary nut -cracker,  who  was 
painted  up  at  Nuremberg  afterwards 
m  the  costume  of  a  hideous  hussar. 
That  little  fir  lion,  more  like  his 
roaring  original  than  the  lion  at 
Bame^  or  the  lion  of  Northumber- 
land House,  was  cut  by  a  Swiss 
shepherd  boy  tending  his  goats  on  a 
mountain-side,  where  the  chamois 
were  jumping  about  in  their  untan- 
ned  leather.  I  have  seen  a  little 
Mahometan  on  the  Etmeidan  at  Con- 
stantinople, twiddling  about  just  such 
a  whirl^g  as  you  may  behold  any 
day  in  the  hanos  of  a  small  Parisian 
in  the  Tuileries  Gardens.  And  as 
with  the  toys  so  with  the  toy-books. 
They  exist  every  where ;  there  is  no 
calculating  the  distance  through 
which  the  stories  come  to  us,  the 
number  of  languages  through  which 
they  have  been  filtered,  or  the  cen- 
tunes  during  which  they  have  been 
told.  Many  of  them  have  been  nar- 
rated, almost  in  their  present  shape, 
for  thousands  of  years  since,  to 
little  copper-coloured  Sanscrit  chil- 
dren, listening  to  their  mother 
under  the  palm-trees  by  the  banks 
of  the  yellow  Jumna  — their  Brah- 
min mo^er,  who  softly  narrated 
them  through  Uie  ring  in  her  nose. 
The  veiy  same  tale  has  been  heard 
by  the  Northmen  Vikings  as  they 
lay  on  their  shields  on  deck ;  and  by 
the  Arabs,  couched  under  the  stars 
on  the  Svrian  plains  when  the  flocks 
were  gathered  m,  and  the  mares  were 
picketted  by  the  tents.    With  regard 


*  Felix  Sammerly's  Home  Treasury.    Gammer  Gorton's  Story-Books.    Revised 
by  Ambrose  Merton,  Gent.    Stories  for  the  Seasonst    The  Good-Natured  B" 
London,  1846.    Joseph  Candall,  Old  Bond  Street. 


496 


On  some  Illustrated  Children's  Books. 


[April, 


to  the  story  of  Cinderella,  I  have 
heard  the  late  Thomas  Hill  say  that 
he  rememhered  to  have  heard,  two 
years  hefore  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion 
came  hack  from  Palestine,  a  I^orman 

jongleur but,  in  a  word,  there  is 

no  end  to  the  antiquity  of  these  tales, 
a  dissertation  on  wnich  would  be 
quite  needless  and  impossible  here. 

One  cannot  help  looking  with  a 
secret  envy  on  the  children  of  the 
present  day,  for  whose  use  and  en- 
tertainment a  thousand  ingenious  and 
beautiful  things  are  provided  which 
were  quite  unknown  some  few  scores 
of  years  since,  when  the  present 
writer  and  reader  were  very  possibly 
in  the  nursery  state.  Abominable 
attempts  were  made  in  those  days  to 
make  useful  books  for  children,  and 
cram  science  down  their  throats  as 
calomel  used  to  be  administered  under 
the  pretence  of  a  spoonful  of  currant- 
jelly.  Such  picture-books  as  we  had 
were  illustrated  with  the  most  shame- 
ful, hideous,  old  wood-cuts  which 
had  lasted  through  a  century,  and 
some  of  which  may  be  actually  seen 
lingering  about  still  as  head-pieces 
to  the  Catnach  ballads,  in  those  rare 
corners  of  the  town  where  the  Cat- 
nach ballads  continue  to  be  visible. 
Some  painted  pictures  there  were  in 
our  time  likewise,  but  almost  all  of 
the  very  worst  kind;  the  hideous 
distortions  of  Kowlandson,  who  peo- 
pled the  picture-books  with  bloated 
parsons  in  periwigs,  tipsy  aldermen 
and  leering  salacious  nymphs,  horrid 
to  look  at.  Tom  and  Jerry  follow^ed, 
with  choice  scenes  from  the  Cockpit, 
the  Round  House,  and  Drury  Luie. 
Atkins's  slang  sporting  subjects  then 
ensued,  of  wnich  the  upsetting  of 
Charleys*  watch-boxes,  leaping  five- 
barred  gates,  fighting  duels  with 
amazing  long  pistols,  and  kissing 
short  -  wabted  damsels  in  pinE 
racncers,  formed  the  chief  fun. 
The  firgt  real,  kindly  agreeable,  and 
infinitely  amusing  and  charming  il. 
lustrations  for  a  aiild*s  book  in  Eng- 
land which  I  know,  were  those  of 
the  patriarch  George  Cruikshank, 
devised  for  the  famous  German  po- 
pular stories.  These  were  translated 
by  a  certain  magistrate  of  Bow  Street, 
whom  the  Excanmer  is  continually 
abusing,  but  whose  name  ought 
always  to  be  treated  tenderly  on  ac- 
count of  that  ^reat  service  which  he 
did  to  the  nation.    Beauty,  fun,  and 


fancy,  were  united,  in  these  admirable 
designs.    They  have  been  copied  all 
over  Europe.   From  the  day  of  their 
appearance,  the  happiness  of  children 
may  be  said  to  have  increased  im- 
measurably.   AAcr  Cmikshank,  the 
German  artists,  a  kindly  and  good- 
natured  race,  with  the  organ  of  phi- 
loprogenitiveness  strongly  developed, 
b^n  to  exert  their  wits  for  cmld- 
ren.  Otto  Speckter,  Neareuther,  the 
Dusseldorf  school,  the  book-designen 
at  Leipsig  and  Berlin,  the  nn^tieal 
and  tender-hearted  Overbeck,  and 
numberless  others,  have  contribiited 
to  the  pleasure  and  instruction  of 
their  little  countrymen.     In  Franfx 
the  movement  has  not  been  so  re- 
markable.   The  designers  in  the  Ia«c 
twenty  years  have  multiplied  a  faun- 
dred-iold :  their  talent  is  undeniable: 
but  they  have  commonly  such  an 
unfortunate  penchant  for  what  15 
wrom,  that  tne  poor  little  children 
can  hardly  be  admitted  into  their 
company.    They  cannot  be  bendited 
by  voluptuous  pictures  illustrative 
of  Balzac,  Beranger,  Manon-Lncaot 
and  the  like.    The  admirable  Char- 
let  confined  himself  to  war  and  bat- 
tle,  and  leg  -^loires    de  la    Fraau 
chiefly :  the  brilliant  designs  of  Ver- 
net  and  Baffetare  likewise  almost  all 
military.    Gavami,  the  wittiest  and 
cleverest  desi^er  that  ever   lived 
probably,  depicts  grisettes,  Ste.  Pe- 
lagie,  bals-masques,  and  other  sub- 
jects of  town-life  and  intrig^ie,  qohe 
unfit  for  children's  edification.    The 
caustic  Granville,  that  Swift  of  the 
pencil,  dealt  in  subjects  scarcely  more 
suited  to   children  than    the    fool 
satires  of  the  wicked  old  Cynic  cX 
St.    Patrick's,  whose  jokes  to   my 
mind  arc  like  the  fun  of  a  demon , 
and  whose  best   excuse   is  Swifl*^ 
Hospital. 

In  England  the  race  of  designers 
is  flourishing  and  increasing^  ai^  tlic 
art  as  applied  to  the  nursery  (and 
where,  if  you  please,  you  who  sneer, 
has  our  affectionate  Mother  Art  a  bet- 
ter place  ?),  has  plenty  of  practition- 
ers and  patronage.  Perhaps  there  may 
be  one  or  two  of  our  readers  who 
have  heard  of  an  obscure  nabHcation 
called  Punchy  a  hebdomaoal  miscel- 
lany, filled  with  drawings  and  jokc^ 
good  or  bad.  Of  the  artists  cngagtd 
upon  this  unfortunate  periodical,  the 
cnief  are  Messrs.  Leech  and  i>oyIe, 
both  persons,  I  would  wsger,  remark- 


1846.] 


On  same  Illustrated  Children's  Boohs, 


497 


able  for  loye  of  children,  and  dailj 
guying  proofs  of  this  gentle  disposi- 
tion. Whenever  Mr.  Leech,  "in 
the  course  of  his  professional  career,** 
has  occasion  to  depict  a  child  hy  the 
side  of  a  hottle-nosed  alderman,  a 
bow-waistcoated  John  Bull,  a  police- 
man, a  Brook-Green  Volunteer,  or 
the  like,  his  rough,  grotesaue,  rol- 
licking pencil  becomes  centie  all  of 
a  sudden,  he  at  once  Mis  into  the 
floftest  and  tenderest  of  moods,  and 
dandles  and  caresses  the  infant  under 
his  hands,  as  I  have  seen  a  huge 
whiskered  grenadier  do  m  St.  Jameses 
Park,  when  mayhap  (but  this  ob- 
servation goes  for  nothing),  the  nurse- 
maid chances  to  be  mretty.  Look  at 
the  picture  of  the  £ton-boy  dining 
with  his  father,  and  saying,  "Go- 
yemor,  one  toast  before  we  go — the 
ladies  I"  This  picture  is  so  pretty, 
and  so  like,  that  it  is  a  positive  fact, 
that  every  father  of  an  Eton-bojr 
declares  it  to  he  the  portrait  of  his 
own  particular  offspring.  In  the 
great  poem  of  "the  Brook-Green 
V  olunteer,"  cantos  of  which  are  issu- 
ing weekly  from  the  Punch  press; 
bXL  the  infantine  episodes,  without 
exception,  are  charming ;  and  the 
volunteer's  wife  such  a  delightful 
hint  of  black-eyed  smiling  innocence 
and  prettiness,  as  shews  that  beauty 
is  always  lyin^  in  the  heart  of  this 
humorist, — this  good  humorist,  as  he 
assuredly  must  be.  As  for  Mr.  Doyle, 
his  praises  have  been  sun^  in  this 
Magazine  already  :  and  his  pencil 
every  day  gives  far  better  proofs  of 
his  genuine  relish  for  the  grotesque 
and  beautiful  than  any  that  can  be 
produced  by  the  pen  of  the  present 
writer. 

The  real  heroes  of  this  article, 
however,  who  are  at  length  intro- 
duced after  the  foregoing  preliminary 
ilourishjarc,  Mr.  Joseph  Cundall,  of  1 2 
Old  Bond  Street,  in  the  city  of  West- 
minster, publisher ;  Mr.  I^lix  Sum- 
merly, ol  the  Home  Treasury-office ; 
Mrs.  Harriet  Myrtle ;  Ambrose  Mer- 
ton,  Gent.,  the  editor  of  Oammer 
GurtotCs  Story  Books;  the  writer 
for  writers)  of  the  Good-natured 
Bffary  The  Story-Booh  of  Holyday 
Hours,  &C.,  and  the  band  of  artists 
who  have  illustrated  for  the  benefit 
of  jrouth  these  delightful  works  of 
fiction.  Their  names  are  Webster, 
Townshend,  Absolon,  Cope,  Horsley, 
Bedgrave,  H.  Corbould,  Franklin, 


and  Frederick  Tayler, — names  all 
famous  in  art ;  nor  surely  could  ar- 
tists ever  be  more  amiably  employed 
than  in  exercising  their  genius  in  be- 
half of  young  people.  Fielding,  I 
think,  mentions  with  praise  the  name 
of  Mr.  Newbery,  of  Saint  Paul's 
Churchyard,  as  tne  provider  of  story- 
books and  pictures  for  children  in 
his  day.  As  there  is  no  person  of 
the  late  Mr.  Fielding's  powers  writ- 
ing in  this  Magazine,  let  me  be  per- 
mitted, humbly,  to  move  a  vote  of 
thanks  to  the  meritorious  Mr.  Joseph 
Cundall. 

The  mere  si^ht  of  the  little  books 
published  by  Mr.  Cundall— of  which 
some  thirty  now  lie  upon  my  table — 
is  as  good  as  a  nosegay.  Their  actual 
covers  are  as  briDiant  as  a  bed  oi 
tulips,  and  blaze  with  emerald,  and 
orange,  and  cobalt,  and  gold,  and 
crimson.  I  envy  the  feelings  of  the 
^oung  person  for  whom  (after  hav- 
ing undergone  a  previous  critical 
examination)  this  collection  of  trea- 
sures is  destined.  Here  arc  fairy 
tales,  at  last,  with  real  pictures  to 
them.  What  a  library! — what  a 
picture-gallery  I  Which  to  take  up 
first  is  the  puzzle.  I  can  fancy  that 
perplexity  and  terror  seizing  upon 
the  small  individual  to  whom  all 
these  books  vrill  go  in  a  parcel,  when 
the  string  is  cut,  and  the  brown 
paper  is  unfolded^  and  all  these  de- 
lights appear.  Let  us  take  out  one 
at  hazard :  it  is  the 


(( 


HISTOBY  OP  TOM  HICKATHBITT 
THE  CONQUEROB." 


He  is  bound  in  blue  and  gold :  in 
the  picture  Mr.  Frederick  Tayler 
has  represented  Tom  and  a  fncnd 
slaughtering  wild  beasts  with  pro- 
dif^ious  ferocity.  Who  was  Tom 
Hickathrift  the  Conqueror?  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  him?  Fielding 
mentions  him  somewhere,  too;  but 
his  history  has  passed  away  out  of 
the  nursery  annals,  and  this  is  the 
first  time  his  deeds  have  ever  come 
under  my  cognisance.  Did  Fielding 
himself  write  the  book  ?  The  style 
is  very  like  that  of  the  author  of 
Joseph  Andrews,  Tom  lived  in  the 
Isle  of  £ly  in  Cambridgeshire,  the 
story  says,  in  the  reign  of  William 
the  Conqueror ;  his  father,  who  was 
a  labourer,  being  dead,  "  and  >*' 
ther  being  tender  of  their  sr 
tained  him  by  her  own  labc 


498 


On  some  Illustrated  Children's  Books. 


[April, 


as  she  could ;  bnt  all  his  delight  was 
in  the  comer,  and  he  ate  as  much  at 
once  as  would  serve  six  ordinary 
men.  At  ten  years  old  he  was  six 
feet  high  and  three  feet  thick;  his 
hand  was  lUse  a  shoulder  of  mutton, 
and  every  other  part  proportionate ; 
but  his  great  strength  was  as  yet 
imknown.* 

The  idea  of  ktent  strength  here  is 
prodigious.  How  strong  the  words 
are,  and  vigorous  the  similes !  His 
hand  was  like  a  shovlder  of  mutton. 
He  was  six  feet  high,  and  three  feet 
thick:  all  his  delight  was  in  the 
comer,  and  he  ate  as  much  as  six 
men.  A  man  six  feet  high  is  nothing, 
but  a  fellow  three  feet  Hiick  is  tre- 
mendous. All  the  images  heap  up 
and  complete  the  idea  of  Thomas's 
strength.  His  gormandising  indi- 
cates, his  indolence  exaggerates,  the 
Herculean  form.  Tom  first  shewed 
his  strength  by  innocently  taking 
away  from  a  farmer,  who  told  him 
he  might  have  as  much  straw  as  he 
could  carry,  a  thousand  weight  of 
straw.  Another  offering  him  and 
telling  him  to  choose  a  stick  for  his 
mother's  fire,  Thomas  selected  a  largje 
tree,  and  went  off  with  it  over  his 
shoulder,  while  a  cart  and  six  horses 
were  tugging  at  a  smaller  piece  of 
timber  ^uind.  The  great  cnarm  of 
his  adventures  is,  that  they  are  told 
with  that  gravity  and  simplicity 
which  only  &longs  to  real  trath : — 

"  Tom's  fame  being  spread,  no  one 
darst  give  bim  an  angry  word.  At  last  a 
brewer  at  Lynn,  who  wanted  a  lusty  man 
to  carry  beer  to  the  Marab  and  to  Wis- 
beacb,  bearing  of  him,  came  to  bire  bim  ; 
but  bo  would  not  be  hired,  till  bis  friends 
persuaded  bim,  and  bis  master  promised 
Dim  a  new  suit  of  clothes  from  top  to  toe, 
and  tliat  be  sbould  eat  and  drink  of  tbe 
best  At  last  Tom  consented  to  be  bis 
man,  and  the  master  shewed  btm  wbicb 
way  be  was  to  go ;  for  tbere  was  a  mon- 
strous giant  kept  part  of  tbe  Marsb,  and 
none  dared  to  go  that  way,  for  if  tbe 
giant  found  tbem,  be  would  either  kill  or 
make  tbem  bis  servants. 

"  But  to  come  to  Tom  and  bis  master. 
Tom  did  more  in  one  day  than  all  tbe  rest 
of  bis  men  did  in  three;  so  that  bis  mas- 
ter, seeing  bim  so  tractable  and  careful  in 
'is  business,  made  him  bis  bead  man,  and 
usted  bim  to  carry  beer  by  bimself,  for 
needed  none  to  help  biro.    Tbus  be 
It  cacb  day  to  Wisbeacb,  a  journey  of 
■*  twenty  miles. 
But  ^oin^  tbis  way  so  often,  a^d 


finding  tbe  other  road  that  the  giant  kept 
was  nearer  by  the  half,  Toip  baring  in- 
creased bis  strength  by  good  liring,  and 
improved  bis  courage  by  drinking  so  much 
strong  ale,  resolved  one  day,  as  be  was 
going  to  Wisbeacb,  without  saying  any 
tbing  to  bis  master,  or  to  bis  felloir- 
servants,  to  Uke  the  nearest  road  or  lose 
bis  life;  to  win  the  horse  or  lose  tbe 
saddle ;  to  kill  or  be  killed,  if  be  met 
with  tbe  giant. 

"  Thus  resolved  he  goes  tbe  nesrest 
way  with  bis  cart,  flinging  open  tbe  gates 
in  order  to  go  through ;  but  the  giant 
soon  espied  bim,  and  seeing  him  a  daring 
fellow,  vowed  to  stop  his  journey,  lad 
make  a  prize  of  bis  beer :  but  Tom  cswd 
not  a  fig  for  bim  ;  and  the  giant  met  bim 
like  a  roaring  lion,  as  though  be  woold 
swallow  bim  up. 

"  •  Sirrah,'  said  he,  '  who  gare  yoa 
authority  to  come  this  way!  Do  yon 
not  know,  that  I  make  all  stsnd  in  feir 
of  mel  And  you,  like  an  impudent 
rogue,  must  come  and  fling  open  my  gate 
at  pleasure !  A  re  you  so  careless  of  your 
life,  that  you  do  not  care  what  you  do! 
I  will  make  you  an  example  to  all  rogues 
under  tbe  sun.  Dost  tbou  not  see  iiojr 
many  beads  of  those  that  have  offended 
my  laws  bang  upon  yonder  tree  t  Thine 
shall  bang  above  them  all  •' 

"  '  None  of  your  prating  !'  said  Tom ; 
'  you  shall  not  find  me  like  them.* 

"  •  No !'  said  the  giant. 

"  *  Why  you  are  but  a  fool,  if  yon 
come  to  fight  me,  and  bring  no  weapon 
to  defend  thyself!'  cries  Tom.  '  I  fl«'« 
got  a  weapon  here  shall  make  you  know 
I  am  your  master/ 

"  •  Say  you  so,  sirrah  V  said  the  giant » 
and  then  ran  to  his  cave  to  fetch  his  club, 
intending  to  dash  bis  brains  out  at  a 
blow.  .. 

"  While  tbe  giant  was  gone  for  W 
club,  Tom  turned  bis  cart  upside  down, 
and  took  tbe  axletree  and  wheel  for  ^ 
sword  and  buckler ;  and  excellent  weapons 
tbey  were,  on  such  an  emergency. 

"  Tbe  giant  coming  out  again  began  to 
stare  at  Tom,  to  see  him  take  the  wbeei 
in  one  of  his  hands,  and  tbe  axletiee  m 
tbe  other. 

"  '  Ob,  oh!'  said  the  giant,  •  you  are 
like  to  do  great  things  with  those  to- 
stmmenU ;  1  have  a  twig  here  that  win 
beat  thee,  thy  axletree,  and  wheel  to  tne 
ground  !*  , 

"  Now  that  which  tbe  gisnt  csl^a 
twig,  was  as  thick  as  a  miH-po*^»  ■? 
with  this  tbe  giant  made  a  blow  at  w» 
with  such  force,  as  made  bis  wheel  ctiic*' 
Tom,  nothing  daunted,  gave  bim  ss  brs 
a  blow  on  the  side  of  tbe  bead,  wwc 
made  bim  reel  again.  a 

"  •  What,'  said  Tom,  *  have  yoa  B°' 
drunk  with  my  small-beer  alresdy? 


1846.] 


On  seme  lUtatrated  Children's  Books* 


499 


"  Bat  the  giaiit«  x^eorenn^,  mtde 
many  bard  blows  at  bim,  wbich  Tom 
kopt  off  witb  bis  wbeel,  lo  tbat  be  ra- 
ceired  but  Tory  little  burt. 

"  In  tbe  meaotime,  Tom  plied  tbe 
gient  so  well  witb  blows,  tbat  tbe  sweat 
and  blood  ran  togetber  down  bis  face, 
who,  being  almost  spent  witb  figbting  so 
long,  begged  Tom  to  let  bim  drink,  and 
then  be  would  figbt  him  again* 

"  '  No  no,'  said  be,  *  my  motber  did 
not  teacb  me  sncb  wit ;'  and,  finding  the 
giant  grow  weak,  be  redoubled  bis  blows, 
till  be  brougbt  bim  to  the  ground. 

*'  The  giant,  finding  himself  overoome, 
roared  hideously,  and  begged  Tom  to 
spare  his  life,  and  he  woula  perform  any 
thing  he  should  desire.— even  yield  him- 
self unto  him,  and  be  his  servant. 

"  But  Tom,  having  no  more  mercy  on 
him  than  a  bear  upon  a  dog,  laid  on  bim 
till  he  found  bim  breathless,  and  then 
cut  off  his  bead ;  after  which  be  went 
into  his  cave,  and  there  found  great  store 
of  gold  and  ailver,  which  made  bis  heart 
leap  for  joy." 

This  must  surelv  be  Fieldine :  the 
battle  18  Quite  like  the  Finding- 
Homer.  Tom  ^  haying  increased  his 
strength  by  good  living,  and  improved 
his  courage  by  drinking  strong  aU^  is 
a  phrase  only  to  be  written  by  a 
great  man.  It  indicates  a  lazy 
strength,  like  that  of  Tom  himself  in 
the  corner.  "  The  ffiant  roared  hi- 
deously, but  Tom  had  no  more  men^ 
on  him  than  a  bear  upon  a  dog."  If 
9XXJ  body  but  Harry  Fieldi^  can 
write  of  a  battle  in  this  way,  it  is  a 
pity  we  had  not  more  of  the  works  of 
the  author.  He  says  that,  for  this 
action,  Tom,  who  took  nossession  of 
the  giant* s  cave  and  all  nis  sold  and 
rilver,  **was  no  longer  oedkd  plain 
Tom,  but  Mister  Hickathrift  ?'* 

With  the  aid  of  a  valorous  oppo- 
nent, who  was  a  tinker,  and  who 
being  conquered  by  Tom  in  battle 
became  his  fast  friend  ever  after,  Tom 
overcame  10,000  disaffected,  who  had 
gathered  in  the  Isle  of  Ely  Tthey 
must  have  been  10,000  of  the  refugee 
Saxons,  under  Hereward  the  Saxon, 
who  fled  from  the  tyranny  of  the 
Conaueror,  and  are  mentioned  bv 
Mr.  Wright  in  his  lately  pubUshed, 
learned,  and  ingenious  essays, — and, 
indeed,  it  was  a  shame  that  one  of 
the  German  name  of  HickaOirift 
should  attack  those  of  his  own  fleui 
and  blood) ;  but  for  this  anti-national 
feat  Tom  was  knifhted,  and  hence- 
forth appeared  oxSy  as  Sir  Thomas 
Hickathnft. 


"  News  was  brought  to  the  king,  bv 
tbe  commons  of  Kent,  tbat  a  very  dread- 
ful giant  waa  landed  on  one  of  tbe  islands, 
and  bad  brought  with  him  a  great  num« 
ber  of  bears,  and  also  yonne  lions,  witb  a 
dreadful  dragon,  upon  which  be  always 
rode  ;  which  said  monster  and  other 
ravenous  beasts  bad  much  frightened  all 
the  inhabitants  of  tbe  island.  And, 
moreover,  they  said,  if  speedy  course  was 
not  taken  to  suppress  them,  they  would 
destroy  the  country. 

'*  Tbe  kiog,  heariog  of  this  relation, 
was  a  little  startled ;  yet  he  persuaded 
them  to  return  home,  and  make  the  best 
defence  they  could  for  the  present,  as- 
suring them  that  he  would  not  forget 
them,  and  so  they  departed. 

«  The  kiog,  hearmg  these  dreadful 
tidings,  immediately  sat  in  council,  to 
consider  what  was  beet  to  be  done. 

'•At  length,  Tom  Hickathrift  was 
pitched  npon,  as  being  a  bold,  stout  sub- 
ject ;  for  which  reason  it  was  judged 
necessary  to  make  him  governor  of  that 
island,  wbich  place  of  trust  he  readily 
accepted,  and  accordingly  went  down 
witb  bis  wife  and  family  to  take  pos« 
session  of  the  same,  attended  by  an  hun- 
dred and  odd  knights  and  genuemen,  at 
least. 

"  Sir  Thomas  had  not  been  there  many 
days,  when,  looking  out  of  his  own  win- 
dow, be  espied  this  giant  mounted  on  a 
dreadful  dragon,  and  on  bis  shoulder  he 
bore  a  club  of  iron  ;  he  bad  but  one  eye, 
wbich  was  in  tbe  middle  of  bis  forehead, 
and  was  as  lai^e  as  a  barber's  basin,  and 
seemed  like  flaming  iire  ;  tbe  hair  of  his 
bead  hung  down  like  snakes,  and  bis 
beard  like  rusty  wire* 

"  Lifting  up  bis  e^es,  be  saw  Sir 
Thomas,  who  was  viewug  him  from  one 
of  tbe  windows  of  the  castle.  The  giant 
then  began  to  knit  his  brow,  and  to 
breathe  out  some  threatening  word  to  the 
governor,— who,  indeed,  was  a  little  sur- 
prised at  the  approach  of  such  a  monstrous 
and  ill-favoured  brute. 

"  Tbe  giant  finding  that  Tom  did  not 
make  much  haste  to  get  down  to  bim,  be 
alighted  from  his  dragon,  and  chained 
bim  to  an  oak-tree  ;  then  marched  to  the 
castle,  setting  his  broad  shoulders  against 
the  corner  of  tbe  wall,  as  if  be  intended 
to  overthrow  the  whole  bulk  of  tbe  build- 
ing at  once.    Tom  perceiving  it,  said,-. 

" '  Is  this  tbe  game  you  would  be  atl 
faith,  I  will  spoil  your  sport,  for  I  have  a 
delicate  tool  to  pick  your  tooth  with.' 
Then  taking  tbe  two-handed  sword  which 
the  king  gave  bim,  and  flin^g  open  tbe 
gate,  be  there  found  tbe  giant,  who,  by 
an  unfortunate  slip  in  his  tbrustittg,  waa 
fidlen  all  along,  and  lay  not  able  to  help 
himself. 

**  <  How  now/  laid  Tom, '  do  yoo  com 


£00 


On  Mine  Hbutrated  CkUdreti't  Books. 


[April, 


h0tt  io  takt  up  yoar  lodging  V  tnd  with 
that,  be  nn  hit  long  awoid  between  the 
giant*!  abouldera,  which  made  the  brute 
groan  aa  loud  aa  thunder. 

"  Then  Sir  Thomas  pulled  out  hit 
swofd  agttin*  ^nd  at  six  or  seren  blowa 
amote  off  his  head  ;  and  then  turning  to 
the  dragon,  which  waa  all  this  while 
dhained  to  the  tree,  without  any  further 
words,  but  with  four  or  fire  blows,  cut 
off  the  head  of  that  also." 

Once  and  again  this  must  be  Harry 
Fidding.  Tne  words  of  the  nar- 
ratiye  are  of  immense  strength  and 
simplicity.  When  Tom  runs  his 
long  sword  through  the  giant,  it  only 
^  makes  the  brute  groan  as  loud  as 
thunder.**  An  inferior  hand  would 
have  spoiled  all  by  tiying  a  dying 
speech.  One  recognises  Fieldmg^s 
eudffel-stvle  by  the  force  and  sim* 
pUcity  of  the  blow ;  and  the  great- 
ness of  Hickathrift  is  only  increased 
by  the  conclusion  of  his  history.  He 
is  left  sinking  a  sonjg  at  a  very  noble 
and  spleimid  feast,  to  which  he  in- 
vited all  his  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances, when  he  made  them  the  fol- 
loyring  promise,*- 

"  My  friends,  while  I  ha?e  strength  to 
atand. 
Moat  manfully  I  will  pursue 
All  dangers  till  I  dear  tlie  land 
Of  lions,  boars,  and  tigera  too/' 

And  that  is  all.  How  line  the 
conclusion  is !  The  enormous  cham- 
pion does  not  die,  but  lapses  into 
silence.  He  may  be  alive  yet  some- 
where in  the  fens,  drinking  mutely. 
A  health  to  him  I  The  dlay  was  a 
good  day  which  brought  the  ac- 
quaintanoe  of  Tom  Hickathrift. 

Fuient  Grissell  and  the  babes  in 
the  wood  are  dressed  by  Mr.  Cundall 
in  scarlet  and  gold — attired  in  glo- 
rious raiment  luter  their  death  and 
sufiferings  as  a  reward  for  their  mar- 
tjrrdom  in  life.  As  for  Grissell,  I 
have  always  had  my  opinion  about 
her.  She  is  so  intolerably  patient  as 
to  provoke  any  husband,  and  owed  a 
great  deal  of  her  ill-treatment  to  the 
shameful  meekness  with  which  she 
bore  it  But  the  babes  in  the  wood 
must  awaken  the  sympathy  of  any 
but  an  ogre,  and  every  man,  woman, 
or  child  who  has  a  heart  for  poetry 
must  feel  himself  stirred  by  the 
hnee  which  teU  their  sad  story  :-- 


"  He  took  the  children  by  the  hand. 

Teara  standing  in  their  eye. 
And  bade  them  atraightway  foUov  him  ; 

And  look,  they  did  not  cry. 
And  two  long  miles  he  led  them  on. 

While  they  for  food  complain. 
'  Stay  here,'  quoth  he,  '  lU  brings  yoQ 
bread 

When  I  come  back  again.* 

These  pretty  babes,  with  hand  in  hand 

Went  wandering  up  and  down. 
But  neyer  more  could  aee  the  man 

Approacbiog  from  the  town. 
Their  pretty  lips  with  blaekbeniea 

Were  all  besmear *d  and  dyed. 
And  when  they  saw  the  darksome  night 

They  sat  them  down  and  cried. 

Thus  wander'd  these  poor  innocents 

Till  death  did  end  their  grief; 
Id  one  another's  arms  they  died, 

As  wanting  due  relief! 
No  burial  this  pretty  pair 

Of  nny  man  receives. 
Till  Robin  Redbreast  piously 

Did  cover  them  with  learea." 

Sweet  little  martyrs  I  Poetry  eon- 
tains  nothing  more  toadiing  than 
their  legend.  They  have  £m  §ar 
hundreds  of  years  embalmed  m  it. 
Time  has  not  spoiled  the  male  of 
their  sweet  fiues,  nfrtling  clMck  by 
eheek  under  the  yeilow  leavcL  E»- 
bins  have  become  sacred  hoda  fer  the 
good  deed  they  did.  TVy  wfll  be 
allowed  to  sing  in  Buadise  Cor  tlHL 

""Bevis  of  Hampttti,*  thai  hmam 
knight,  is  not  a  warrior  aa^  to  the 
taste  of  the  present  timc&  Be 
a  great  deal  too  much,  and 
any  sense  of  hnmonr  aid 
inspiring  any  awe;  hot  **G«t  ef 
Warwick"  is  a  tme 
the  steward's  son  has 
deeds,  and  by  his  valour  _    . 

has  won  the  hand  of  bir  Fcfiee.  ^d 
with  it  her  father*s  titk  of  EjH  .< 
Warwick,  the  fiuDooos  ■anna  b 
smitten  with  a  aenae  of  ike  i  air ji  M 
all  earthly  thinn,  even  «f  mi 'in  » 
love  and  of  Cur  Pelioe,  wko  eaaaoRv 
like  a  pions  soul  as  she  is.  tkM  hie 
should  take  the 


"While  Guy 
soUtode,"  the  legcMi 
like  a  mourning 
in  sable  attire,  and  n>««d 
absence  of  her  hctowd 
whole  delight  was  in  di 
aod   heavenly 
the  wel&re  of  her 
And,  to  shew  her 


lu: 


Vm^  Oi 


fti 


1846.] 


On  same  Illustrated  Children's  Books. 


501 


her  jewels  and  coatly  robes,  and  gave 
the  money  to  the  poor." 

Years  and  years  after  her  lord  was 
gone  there  used  to  come  for  alms 
to  her  castle-gate  an  old  pilgrim, 
whom  the  lair  Felice  relieved  with 
hundreds  of  other  poor.  At  last,  this 
old  hermit,  feeling  his  death  drawing 
nigh,  took  a  ring  from  his  hand  and 
sent  it  to  fair  Felice,  and  she  knew 
by  that  token  it  was  her  lord  and 
husband,  and  hastened  to  him.  And 
Guy  soon  after  died  in  the  arms  of 
his  beloved  Felice,  who,  having  sur- 
vived him  only  fifteen  days,  was  bu- 
ried in  the  same  grave.  »o  ends  the 
story  of  Giy,  the  bold  baron  of  price, 
and  of  the  rair  maid  Felice.  A  wor- 
thy legend.  His  bones  are  dust,  and 
his  sword  is  rust,  and  his  soul  is  with 
the  saints,  I  trust.  Mr.  Taylor  sup- 
plies two  noble  illustrations  to  Sir 
Bevis  and  Sir  Guy. 

We  must  pass  over  the  rest  of  the 
Gkunmer  Gurton  library  with  a  brief 
commendation.  The  ballads  and  sto- 
ries are  food,  the  pictures  are  good, 
the  type  is  good,  the  covers  are  fine, 
and  the  price  is  small.  The  same 
may  be  said  of  The  Home  Treasury, 
edited  by  the  benevolent  Felix  Sum- 
merly. This  Hame'-Trecuury  con- 
tains a  deal  of  pleasant  reading  and 
delightful  pictures.  The  fairy-tales 
are  skilfully  recast,  and  charmingly 
illustrated  with  coloured  prints  (per- 
haps all  prints  for  children  ought  to 
have  pretty  colours,  by  the  way)  hy 
some  of  the  good-natured  artists  be- 
fore mentioned.  The  delightful 
drawings  for  LUde  Bed  Ruiing'hood 
are  supplied  by  Mr.  Webster.  Mr. 
Townshend  nobly  illustrates  Jack 
and  the  Bean-Stalk  ;  while  the  pretty 
love-tale  of  Beast  and  the  Beauty  is 
delineated  by  Mr.  Redgrave.  In  the 
book  of  Fairy  Tales  and  Ballads 
Cope,  Redgrave,  and  Taylor,  vie  with 
each  other  which  shall  most  shew 
i^Lill  and  recreate  youth.  For  the 
Story-books  of  the  Seasons  and  the 
Mrs.  Harriet-Myrtle  Series  Mr.  Ab- 
solon  has  supplied  a  profusion  of  de- 
signs, which  are  all,  without  excep- 
tion, charming.  The  organ  of  love 
of  children  as  developed  on  that 
gentleman*s  cranium  must  be  some- 
thing prodigious,  and  the  bump  of 
benevolence  quite  a  mountain. 
Blessed  is  he  whose  hat  is  enlarged 
by  them ! 


Let  a  woid  be  said,  in  ^w,^— ^,., 
regarding  the  admirable  story  of  the 
Good'tuSured  Bear,  one  of  the  wit- 
tiest, pleasantest,  and  kindest  of 
books  that  I  have  read  for  many  a 
long  day.  Witness  this  extract, 
which  contjuns  the  commencement 
of  the  beards  autobiography : — 

"  *  I  am  a  native  of  Poland,  and  was 
bom  in  one  of  the  largest  and  most  com- 
fortable caves  in  the  forest  of  Towskip* 
owski.  My  father  and  mother  were 
greatly  respected  by  all  the  inhabitants 
of  the  forest,  and  were,  in  fact,  regarded, 
not  only  by  all  their  own  species,  but  by 
every  other  animal,  as  persons  of  some 
consequence.  I  do  not  mention  this  lit- 
tle circumstance  from  any  pride,  but 
only  out  of  filial  affection  for  their  me- 
mory. 

" '  My  father  was  a  man  of  a  proud 
and  resentful — my  father,  I  meant  to  say, 
was  a  person,  of  a  proud  and  resentful 
disposition,  though  of  the  greatest  con- 
rage  and  honour;  but  my  mother  was 
one  in  whom  all  the  qualities  of  the 
fairer,  or  at  least,  the  softer  sex,  were 
united.  I  shall  never  forget  the  patience, 
the  gentleness,  the  skill, and  the  firmness 
with  which  she  first  taught  me  to  walk 
alone.  I  mean  to  walk  on  all  fours,  of 
course  -,  the  upright  manner  of  my  pre- 
sent walking  was  only  learned  after- 
wards. As  this  infant  efibrt,  however, 
is  one  of  my  very  earliest  recollections, 
I  have  mentioned  it  before  all  the  rest, 
and  if  you  please,  I  will  give  you  a  little 
account  of  it' 

<"  Ob  !  do,  Mr.  Bear,'  cried  Gretchen ; 
and  no  sooner  had  she  uttered  the  words, 
than  all  the  children  cried  out  at  the 
the  same  time,  'Oh  !  please  do,  sir,' 
The  bear  took  several  long  whiffs  at 
his  pipe,  and  thus  continued.-. 

'* '  My  mother  took  me  to  a  retired 
part  of  the  forest,  where  few  animals 
ever  came ;  and  telling  me  that  I  most 
now  stand  alone,  extended  both  paws, 
and  slowly  lowered  me  towards  the 
earth.  The  height,  as  I  looked  down, 
seemed  terrible,  and  I  felt  my  legs  kick 
in  the  air  with  fear  of,  I  dia  not  know 
what,  till  suddenly  I  felt  four  hard 
things,  and  no  motion.  It  waa  the  fixed 
earth  beneath  my  fonr  infant  legs.  '  Now,' 
said  my  mother,  '  yon  are  what  is  called 
standing  alone !'  But  what  she  said  I 
heard  as  in  a  dream.  With  my  back  in 
the  air,  as  though  it  rested  on  a  wooden 
trussel,  with  my  nose  poking  out  straight, 
snufiing  the  fresh  breeze,  and  the  many 
scents  of  the  woods,  my  ears  pricking 
and  shooting  with  all  sorts  of  new  sounds, 
to  wonder  at,  to  want  to  have,  to  lov€ 
or  to  tumble  down  at, — and  my  et 
staring  before  me  full  of  light,  and  c 


bi  lome  lUttitrated  ChiUren*$  Bookt. 


[April, 


LDP  tfaingi,  I  aatmsi 
arer  whiab  I  bid  lU 
Nut  chanf^e,  and  ii 
fixed  till  soma  wod 
led.     Bat   Ihe    fim 


lb  me,  and  Me  irbsre 
iked  up  unon^'  tbe 
lyi  St  mj  iboulder, 
B  lip  of  my  noie  — 


I  Ibing  Ibit  CBught 
the  fini  Ibiiig  I  uw 
a  blue  floirer  iritb  a 
liddle,  which  1  efter- 
rop  of  deir.  Some- 
>  liRla  blue  dnrling 
.  almoit  louched  my 
the  odour  of  it  wns 
letimei  I  Ihougbt  it 
ing  KBj  oET.     When 

rhere  it  vaa,  thongh 
I  had  thought  lo  do. 
J  I  law  upon  tbe 
iking  tittle  creilure. 

wiUi  ■  lonad  ball 
ti  back,  of  a  beanti- 
ith  brown  and  red 
be  creature  morei) 
Od  BppeHred  aliraya 
n  aad  adviea  of  two 
id,  that  went  feeling 

Preaeotly  it  alowlT 
It  fare  paw.  and  'l 
uld  feel,  or  amell,  oi 
er  my  bni;  bat  the 
imi  touched  the  hair 
rni  ihrunk  into  no- 
ctme  out  agaie,  and 
moved  away  in  tn- 
lilel  waa  wondering 
Eoding — far  I  never 
:   tb«  crealare, 

lade  the  harn  lancy 
ben,  I  waa  wondering 
wa*  auddeolydrawD 


looked  apair  of  very  bright,  round,  mall 
eyas,  which  were  starine  up  at  me. 

"If  I  bad  known  how  to  walk,  I 
abould  have  itepped  back  a  few  alapa 
when  I  aaw  tboie  bright  little  eyea,  but  I 
nerer  ventured  to  lifl  a  paw  from  tbe 
earth,  ainc*  mf  motbor  bad  Grit  lat  me 
down,  nor  did  I  know  bow  to  do  lo,  or 
what  were  Ihc  proper  thoughta  or  mo. 
lioni  to  begin  with.  80  I  alood  looking 
St  the  eyei ;  and  preiently  1  law  that  the 
bead  was  yellow,  and  all  the  hoe  and 
throat  yellow,  and  that  it  bad  ■  large  ' 
mouth.  '  Wfaat  you  have  juitaMHi,' aud 
my  mother,  '  wa  call  a  inail ;  and  what 
you  not*  Me  ia  a  fri^.'  The  nimea,  how- 
ever, did  not  help  me  at  all  to  undor. 
itand.  Wby  the  Snt  abould  have  InnHal 
from  my  paw  eo  •udJenly,  and  why  thi> 
creature  ahould  continue  to  atare  up  at 

CBivB.  I  fipaclad,  however,  that  it 
would  loOD  come  alowly  crawling  forth, 
and  iheo  I  abould  see  whether  it  would 
aUo  avoid  me  in  the  aame  manner,  I  now 
obierisd  that  its  body  and  breaat  were 
double  aomehow,  and  that  iia  pawa  ware 
very  large  far  in  liie,  but  had  no  hair 
upon  them,  wbich  I  thought  wae  proba- 
bly occasioned  by  iu  slow  craKling  bar- 
ing nibbed  it  all  off.  I  bad  icarcely 
made  these  observations  end  reflecliaDi, 
when  a  beani  of  bright  light  breaking 
through  [he  treei,  the  creature  suddenly 
gave  a  great  hop  right  up  under  my  noae, 
and  I,  tbinking  the  world  waa  at  an  end, 
ioitantly  fell  Sat  down  on  one  aide,  and 
lay  there  wailing  \" 

Those  vho  wish  to  komr  more 
atMut  him,  and  to  see  Mr.  Tayler't 
admirable  likenesses  of  him,  mart 
buy  the  book  for  themselves.  For 
it  must  be  kept  away  from  its  right 
owners  no  longer,  and  most  be  con- 
^  si^ed  to  brown  paper  and  bound  up 
„^_  with  twine  along  with  its  beantifu 
comrades,  never  to  see  the  light 
asain  unm  the  packet  opens  nnoer 
the  astonished  eyea  of  A.  H.  T. 

M.  A.  TiTMAlSH. 


IS46.]  Annette*  503 


ANNETTE. 

[In  Widcombe  churchyard,  near  Bath,  there  is  a  grave,  over  which  hsa  been  placed 
a  broken  pillar  bearing  the  word  *'  Annette,"  without  date  or  fnither  name.] 

Thsbs  stands  beneath  the  chestnut  shade 

A  solitary  tomb, 
The  wild  flowers  round  it  droop  and  fiide, 

And  then  renew  their  bloom ; 
The  wind  doth  whisper  through  the  grass 

Its  mournful  wild  regret, 
The  rolling  seasons  o*er  it  pass ; 

But  who  wert  thou,  Annette  ? 

The  ivy  clasps  its  tender  form 

Around  the  sculptured  base, 
As  'twere  to  shiela  it  firom  the  storm 

Within  its  kind  embrace. 
Perhaps  this  may  a  token  be 

Of  love  which  sorrows  yet, 
And  fain  would  shed  a  tear  o*er  thee, 

Poor  desolate  Annette ! 

Yet  strange  it  is  that  at  thy  grave 

No  record  there  should  be 
That  might  from  blank  oblivion  save 

A  memory  of  thee  : 
No  line  to  tell  how  sood  or  £ur,-~ 

It  is  as  though  '^  forget*' 
Were  the  one  word  enffraven  there^ 

And  not  thy  name,  Annette. 

The  golden  smile  of  even  dwells 

Unon  thy  resting-place ; 
Perchance  of  thy  last  hour  it  tells, 

How  Death's  imfeared  embrace 
Came  to  thee  like  the  coming  night, 

And  found  that  thou  hadst  yet 
A  smile  of  faith  and  love  as  bright 

As  this  calm  hour,  Annette. 

And  yet  it  might  be  that  the  hour 

Of  thy  departure  came 
When  winti^  storms  bqgan  to  lower 

And  love,  and  hope,  and  fame, 
All  spread  their  wings  to  fly  ih)m  thee* 

And  thou,  with  ills  beset, 
Laid'st  down  the  burden  joyfblly 

Which  broke  thy  heart,  Annette. 

Perchance  thy  life  was  one  long  night 

Of  sorrow,  care,  and  pain. 
That  Hope's  bright  star  shed  not  its  light 

Upon  the  dreury  plain ; 
And  that  beneath  this  verdant  mound, 

Where  oil  before  have  met 
Earth's  lonely  ones,  thou  too  hast  found 

A  home  at  last,  Annette. 


[April,  1»4& 


The  weary  and  dcflpaiiing  heart, 

UnBouent,  unloved  before, 
Would  urill  with  joy  to  find  its  part 

la  life's  vain  pageant  o'er, 
Andgladlj  sceK  an  unknown  grave. 

Where  all  may  soon  toiget 
How  Mtik  beneath  life's  turbid  ware 

Thy  fragile  form,  AniKtte. 

Perchance,  when  we  are  lying  low, 

And  flowers  above  ui  bloom, 
A  future  race,  as  we  do  now. 

May  gue  upon  thy  tomb. 
All  giey  and  hoaiy  then  with  time, 

A^d  see  that  one  word  seU 
So  touching,  wmple,  and  aablime. 

And  aak,  "  Who  was  Annette  ?" 

As  little  they  as  we  can  know 

Of  what  thy  tale  mieht  be, 
,  And  each  sunnise  is  i^e  now 

And  vain  is  symmthy. 
Above  thy  pillaiea  room 

By  mourners'  tean  unwet. 
Our  words  and  lays  are  idly  spent 

To  guess  thy  fix,  Annette. 

Perchance  our  tombs  may  stand  by  th 

With  epitaph  and  name. 
To  tell  our  anetstry  and  line. 

And  blazon  forth  our  fame ; 
All  tb«  fond  praises  friends  can  gire 

'    -  -  long  record  set, 


That  hope  is  Tun,— a  hundred  years 

Strange  footsteps  will  have  preiKd 
The  spot  where  aU  our  hopes  and  fears 

Have  found  alike  their  rest 
Then  some  may  say,  if  they  can  brace 

The  time- worn  reeoid  yet, 
"  Whose  is  this  name,  and  whose  this  race, 

And  what  this  word  '  Annate  f" 

Thy  memory  will  be  as  dear 

To  future  times  as  ours, — 
Alike  nnmoumed  hy  sigh  or  tear, 

Alike  undecked  with  flowers ; 
Alike  the  weeds  and  gnus  will  grow, 

Where  none  their  prooieea  let, 
On  gravea  unknown  as  thine  is  now 

Tow  .     •       - 


h-FilnM  by  Ovsrgi  BucUy,  Cutis  StiNt,  Ldcata  Stain. 


FRASER'S    MAGAZINE 


FOB 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 


No.  CXCVII. 


MAY,  1840. 


Vol.  XXXIII. 


THE  OLD  judge;    OR,  LIFE  IN  A  COLOKT. 

TUS  LOm  HOUSE. 

BT  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "•  SAM  SUCK  THE  CLOCKBIAKEE,**  '^  THE  ATTACH^,*'  ETG4 


This  morninff  I  aocompaoied  the 
Judge  and  Misa  Sandford  in  their 
slei^  on  an  excursion  into  the 
country.  The  scene,  though  rather 
painful  to  the  eyes,  was  indescribably 
brilliant  and  beautiful.  There  had 
been  during  last  night  and  part  of 
yesterday  a  slight  thaw,  accompanied 
by  a  cold  fine  rain  that  froze  the 
moment  it  fell  into  ice  of  the  purest 
crysta].  Erery  deciduous  tree  was 
covered  with  tnis  glittering  coating, 
and  looked  in  the  distance  like  an 
enormous  though  graceful  bimch  of 
feathers ;  while  on  a  nearer  approach 
it  resembled,  with  its  limbs  now 
bending  under  the  heayy  weight  of 
the  transparent  incrustation,  a  daz- 
zling chandelier.  The  open  fields, 
coyered  with  a  rough  but  hardened 
surfiice  of  snow,  glistened  in  the  sun 
as  if  thickly  strewed  with  the  largest 
diamonds;  and  eyery  rail  of  the 
wooden  fences  in  this  general  pro- 
fusion of  ornaments  was  decorated 
with  a  delicate  fringe  of  pendent  ice, 
that  radiated  like  Dumished.  silyer. 
The  heayy  and  sombre  spruce,  loaded 
with  snow,  rejoiced  in  a  green  old 
age.  Haying  Its  massy  shape  relieyed 
by  strong  and  numerous  lights,  it 
gained  in  srace  what  it  lost  in  stren^^h, 
and  stood  erect  among  its  drooping 
neighbours,  yenerable  but  yigorous, 
the  hoary  forefather  of  the  wood. 
yoL.  xxxui,  HO.  Gzcyii. 


The  tall  and  slender  poplar  and 
white  birch,  which  here  and  there 
had  sprung  up  in  the  new  clearings 
from  the  roots  of  old  trees,  and  out- 
grown their  strength  and  proportions, 
bent  their  heads  gracefully  to  the 
ground  under  their  unusual  hurden 
and  formed  fanciful  arches,  which 
the  frost  encircled  with  numerous 
wreaths  of  pearls.  Eyery  thing  in 
the  distance  was  coyered  vrith  the 
purest  white,  while  the  colours  of 
nearer  objects  were  as  diyersified  as 
their  forms. 

The  bark  of  the  different  trees  and 
their  limbs  appeared  through  itte 
transparent  ice ;  and  the  rays  of  the 
sun,  as  they  fell  upon  them,  inyested 
them  with  all  the  hues  of  the  prism. 
It  was  a  scene  as  impossible  to  de- 
scribe as  to  forget.  To  the  natiyes 
it  is  not  an  unusual  sight;  for  it 
generally  occurs  once  a-year,  at  least, 
and  its  effects  are  as  well  appreciated 
as  its  beauty.  The  fiirmer  foresees 
and  laments  serious  injuiy  to  his 
ordiard,  the  woodman  a  pitiless  pelt- 
ing of  ice  as  he  plies  his  axe  in  the 
forest,  the  huntsman  a  barrier  to  his 
sport,  and  the  trayeller  an  omen  of 
hfurd  and  seyere  weather;  and  yet 
such  was  the  glory  of  the  landscape, 
that  eyery  heart  ielt  its  magic  and 
acknowleaeed  the  might  and  the 
benuty  of  tnis  sudden  transformation. 

LL 


506 


The  Old  Judge:  or,  Life  in  a  Colony. 


lM.y 


It  was  tbe  vTork  of  a  night.  The 
Bun  Get  with  cbilline  sbowera.  It 
rose  fai  all  iti  splendour  to  witnen 
and  to  heighten  bv  iti  prMOUie  the 
magnificeace  and  brilliancy  of  tbe 
scene.  We  canatantly  recurred  to 
this  topic  after  onr  return,  and  again 
and  again  went  to  tbe  window  aa  the 
da^  declined  to  catch  the  lost  parting 
glimpse  of  tbe  "  EFilver  fttMt  before 
It  duBolved  fVom  view  under  the 
gaze  of  tbe  sun  and  vanished  for 
ever.  In  the  evening,  winter  and  its 
scenery,  its  festiyals  and  privationB, 
and  it«  effects  on  the  habits,  feelings, 
and  tastes  of  tbe  people  formed  the 
subject  of  a  long  conversation,  in 
which  the  Judge  told  nie  the  foUow' 
ing  sad  and  interesting  story ; — 

On  one  of  the  shoTe-roads,  as  the 
highways  near  the  Atlantic  are 
called,  in  a  distant  part  of  the  pro- 
vince, there  is  a  lone  house  situated 
in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  wildest 
and  most  barren  tracta  of  countey  in 
these  colonies  ;  on  either  side  of  it  are 
enormous  bogs,  stretebina;  awajr  in 
the  distance  for  miles.    Behind  it  ifi 


masses  of  detached  rock.    InCrontis 
a  lake  in  a  deep  and  sunken  bollow, 
so  still,  so  cheerless  and   repulsive, 
that  it  looks  like  the  pool  of  death. 
Beyond    this   a  mountain   wave  of 
granite  rises  and  shuts  out  the  sea, 
which  is  not  far  distant.    Tbe  place 
where  the  house  stands  ii  a  small 
ridge  of  land  in  the  fonn  of  a  wedge, 
which  formerly  bore  beech  and  birch 
trees ;  and  not  only  bad  a  tolerable 
toil,  bnt  was  exempt  from  the  in- 
cumbrance of  loose  stone.    Beyond 
all   is   barren. 
'  naked  rack  or 
1  moss,  tbe  wild 
e  bardy  white 
here  a  stunted 
finds  a  scanty 
revices   of  tbe 
iTel  formed  by 
it  time  and  tbe 
and  fhwt  have 
mite.     In  the 
able  basins  or 
gggy  Bubftance 
nurturea  small 
ined  and  half- 
to  have  grown 
d   grey   before 
ired  with  white 
up  their  ■teB^ 


hangs  pendent  from  their  limbi,  like 
hoary  locks.  ThelMgerbogumtlic 
right  and  left  are  in  pst  corereil 
wrth  a  long  cuaise  iqntbc  gun 
(which  tbe  moose  and  carrtboo  feed 
upon  in  winter,  when  the  frost  euUei 
them  to  travel  over  these  treacbcnnis 
and  dangerons  places),  and  in  put 
by  the  yellow  water-lilies,  the  wild 
iris,  and  dniters  of  cnuberry-biiAa. 
It  is  impoaaiUe  to  conceive  iny  Ihii^ 
mote  lonely  and  desolate  thu  (liis 
place.  Even  in  summer,  when  the 
grassy  road  is  well  defined,  «« 
v^etation  has  done  its  best  to  t^>^ 
the  huge  proportions  of  tbe  bndaipe 
and  conceal  its  poverty  and  defonnirf, 
when  the  glittering  insects  AnUM^ 
to  wiUidraw  your  altentioo  fwB 
their  dank,  stagnant,  and  UD*llol^ 
some  cradles,  to  their  own  bcantj, 
and  the  wild  bee  as  be  joorwp» 
whispers  of  his  winters  Are  ot 
honey,  and  the  birds  ling  nwnily 
that  contentment  is  bliss ;  eren  thai, 
excited  by  tbe  novdty  of  the  lew 
and  interested  as  you  are  in  tM 
bttle  lone  hoinehold  of  tbe  ^ 
its  total  seclusion  from  the  www  •" 
tbe  whole  human  &niily  »J^?^ 
and  appals  you.  A  crowd  of  «•■ 
nuhes  ^o  your  mmd  fi^^J^ 
can  arrange  aad  dispoM  <» Jfr 
Surdy  yon  say.  Hue,  at  W.." 
innoo^,  and  whe«  there  ■  J"; 
nocenoe,  there  must  be  h^pue* 
Where  there  is  no  tempter,  the*  « 
be  no  victim.  It  is  the  "stiU"*" 
of  life.  Here  all  is  calm  and  q»^ 
while  on  either  side  i»  the  !■!«"' 
the  cataract  The  passions  cMh«« 
no  scope,  the  affections  must  OcWp 
tbe  whole  ground.  How  «o,^ 
hatred,  mafice,  or  nocharit»bleD«s 
find  an  entnwce?  Tbeit  ^  " 
nothing  to  envy  where  the  «"*T^ 
of  all  M  alike,  and  where  all  ««» 
garnered  is  a  common  stock-  ^ 
can  be  no  hatred  where  tl^"J: 
injury  or  no  ■nperioritvi  "P~^ 
can  love  one  another,  wr  '^  Z, 
aU  in  all  to  each  other,  »d_*25^ 
trim  their  flre  for  the  poor  "W'tJ 
man,  feed  him,  and  send  hiV  (»;°* 
jonmey  naoioBg.  Tbey  '^JZ 
from  him  of  the  htnueltsi  »!^!L 
and  bleM  God  with  tbanUbl  IK*^ 
that  he  has  given  them  »  """fl^ 
dwdlin.  HemayteUtheDlW«^2 
war,  but  they  ftel  they  i»  'SLt 
its  reach ;  and,  what  b  ^  ^ 
learn  that  if  poverty  iaa  i"  P"^ 


1846.1 


The  Lane  Home, 


50» 


tions,  it  has  also  iifl  own  peculiar 
pririleges  and  immnnities.  TnoofffatB 
like  these  natttrally  force  ^emselTes 
upon  you  in  rack  a  scene.  Your 
feelings  are  subdued  and  softened. 
You  behold  the  ^milv  with  inteiest 
and  affection,  tmt  still  you  shrink  at 
a  foil  -view  of  their  situation  and 
involuntarily  recard  it  wi&  pity 
as  a  hopeless  ex£.  You  are  a  <!tetir 
ture  of  nabit ;  you  cannot  understand 
it;  you  feel  yon  have  social  duties 
to  perform;  that  grief  is  lessened 
when  the  burden  is  divided,  and 
happiness  increased  when  it  is  im- 
parted. That  man  was  not  made  to 
live  alone;  and  that  mutual  wants, 
in^vidual  weakness,  and  common 
protection  require  that,  though  we 
Ave  in  ^unfiles,  our  families  must 
dwell  in  communities. 
'  If  such  be  the  leelings  that  a  tra- 
veller entertains  even  in  summer, 
how  must  he  shudder  when  he  le- 

rirds  this  lone  house  in  winter? 
have  seen  many  solitary  habitations 
as  well  as  this,  and  some  of  them 
much  ilurther  removed  from  any 
neighbourhood,  but  never  one  so 
dreary  and  so  desolate.  Fodlow  any 
new  road  into  the  wilderness,  and 
you  will  find  a  family  settled  there 
miles  and  miles  from  any  house. 
But  imagination  soon  fills  up  the 
intervening  space  with  a  dense  popu- 
lation, and  you  see  them  in  the  midst 
of  a  well-cultivated  country,  and  en- 
joying all  the  blessings  of  a  civil- 
ised community.  They  are  merely 
pioneers.  They  have  taken  up  theu* 
station:  the  tide  of  emigration  will 
speedily  reach  them  and  pass  on. 
Go  into  that  house,  and  vou  are  at 
once  struck  with  the  difference  of 
the  two  fiimilies.  The  former  is  still 
life  and  contentment;  the  latter  is 
all  hope,  bustle,  and  noisy  happiness. 
The  axe  is  at  work  on  the  forest 
that  is  rin^ng  with  its  regular  blows. 
Merry  voices  are  heard  there,  and 
the  loud  laugh  echoes  through  the 
woods,  for  friends  have  come  from 
the  settlements,  and  ten  acres  of  wood 
afe  to  be  cut  down  in  one  day. 
Bleighs  are  arriving  with  neighbours 
and  relations,  from  whom  they  have 
lately  parted;  and  at  night  there 
will  be  a  festive  assembly  at  a  place 
which,  until  the  year  before,  when 
the  road  was  made  and  the  house 
built,  was  in  the  heart  of  a  howling 
wiUiem^.    There  is  nothing  about 


such  a  dwelling  to  make  you  think 
it  desolate,  althoi^h  loneliness  is  its 
cbaraeCeristic.  Omverse  with  the 
forester,  a  fine,  manly,  native  set- 
tler, and  }rou  find  he  has  visions  of  a 
mOl  on  his  brook :  he  talks  of  keep- 
ing fifty  head  of  homed  cattle  in  a 
few  years.  As  soon  as  his  miil  is 
finimed,  this  log-hut  is  to  be  super- 
seded by  a  laige  framed  house ;  ud 
that  miserafaie  shed,  as  he  eallp  his 
stable,  is  to  give  place  to  a  snacions 
bam,  seventy  feet  long  and  fil^  leet 
wide.  He  is  fiill  of  merriment,  con- 
fidence, and  hope.  In  the  former 
place,  a  pious  resignation,  «  pladd 
eontentment,  hearts  chastened  and 
subdued  into  a  patient  endurance  of 
toil,  and  a  meek  but  firm  reliance  on 
ibe  superintendence  of  a  Divine  Pro- 
vidence, form  a  strong  contrast  to 
the  more  animated  ana  self-relyii^ 
forest  family. 

The  wintry  blast  howls  roimd 
their  dwelling,  like  a  remorseless  and 
savage  foe.  Its  hollow,  mournful 
voice  appals  the  heart  with  painful 
recollections  of  its  overpowering 
strength ;  and  the  poor  bemeged  fa- 
mily, as  they  encircle  their  litUe  fire 
at  night  (drawn  still  closer  togedier 
now  by  their  mutual  fears  and  af- 
fections), offer  up  a  silent  prayer  to 
the  throne  of  grace,  and  impl<M«  the 
continued  and  merciful  protection  of 
Him  who  is  always  a  nither  to  the 
fatherless.  At  this  season  the  road 
is  covered,  in  common  with  the  drew^ 
desert,  with  deep  snow.  In  the  clear 
light  of  an  unclouded  sun,  its  di- 
rection may  be  ascertained  by  an 
ezperiencea  traveller,  and  by  him 
alone;  but  at  night,  or  in  stormy 
weather,  it  is  a  vast  and  trackless 
field,  where  the  fatiffued  and  be- 
wildered stranger  is  doomed  to  in- 
evitable death. 

To  afford  shelter  and  assistance  to 
the  traveller,  to  i\irnish  him  with  a 
guide,  and  speed  him  on  his  way,  was 
uie  object  which  John  Lent  had  in 
view  m  settling  on  the  **  Riddel** 
He  was  aided  by  the  subscriptions 
and  encouraged  by  the  personal  as- 
sistance of  those  on  either  side  of  the 
desert  who  were  interested  in  the 
road,  or  in  the  benevolence  of  the 
undertaking.  A  house  and  bfun 
were  erected  with  much  labour  and 
difficulty  (for  all  the  materials  were 
brought  from  a  great  distance),  the 
Court  of  Sesfitons  granted 'him  afiree 


508 


The  Old  Judge ;  i)r,  Life  U  a  Coloiiy. 


I*i«y. 


tavern  license,  and  the  legislatare  of 
the  province  a  small  sum  of  ten  or 
twelve  pounds  a-year,  in  considera- 
tion of  tne  importance  of  this  house 
to  the  mail  oommnnication  of  that 
part  of  the  province.  The  ridge 
contained  ahout  thirty  acres  of  land. 
These  wero  soon  cleared  and  broueht 
into  cultivation,  and  produced  nis 
winter's  store  of  hay,  and  yearly 
supply  of  wheat  and  vegetables.  His 
sheep  and  cows  wandered  over  the 
plains,  and  found  in  summer,  in  an 
extended  range,  sufficient  food  on 
the  scattered  and  short  but  sweet 
herbage  of  white  clover,  and  the 
leaves  of  the  dwarf  bushes.  The 
boff  supplied  him  with  fuel  and  ma- 
terials for  cultivating  his  fields,  while 
the  proceeds  of  his  little  inn  enabled 
him  to  obtain  some  of  those  articles 
of  ffroceries  that  habit  has  rendered 
indispensable  to  the  poorest  people  in 
this  country.  Such  was  the  con- 
dition of  this  family.  Thejr  derived 
a  scanty  but  a  certam  provision  from 
the  sources  I  have  described.  Year 
followed  year  with  little  variation. 
Their  occupations  came  and  ceased 
with  the  seasons.  Time  passed  silently 
away,  and  as  there  were  few  incidents 
of  importance  that  interested  them, 
its  flight  was  unperceived  and  un- 
markra.  The  three  eldest  daughters 
had  severally  left  home  for  service  in 
the  next  town,  which  was  a  seaport, 
had  married  and  quitted  the  coun- 
try; and  the  family,  at  the  time  I 
am  speaking  of,  consisted  of  John 
Lent,  his  wife,  and  three  little  girls, 
the  youngest  of  whom  was  seven 
years  of  afe.  When  I  arrived  at 
the  house  last  summer,  Mrs.  Lent 
did  not  at  first  recognise  me.  Old 
Age  has  so  completely  covered  my 
visa^  with  his  wrinkled  and  re- 
pulsive mask,  that  the  features  of 
manhood  are  effectually  concealed 
from  view.  It  has  removed  my  hair, 
deprived  me  of  my  teeth,  OMCured 
mj  eyes,  and  disfigured  my  cheeks 
with  unseemly  furrows. 

These  ravages  of  time,  however, 
are  wisely  permitted  or  ordained,  to 
prepare  us  to  leave  a  world  which 
we  can  no  longer  either  serve  or 
jidom.  Li  proportion  as  we  lose  our 
personal  attractions,  mankind  recede 
jyom  us;  and,  at  last,  we  mutually 
^ke  leave  of  each  other  without  a 
ipigh  or  a  tear  of  r^ret. 

What  years  had  gradually  effects 


for  me,  misfortane  had  soddcnly  and 
deeply  ensraven  upon  her.  The 
young  and  cheerful  woman  whom  I 
had  known,  was  now  a  staid  and 
care- worn  matron;  the  light  and 
elastic  step  of  youth  had  been  suc- 
ceeded by  the  slow  and  heavy  tiead 
of  limbs  stiffened  with  toil,  and  her 
hair  had  blanched  under  grief  and 
anxiety.  My  voice  first  attracted 
her  attention.  She  said  she  knew 
it,  and  was  oerUun  it  was  that  of  an 
old  and  kind  friend,  and  entreated 
me  not  to  think  her  ungrateful  if  die 
could  not  recall  my  name,  for  her 

S)or  head  had  been  confused  of  late, 
n  discovering  who  I  was,  she  com- 
municated to  me  a  brief  ontline  of 
her  melancholy  stoiy,  the  details  of 
which  I  subsequently  heard  from 
others  at  Shelbume. 

Durinff  the  previous  winter  her 
husband  nad  set  out  on  foot  for  the 
nearest  town  to  procure  some  littk 
necessaries  for  tne  house,  and  in- 
tended to  return  the  next  dbay.  Hie 
subsequent  morning  was  fine,  but  the 
weather,  as  is  often  the  case  in  this 
variable  climate,  suddenly  chained. 
At  noon  it  began  to  snow ;  towuds 
evening  the  wind  had  risen  to  a 
pale,  and  clouds  of  sleet  were  sweep- 
ing over  the  desert  with  reaisUesB 
fury.  Once  or  twice  she  went  to 
the  door  and  looked  out,  but  with- 
drew immediately,  nearly  blinded 
and  suffocated  by  the  drifbng  storm. 
Her  evening  meal  was  prepared  for 
her  husband.  The  table,  with  its 
snow-white  cover,  stood  ready  for 
his  reception.  The  savoury  stew 
simmered  on  the  hearth,  and  the  po- 
tatoes gave  out  their  steam  in  token 
of  readiness,  while  the  little  earthem 
teapot  and  unleavened  cake,  the 
never-failing  appendages  of  a  set- 
tler's meal,  were  ready  to  cl»Ber  him 
on  his  return.  ^*Ah,  here  he  isP 
she  said,  as  the  outer  door  suddenly 
opened,  followed  by  thick  volumes 
of  snow  that  nearly  filled  the  little 
entry.  "  No,  that  is  the  wind  that 
has  forced  it  open.  Hewon*t  behere 
to-night ;  we  nad  better  go  to  sup- 
per. He  saw  the  coming  storm,  and 
remained  in  town.  I  oflt^i  wonder 
how  he  can  foretel  the  weather  so 
well.  He  knows  when  a  thaw,  or  a 
frost,  or  a  fall  of  snow,  or  a  tempest 
is   approaching   hours   beforehand. 

He  was  too  wise  to  try  the  barrea 
to-day," 


1646.] 


The  Lone  Houie* 


509 


His  absence  gave  her  no  anxiety 
whatever;  she  had  become  familiar 
^th  the  storms,  and  dreaded  them 
only  for  others  who  were  strangers 
and  nnwary.  He  had  often  Men 
away  before,  and  there  was  nothiiu^ 
nnnsual  in  his  not  arriving  now.  it 
was  a  proof  of  his  sagacity,  and  not 
of  his  danger. 

The  g^e  continued  unabated 
throughout  the  second  day,  and  she 
neither  expected  him  nor  prepared 
for  his  reception.  The  third  dav 
was  cahn  and  tranquil;  the  whirl- 
wind had  spent  its  iury,  and  bavins 
rolled  up  its  wreathy  pillows,  sunk 
down  and  reposed  in  utter  exhaus- 
tion. The  snow-birds  came  in  num- 
bers about  the  bam  to  feed  on  the 
hay^seed  of  the  8tack-3rard,  and  the 
cattle  were  set  at  liberty  to  relax 
their  stiffened  limbs  and  to  go  to  the 
sprinff  in  quest  of  water.  The 
affrighted  and  half-famished  poultry 
issu^  from  their  hiding-places,  and 
clamorously  demanded  that  atten- 
tion that  had  been  so  long  withheld, 
while  the  ill-omened  crow  came  at 
tiie  well-known  signal  to  enforce  his 
daim  to  a  share  of  the  food  as  a 
houseless  and  friendless  stranger. 
The  children,  too,  were  released  from 
Uieir  prison,  and  life  and  animation 
were  again  to  be  seen  round  the 
Lone  House. 

As  the  mother  stood  at  the  door 
and  looked  abroad  upon  the  scene,  a 
little  spring  bird,  the  first  harbin^r 
of  that  glad  season,  carolled  memly 
from  the  leafless  apple-tree  at  the 
nde  of  the  cottage. 

''  Thank  God !"  she  said, ''  winter 
is  now  uQirly  over,  and  its  storms 
and  trials;  we  have  seldom  more 
than  one  very  heavy  gale  of  wind 
after  that  little  bird  comes  to  sing 
us  a  song  of  spring.  Your  father 
will  be  at  home  e&tly  to-dav."  And 
she  sent  the  eldest  girl  to  the  snares 
set  for  catching  wild  rabbits.  **  They 
wUl  be  aJl  abroad  to-day,*'  she  said ; 
''see  if  there  are  any  were  for  his 
dinner.** 

In  a  short  time  the  child  returned, 
with  two  of  these  little  animals  in 
her  hand,  and  the  table  was  again 
spread;  but  he  came  not.  He  would 
return,  perhaps,  she  thought,  in  the 
evening,  for  when  he  did  not  arrive 
at  noon  he  seldom  reached  home 
until  sunset.    But  night  came  with 


its  accustomed  meal,  and  his  place 
was  still  vacant.  To-morrow  would 
be  post-day ;  he  had  very  properly 
waited,  she  said,  to  come  with  Ains- 
low.  She  was  glad  of  it,  for  he  was 
lame,  the  wallong  was  heavy,  and 
he  had  a  pack  to  carry.  Yes,  they 
would  botn  be  here  early  in  the  day. 
Doubt,  fear,  or  mis«;iving,  never  en- 
tered her  mind.  She  had  great  con- 
fidence in  his  judgment;  whatever 
he  decided  on  was  right,  and  it  was 
prudent  and  much  more  agreeable 
lor  him  to  travel  in  company  with 
the  postman^  who  had  all  the  news, 
and  was  a  pleasant  and  obliging  man. 
The  next  day  brousht  again  and 
again  merrv  faces  to  the  door,  to  look 
over  the  dreary  hos  and  catch  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  ueigh. 

At  last  a  shout  procEumed  its  ap- 
proach, and  the  whole  group  were 
assembled  to  see  the  little  dark  spec 
that  was  movins  forward  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  gradually  enlarging  into 
a  distinct  form.  It  was  anxiously 
watched,  but  was  slow  in  coming,  as 
every  thing  in  life  is  that  is  impa- 
tienUy  waited  for. 

The  arrival  of  the  postman  was  an 
important  event  at  this  little  habi- 
tation. He  was  a  part  of  that  world 
on  either  side  of  them,  of  which 
they  had  heard  and  formed  vsfue 
conceptions,  but  which  they  had 
never  seen.  Their  father's  return, 
too,  was  an  affair  of  great  interest. 
He  did  not  very  frequently  leave 
home ;  and  when  he  did,  he  always 
brought  back  some  little  present  to 
the  mother  or  her  children  from 
some  kind  persons,  whom  their  at- 
tentions and  peculiar  situation  and 
character  had  converted  from  stran- 
gers into  friends.  They  were  little 
events,  to  be  sure ;  but  these  little 
incidents  constitute  ''the  short  and 
simple  annals  of  the  poor.'*  They 
are  all  that  occur  to  diversify  the 
monotony  of  their  secluded  life.  The 
postman  came,  but  he  had  no  com- 
panion. He  drove  his  sleigh  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  road,  where  the 
barn  stood,  and,  leaving  it  there,  he 
proceeded  to  the  house.  He  was 
met  by  Mrs.  Lent,  who  shook  him 
cordially  by  the  hand,  and  said  that 
she  had  expected  her  husband  with 
him,  but  supposed  he  was  not  ready 
to  come. 

The  dinner,   however,  was  now 


510 


The  Old  Judge ;  or,  L\fe  i»  a  Colony. 


tM.y, 


waiting,  and  she  pressed  him  to  go 
in  and  partake  with  the  lamily  of 
their  humble  meal. 
"  Have  you  seen  John  ?" 
The   truth  had  now  to  be  told, 
which  Ainslow  did  in  the  kindest 
and  most  condderate  manner.   After 
preparing  her  mind  for  the  recep- 
tion of  very  bad  news,  he  proceeded 
to  inform  her,  that  as  he  crossed 
the  wooden   bridse   at   the   black 
brook  in  the  bog,  ne  observed  John 
Lent  sitting  on  the  floor,  with  his 
back  resting  against  the  rail,  a  stif- 
fened and  frozeu  corpse.    He  had 
evidently  been  overpowered  by  the 
storm,  which  coming  from  the  east- 
ward, blew  full  in  his  fiioe,  depriving 
him  at  once  of  his  breath  and  his 
strength ;  and  having  sat  down  ex- 
hausted to  rest  his  wearied  limbs,  he 
had  sunk  into  that  fatal  sleen  in 
which  the  soul,  without  a  struggle  or 
a  sigh,  passes  into  another  and  a  bet- 
ter world.    He  added,  that  he  had 
taken  him  up  in  his  arms,  and  lifted 
him  into  the  sleigh,  where  he  now 
was;  and  that  he  had  covered  him 
with  a  rug,  and  driven  to  the  barn, 
that  she  might  not  be  too  suddenly 
shocked  by  the  awful  sight  of  the 
dead  body ;  and  concluded  with  those 
consolatory  remarks  which,  though 
imheard  or  unheeded,  are  usuafiy 
addressed  to  those  who  are  smitten 
down  bv  sudden  affliction.    Before 
he  had  finished  his  narrative  a  loud, 
long-continued,  and  picrcii^  cry  of 
distress  arose  from  tue  sleigh  that 
thrilled  the  whole  group,  and  Mrouffht 
them  instantly  to  the  door.    The 
poor  man*a  faithful  and  affectionate 
dog  had  discovered  his  master,  and 
the  strouff  instinct  of  the  animal  re* 
vealed  to  nim  at  once  that  he  would 
never  more  hear  that  voioe  of  kind- 
ness and  fellowship  that  had  dieerei 
him  from  day  to  oay,  or  receive  hia 
food  from  that  hand  which  had  alwava 
be«Dt  extended  to  feed  or  to  fonme 
him.    The  postman  then  drove  the 
sleigh  to  the  door,  Med  out  Uie  life- 
less body,  which  had  been  frooen  in 
its  sitting  attitude,  and  placin«^  it  in 
the  same  position  on  a  large  chest  in 
a  comer   of  the   strangers*   room, 
rested  its  back  against  the  walL    It 
looked   like  a  man  not  dead,  but 
Bleeping.    He  then  withdrew  the  ia- 
mil]^  into   their  sitting-room,  and 
having  placed  some  oata  in  a  bucket 


before  his  horse,  wbo  ato  them  ••  be 
stood  in  his  harness,  he  oecnpied  tfae 
few  remaining  minutes  of  his  time  in 
endeavouring   as  he  best  could   to 
condole  with  and  oHnfort  the  poor 
widow  and  her  helpless  £unily.     He 
was  astonished  at  her  fortitude.  Her 
agony,  it  was  evident,  was   alimt 
insu])portable,  but  she  jnve  no  ¥601 
to  violent  and  unavauing  lammt- 
ations.    He  was  not  the  first,  as  he 
will  be  by  no  means  the  last,  to  ad- 
mire this  quality  of  the  female  mind 
when  roused  bv  great  events  to  de^ 
tbouffhtandoool  anddeliberale  actkaL 
Weal,  timid,  and  powerless  as  wo- 
man is,  in  the  minor  troublea  and 
trials  of  life,  when  real  danger  and 
great  afiiictions  are  to  be  encoonlered, 
she  rises  superior  to  fear,  calls  in  the 
aid  of  a  judgment  always  good,  when 
confidently  relied  on,  and  a  moral 
courage  surpassing  that  of  man,  be- 
cause its  foundations  are  not  built  on 
the  delusive  laws  of  honour,    bot 
deeply  laid  in  consdons  innocHur, 
in  a  strong  sense  of  the  obligalioM 
of  duty,  aim  a  pious  and  firm  reliaaee 
on  the  might  and  goodnew  of  God. 
Thus  supported  and   strengthened, 
she  sustains  burdens  disproportioDfid 
to  her  sex,  and  suooessfully  rensti 
afilictions  that  overpower  the  vigour, 
and  appal  the  courage  ai  man. 

The  poor  widow  heard  him  calmly 
and  patiently,  though  words  seemed 
to  fad  her  when  thanking  him  for  hia 
kindness.  This  portentoos  alenoe, 
however,  deceived  him.  There  aie 
calamities  too  heavy  to  bo  bone, 
and  misfortunes  may  overpower  by 
suij^rise,  that  could  be  sueeessfally 
resisted  if  their  advent  were  knowik 
Although  the  blow  did  not  prostrate 
this  miserable  woman,  it  stonned  her 
into  insensibility.  Thou^t  and  me- 
mory seemed  suspended  InsyahW 
of  action  hersdf,  she  was  paanfe  m 
the  hands  of  her  children.  She  had 
but  one  confuaadand  indistinct  idm 
that  remained.  She  Uuwight  her 
husband  was  at  home  and  aakep  in 
the  adjoining  room,  buthis  longilnm- 
bcr  and  unbroken  silence  £d  not 
alarm  her.    When  her  meals  woe 

{prepared  by  her  daughter,  shewoold 
ook  ronnd  and  my,  ^^Gali  your 
iather—tdl  him  we  wait  for  him  r  or 
at  night  she  would  look  into  his 
room  and  admonish  him  it  wm  pro* 
dent  to  wako  up  and  go  to  bcd»  or  ha 


1846.] 


The  Lane  Haute* 


511 


would  take  eold.  The  poor  ohildren 
gazed  at  ber,  wondered,  and  abed 
tean.  Helplesi,  unprotected,  and 
alone  in  the  world,  their  little  hearts 
failed  them;  and  the  inquiry  often 
and  often  occurred  to  their  minds, 
What  is  to  heoome  of  us  ?  Death, 
that  sat  embodied  in  one  human 
form  in  that  house.  ft»^  had  laid 
his  cold,  benumbing  hand  on  an« 
other,  whom  he  appeared  to  have 
marked  for  his  yietim,  seemed  ready 
to  devour  them  all.  SUenee  mt 
disclosed  to  them  their  solitude,  and 
solitude  their  danger.  On  the  third 
evening  they  clustered  as  usual 
round  their  mother's  chair  and  pray- 
ed ;  but  she  was  unable  to  join  them. 
She  looked  at  them,  but  did  not 
seem  to  comprehend  them.  They 
then  tried,  with  fidtering  lips  and 
tearful  eyes,  a  verse  of  a  hymn,  one 
that  she  had  always  been  fond  of; 
but  two  voices  were  now  wanting, 
and  they  were  alarmed  at  the  feeble 
and  plwntive  sound  of  their  own. 
The  chords  of  the  widow's  heart  vi- 
brated at  the  sound  of  the  music, 
and  she  looked  about  her,  as  one 
awaking  firom  slumber.  Thought, 
feeling,  and  sensibilitv  returned ;  the 
fountains  of  her  afwetions  opened, 
and  a  flood  of  tears  mingled  with 
those  of  her  children.  She  inquired 
of  ^em  the  day  of  the  week,  and 
whether  any  person  had  been  at  the 
house  since  the  jpostman  left  it, 
vmmff  her  hands  m  agony  at  the 
tfaoniflits  of  the  length  of  her  stupor, 
Mid  naving  affectionately  kissed  and 
bleflKd  ha  little  (mes,  went  to  bed 
to  weep  unseen,  and  pour  out  her 
gfiefe  and  her  petitions  undisturbed 
to  Him  who  has  graciously  i^onrised 
His  pcotectiott  to  the  widow  and  the 
oipimi. 

In  the  morning  she  rose  more  corn- 
nosed,  but  sadly  chan^.  Years 
Bad  revolved  in  that  mght,  and  left 
their  tneks  and  furrows  on  her  faded 
cheek ;  and  the  depth,  and  stienjrtb, 
and  aenteness  of  bar  mental  suner- 
ingE^  had  rmdered  her  hair  as  white 
as  the  snow-wreath  that  death  had 
folded  round  her  husband  as  a  wind- 
ing-sheet. The  struggle  had  been 
viMent,  but  suoceasral.  She  was 
ailicted  but  not  subdued,  bereft  but 
not  destitute.  She  was  sensible  of 
her  situation,  and  willmg  to  submit 
with  humble  resignation;  aware  of 
her  duties,  and  rady  to  undertake 


them.*  She  stood  between  the  living 
and  the  dead.  A  fearful  debt  was  to  be 
discharged  to  the  one,  subsistence  and 
comfort  were  due  to  the  other.  She 
commenced  the  morning  witii  prayer 
firom  a  church  formulary  that  nad 
been  given  her  by  a  travelling  mis- 
sionary, and  then  went  about  her 
usual  duties.  As  she  sat  by  her  fire- 
side in  the  evening  she  revolved  ia 
her  mind  the  new  ^ere  in  whidi  she 
was  placed.  As  anv  doubt  or  diffi- 
culty suggested  itself,  her  loss  became 
more andmore  apparent.  How  watf 
her  husband  to  be  buried?  The 
ground  was  frosen  to  the  depth  of 
three  feet,  and  she  was  unable  to  dig 
agprave.  She  dare  not  go  to  the  next 
noghbour's,  a  distance  of  seven  miles, 
for  she  could  not  leave  her  children. 
She  could  not  send  her  eldest 
daughter,  for  she  did  not  know  the 
way ;  and  she,  too,  might  be  lost.  She 
must  wait  for  the  po^nan,  he  would 
arrive  in  three  da^s,  and  would  assist 
her.  If  not,  God  would  send  relief 
when  least  expected.  Everv  thing, 
however,  about  her — every  thing  she 
had  to  do,  and  every  thmg  she  re- 
quired, mixed  itself  in  some  way  with 
recollectians  of  him  she  mourned, 
and  reminded  her  of  some  habit, 
word,  or  act  of  his.  Even  the  weather 
now  made  her  shudder.  The  storm, 
like  a  giant  refreshed  with  sleep, 
arose  again  in  all  its  might,  and 
8wc«t  across  the  desert  with  such  im- 
broken  foree  that  the  snow  appeared 
rather  like  a  moving  mass  of  drift 
than  distinct  and  separate  flakes.  It 
was  just  such  an  evening  as  whea 
her  husband  perished.  She  shuddered, 
and  drew  her  children  nearer  to  her 
on  the  hearth.  They  had  always 
loved  each  other,  but  their  affection 
was  greatly  tnoreased  now,  for  they 
knew  that  death  was  a  reality.  They 
had  seen  it  and  felt  its  effecU.  It  had 
lessened  their  number  once,  it  could 
do  so  again.  They  had  been  told 
ibej  were  mortal,  now  they  knew  it. 
It  was  an  awful  disclosure  to  them, 
and  yet  what  vras  death  ?  It  was 
not  annihilation,  for  the  body  re- 
mained. That  which  had  inhabited 
and  animated  it  was  incorporeal,  and 
had  departed  unseen.  It  was  that  un- 
known, invisible,  and  mysterious  spi- 
rit, they  had  unconsciously  loved,  for 
the  corpse  shocked  and  terrifled  them. 
They  had  been  instructed  that  there 
WW  a  soul  that  survived  the  body,  bat 


512 


The  Old  Judge ;  or,  Life  tn  a  CoUmy, 


[May. 


they  could  not  comprehend  it.  They 
now  saw  and  shuddered  at  the  dif- 
ference between  the  living  and  the 
dead.  It  was  palpable,  but  still  it  was 
not  intelligible,  roor  little  innocents ! 
it  was  their  first  practical  lesson  in 
mortality,  and  it  was  engraved  on  their 
aching  hearts  too  deeply  ever  to  be 
forgotten.  Their  affection  now  be- 
came more  intense  and  &r  more  ten- 
der, for  solicitude  had  blended  with  it 
and  softened  it.  Yes,  their  little  circle 
was  stronger  for  havinff  its  circum- 
ference r^uced,  it  could  bear  more 
pressure  than  before,  if  the  burden 
were  imhappily  increased. 

The  time  for  rest  had  now  ap- 
proached, and  the  widow  was  weak 
and  unwell .  The  thought  of  her  un- 
buried  husband  oppressed  her.  The 
presence  of  death,  too,  in  the  house, 
for  so  long  a  time,  was  a  heavy  load 
for  her  nerves  ;  and  unable  to  sustain 
her  feelings  and  her  reflections  any 
longer,  she  resorted  to  her  evening 
prayers  with  her  little  family,  and 
added  to  the  prescribed  form  a  short 
and  simple  petition  of  her  own.  Her 
voice  was  almost  inaudible,  amid  the 
din  and  roar  of  the  tempest,  to  those 
around  her;  but  it  penetrated  far 
above  the  elements,  and  reached  the 
throne  of  merc^  to  which  it  was  ad- 
dressed. Rebeved,  refreshed,  and 
strengthened  by  this  devotional  ex- 
ercise, they  gathered  again  around 
the  hearth  ere  the  fire  was  secured 
for  the  night,  and  were  engaged  in 
some  little  consultation  about  the 
daily  duties  that  were  to  be  assigned 
to  each,  when  they  were  aroused  by 
a  loud  and  violent  knockinff  at  the 
door.  The  mother  arose  and  opened 
it,  with  a  palpitating  heart.  Three 
strange,  wild-looking,  haggard  men, 
entreated  admittance  for  GK)d*s  sake, 
for  they  were  famished,  and  nearly 
chilled  to  death  with  the  cold. 
What  a  contrast  for  that  hitherto 
quiet  and  noiseless  household !  There 
were  these  men  stamping  on  the  floor, 
shaking  off  the  snow  from  their 
elothes,  beating  their  hands  together, 
throwing  down  their  packs,  talking 
loudly,  and  all  speakmg  at  once — 
all  call'iDg  for  food,  all  demanding 
more  fire,  and  all  rejoicing  in  their 
shelter  and  safety.  The  children 
huddled  tooether  in  affright  in  the 
comer  of  the  room,  and  the  poor 
^immed  her  lamp,  rebuilt  her 
>embled  as  she  reflected 


that  she  was  alone  and  unprotected. 
Who  are  these  men,  she  asked  her- 
self? Houseless  in  the  storm,  her 
heart  replied,^  Would  to  Heaven  there 
had  been  such  a  shelter  for  my  poor 
John  Lent !  We  need  not  fear,  for 
God  and  our  poverty  are  our  protec- 
tion.** She  told  tnem  they  were  in 
the  house  of  death — ^that  her  husband 
lay  dead,  and,  for  want  of  assistance, 
unburied  in  the  next  room,  but  that 
all  that  could  be  done  for  them  she 
would  do,  though  at  such  a  time, 
and  in  such  a  place,  that  all,  of 
course,  would  be  but  very  little.  She 
advised  them  to  keep  at  a  distance 
from  the  fire,  and  having  ascertained 
that  they  were  not  frost-bitten,  set 
about  getting  them  some  refireshment. 
While  at  work  she  heard  all  that 
they  had  to  say  to  each  other,  and 
with  the  quickness  of  observation 
peculiar  to  the  natives  of  this  country 
soon  perceived  they  were  not  equals — 
that  one  of  them  spoke  with  a  voice 
of  authority ;  that  another  called  him. 
Sir ;  and  the  third  only  answered  when 
he  was  spoken  to,  and  that  all  three 
were  sailors.  They  had  a  fearftil 
tale  of  trouble  and  of  death,  to  which 
frequent  allusion  was  made.  Thev 
were  the  captain,  mate,  and  steward, 
of  a  ship  that  had  been  wrecked  that 
day  on  the  coast  beyond  the  hilly 
land  in  front  of  the  cottage,  and  were 
the  sole  survivors  of  ten,  who,  on 
that  morning,  were  pursuing  their 
course  on  the  ocean  in  perfect  confi- 
dence and  safety.  A  hearty  meal  was 
hastily  prepared,  and  more  hastily  de- 
spatched. Liquor  was  then  asked 
for ;  she  trembled  and  obeyed.  She 
was  a  lone  woman,  it^vras  a  dangerous 
thing,  and  she  hesitated;  but  a 
moment*s  reflection  suggested  to  her 
that  it  was  impossible  that  they  could 
either  forget  her  loss  or  their  own. 

A  fresh  difficulty  now  occurred,  to 
understand  which  it  is  necessary  to 
describe  the  house.  The  chimney 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  building, 
on[)osite  the  front  door,  which  <^en- 
ed  into  a  small  entry.  On  the  nght 
was  the  family  sitting  -  room  or 
kitchen,  where  tiiey  were  now  assem- 
bled, off  which  were  t>?o  bedrooms. 
On  the  left,  three  rooms  were  simi- 
larly arranged,  and  devoted  to  the 
accommodation  of  strangers.  In  the 
apartment  corresponding  to  the  one 
they  were  in  was  the  frozen  body  of 
her  husband,  resting  on  a  chest,  m  a 


1846.] 


The  Latie  House* 


513 


rittiiig  attitude,  as  I  have  before  de- 
scribe. In  order  to  prepare  their 
beds  it  was  necessary  to  pass  through 
that  room,  into  which  she  had  not 
ventured  since  she  had  recovered 
from  her  stupor.  She  was  perplexed 
and  distressed,  but  at  last,  having 
stated  to  the  captdn  her  difficulty, 
he  at  once  ordered  the  steward  to  go 
and  make  the  requisite  arrange- 
ments. The  master  and  mate  hav- 
ing been  thus  provided  for  for  the 
night,  some  blankets  were  given  to 
the  steward,  who  slept  on  the  hearth, 
before  the  kitchen  fire.  In  Uie 
morning  the  latter  was  sent  to  dis  a 
grave  for  poor  John  Lent,  whOe  the 
other  two,  having  procured  the  re- 
quisite tools,  made  him  a  coffin,  into 
which  he  was  placed  with  great  diffi- 
culty, from  the  rigidity  of  his  limbs. 
The  little  pony  was  then  harnessed 
to  the  sledge,  and  the  body  was  fol- 
lowed by  tne  family  and  their  euests 
to  its  last  resting-place.  Thel>eau- 
tiful  burial-service  of  the  church  was 
read  over  the  deceased  by  the  cap- 
tain, amid  the  heartfelt  sol»  of  tne 
widow,  the  loud  lamentations  of  the 
children,  and  the  generous  tears  of 
the  sailors.  The  scene  was  one  that 
was  deeply  felt  by  all  present.  There 
was  a  community  of  suffering,  a 
similarity  of  situation,  and  a  sym- 
pathy among  them  all,  that  for  the 
time  made  them  forget  they  were 
strangers  and  feel  towards  each  other 
like  members  of  one  family.  The 
mariners  had  twice  narrowly  escaped 
death  themselves:  first,  from  ship- 
wreck, and  then  from  the  intensity  of 
the  weather;  while  seven  of  their 
comrades  had  been  swept  into  eter- 
nity before  their  eyes.  The  poor 
widow,  in  losing  John  Lent,  ap- 
peared to  have  lost  every  thing — her 
iriend,  her  support,  her  companion, 
and  protector;  the  husband  of  her 
heart,  the  father  of  her  children.  If 
their  losses  were  similar,  their  mutual 
sorrows  were  similar  also.  She  had 
afforded  them  food,  shelter,  and  a 
home.  They  had  aided  her  in  a 
most  tiying  moment  with  their  per- 
sonal assistance,  and  comforted  her 
with  their  sympathy  and  kindness. 
The  next  morning  her  guests  visited 
the  sea-shore,  in  order  to  ascertain 
whether  any  portion  of  the  caigo  of 
their  vessel  could  be  saved.  When 
they  arrived  at  the  scene  of  their 
diMU9ter,  they  found  that  the  vessel 


was  gone ;  she  had  either  fallen  off 
from  the  precipitous  cliff  upon  which 
she  had  been  tnrown  by  the  violence 
of  the  sea,  or  been  withdrawn  by  the 
reflux  of  the  mountain  ¥raves,  and 
had  sunk  into  the  deep  water,  where 
her  masts  could  now  just  be  discerned 
under  its  clear  and  untroubled  sur- 
face. The  cabin,  which  had  been 
built  on  the  deck,  had  been  broken  to 
pieces,  and  fragments  of  it  were  to  be 
seen  scattered  about  on  the  snow. 
Some  few  barrels  and  boxes  from  the 
steward's  pantry  had  been  thrown  on 
shore,  containing  stores  of  various 
kinds,  and  also  the  captain's  ham- 
mock and  bedding.  These  were  di- 
vided into  two  small  lots  of  equal 
weight,  and  constituted  two  sleigh 
loads,  for  the  travelling  was  too 
heavy  to  permit  them  all  to  be  car- 
ried at  once.  The  captain  presented 
them,  tc^ether  with  a  purse  of  ten 
sovereigns,  to  the  poor  widow,  as  a 
token  of  his  gratitude  for  her  kind- 
ness and  sjrmpathy  for  his  distress. 
She  was  also  reconunended  to  ex- 
amine the  shore  from  time  to  time 
after  violent  gales  of  vdnds,  as  many 
loose  articles  would  no  doubt  here- 
after float  to  the  surface ;  and  these, 
by  a  written  authority,  he  empow- 
ered her  to  apply  to  her  own  use. 

On  the  succeedmg  morning  the  post- 
man returned  with  his  mail,  and  fur- 
nished a  conveyance  for  the  steward. 
The  captain  and  mate  followed  under 
his  guidance,  with  Mrs.  Lent's  little 
pony  and  sledge,  which  were  to  be  re- 
turned the  following*  mail-day  by 
Ainslow.  They  now  took  an  affec- 
tionate leave  of  each  other,  with 
mutual  thanks  and  benedictions,  and 
the  widow  and  her  family  were  again 
left  to  their  sorrows  and  tneir  labours. 
From  that  day  she  said  an  unseen 
hand  had  upheld  her,  fed  her,  and 

Erotected  her,  and  that  hand  was  the 
and  of  the  good  and  merdfVd  God 
of  the  widow  and  the  orphan.  There 
were  times,  she  added,  when  the 
wounds  of  her  heart  would  burst 
open  and  bleed  afresh ;  but  she  had 
been  told  the  affections  required  that 
relief,  and  that  Nature  had  wisely 
provided  it,  to  prevent  a  worse  issue. 
She  informed  me  that  she  often  saw 
her  husband  of  late.  When  sitting 
by  her  solitary  lamp,  after  her  child- 
ren had  fallen  asleep,  she  frequen^ 
perceived  him  looking  in  at 
window  upon  her.  She  would  s 


614 


The  Old  Judge  i  0r,  Life  U  a  Colmy,  ^c 


lM.y. 


times  liM  and  ^  there,  with  «  view 
of  eonveniiig  with  him,  bnt  he  alw>;i 
withdrew,  u  if  he  ws»  not  peimitted 
to  have  an  interview  with  her.  She 
BMd  fihe  wu  not  afnid  to  meet  him ; 
why  should  slie  be  F  He  who  had 
loved  ber  in  life  would  not  hann  her 
Id  death.  As  soon  as  she  returned 
to  her  seat,  be  would  ^ain  resume 
bif  plue  at  the  window,  and  watch 
over  hei  for  hours  together.  She 
had  mentioiwd  the  ciieuniBlance  to 
the  defgyman,  who  changed  h^  I 


keep  her  secret,  and  e^eoallv  from 
her  cbildieD,  whose  jounc  and  ^ 
nerves  it  might  temfy.    He  I 


dwedk 


>stb« 


deavoDied  to  penmadi:  her  it  i 
reflexiott  of  her  own  face  In  the 
filsfln :  that  it  was  a  natural  effect, 
and  by  bo  means  an  unusual  occnr- 
reooe.  But  no  one,  she  added,  knew 
BO  well  M  these  who  saw  with  their 


favoured  and  protected  to  believe  it, 
bvt  it  was.  neverthdeM,  strictlj'  true ; 
and  was  a  mat  eomfmrt  to  her  to 
tUnk  that  Ua  care  and  his  love  ex- 
iat«d  for  her  b^rond  the  grave.   She 


said  many  pecqple  had  advind  her  to 
leave  that  jdau,  as  too  inaectitc  and 
inconvenient  for  a  helidesa  wonan ; 
but  God  had  never  faitedtbem.  She 
had  never  known  want  or  been  visited 
by  illness,  while  ^and  her  children 
tod  been  ftd  in  the  wildeneaa  like 
the  ehoaen  people  of  the  Lord.  He 
had  raised  ner  up  a  host  oi  friotds, 
whose  heart  be  bad  touched  with 
kindness  &r  her,  and  whose  hands 
he  had  need  as  the  instruments  (rf  his 
mer^  and  bonnty .  It  would  be  on- 
gratoM  and  dJetmstAil  in  hn  to 
leave  a  place  he  had  selected  for  ha, 
and  be  might  perhaps  turn  a«»j  Ui 
connteoance  in  anger,  and  »T»wim 
hw  in  h»  (dd  ^  to  poverty  and 
want.  And  besides,  she  said,  there 
is  my  old  man;  hia  visits  now  are 
dmer  to  me  than  ever;  he  was  onee 
my  companion — be  is  nowmy  niard- 
ian  sngd.  I  cannot  and  I  will  not 
forsake  him  while  I  live,  and  when  it 
is  God's  will  thst  I  d^art  hence,  I 
hope  to  be  laid  bendc  him,  wbo, 
alive  (X  dead,  has  never  niffered  this 


1846.] 


Someihmg  Mote  abo^t  Vtctor  Hugo. 


515 


SOMETniKG  MORE  ABOUT  VICTOR  HUGO. 


Ths   noyeliBt,   the    dramatist,   the 
lyrist,  is  now  a  peer  of  France.   The 
bold  defender  of  the  liberty  of  the 
stage,  the  spirited  pleader  before  the 
Tribunal  de  Commerce,  sits  on  the 
benches  of  the  nobletue  viaghre :  the 
author  of  the  interdicted  drama,*  of 
the  sapposed  offence  against  the  fa- 
mily of  Orleans,  is  installed  among 
the  coBstitntional  nominees  of  Louis 
Philippe.      Long   life    to    him   at 
the  Luxembourg — the  Baron  Victor 
Hugo !    Whether  he  will  attemi>t  in 
the  upper  chamber   the  ambitious 
ro^  of  his  friend  and  brother  bard, 
De  Lamartine,  in  the  lower,  remains 
to  be  seen.    We  trust  that  he  vrill 
not  avail  himself  of  his  position  as  a 
senator  to  press  those  Knenane,  and 
(he  must  pardon  us)  insane  preten- 
sions whidi  produced  that  marvel- 
lous political  paper  from  the  tourist ; 
otlierwise  we  shall  be  compelled  to 
pairt  compjany,  and  to  range  ourselves, 
with  hostile  look  intent,  against  one 
with  whom,  admiring  him  as  we  do, 
we  would  fain  continue  upon  terms 
of  cordial  intimacy.    It  is  not,  how- 
ever, in  the  arena  of  political  con- 
troversy that  we  are  now  to  seek 
him;  so  let  us  have  no  unfriendly 
anticipations.    We  resume  the  pen 
to  fulfil  an  engagement  made  to  our 
readers  to  increase  their  acquaint* 
ance  with  the  bard  whom  we  intro- 
duced in  a  former  paper ;  and  it  now 
devolves  upon  us  to  exhibit  him  in 
the  exercise  of  his  art  upon  other 
subjects  than  those,  the  admirable 
treatment  of  which  has  justly  earned 
for   him   the   title    of   Historieal 
Toet  par  excellence.  There  Is  no  lack 
of  variety  in  Victor.    Few  are  the 
children  of  song  in  whom  will  be 
(bund  a  neater  diversity  of  mattor, 
a  more  tree  and  facile  multiformity 
of  style.    JEnrnd  is  a  state  of  feelinji^ 
he  is  never  likely  to  produce  in  his 
readers;  for  want  of  transitions  and 
novelty  none  will  cast  him  aside. 
Besides  the  materials  of  history,--- 
wars,   revolutions,  politics, — ^in  hia 
dealings  with  whidi  we  have  already 
displayed  something  of  his   spirit, 
abunclant  are  the  subjects  which  en- 
gage his  muse— which  his  taste  se- 


lects, his  imagination  embellishes,  his 
sympathy  associates  itaelf  with,  and 
lus  voice  interprets.  Into  the  feel- 
ing-fraught heart  of  humanity  he 
enters,  and  inly  dwells ;  with  hcAUty- 
l»eathing  nature  he  respires;  with 
calm- inducing,  thought -suggesting, 
love-fostering  nature  he  mraitates, 
and  quickly  feels.  Gentle,  domestie 
affections;  home,  parents,  cfaildien, 
friends;  the  love  of  infancy,  and  the 
reverence  for  age;  kindly  chearftsl- 
ness  and  chastened  sorrow;  a  calm, 
meditative  melancb(dy  dwelling  upon 
recollections  of  early  hopes  and 
di»n>.  gone  bjr-th4c  nTnm^^ 
the  feelings  which  occupy  him,  who 
at  other  times,  with  the  eye  at  once 
of  poet,  patriot,  and  sage,  regardsthe 
changing  scenes  and  actois  in  the 
great  drama  of  nations.  Pensive, 
serene,  peaceful,  glides  among  homely 
haunts,  by  the  household  hearth, 
bbM  the  fields,  the  hamlets,  and  the 
woods,  the  verse  that  elsewhere  rolls 
its  mighty  stream  around  kings  and 
conquerors,  triumphs  and  trophies, 
and  shattered  thrones,  and  contend* 
ing  factions.  To  him  may  be  applied 
in  their  comprehensiveness  the  words 
of  one  with  whom  he.  Frenchman 
though  he  be,  has  much  in  common : 

"  Not  love»  not  war,  nor  the  tumultaous 

swell 
Of  civil  conflict,  nor  the  wrecks  of  change. 
Nor    duty   struggling   with    affectiona 

strange. 
Not  these  alone  inspire  the  tanefol  shell : 
But  where  untroubled  peace  and  concord 

dwell. 
There  also  is  the  Muse  not  loth  to  range. 
Watching  the  blue  smoke  of  the  elany 

grange 
Skyward  ascending  from   the  twilight 

dett. 
Meek  aspbatioiis  please  her,  lone  endeiu 

▼our. 
And  sage  content,  and  placid  nelan* 

choly." — W0BD8WORTH. 

An  intent  and  earnest  jperasal  of 
Victor  Hu^o  will  reveal  this  disposi- 
tion,  ci  which  probably  few  English 
readers  would  suspect  a  poet  of  a 
nation  they  are  too  accustomed  to 
ngud  as  the  pattern  of  friv'^ 


*  *'hi  Boi  s'amaflo." 


516 


Something  More  about  Victor  Hugo. 


[May. 


We  confidently  recommend  such 
study  to  all  who  desire  the  mtifica- 
tion  of  delicate  taste,  and  deep  and 
truthful  feeling,  contenting  ourselves 
with  producing  here  a  few  specimens 
of  the  versatifity  of  Hugo*s  powers. 
We  have  seen  that  he  can  huild  the 
loffy  rhyme  in  the  shape  of  Ode 
Historical.  In  many  an  effusion  of 
less  pretension,  he  exhibits  not  less 
exoeUence ;  in  many  a  happy  strain 
of  individual  sentiment,  in  some  de* 
licious  ballads.  Uis  lays  oi  love 
have  a  surpassing  delicacy  and  ten- 
derness ;  his  verses  which  respect 
personal  emotions  and  experience, 
be  they  enjoyments  or  r^rets,  mourn 
they  or  exult,  have  an  intensity  com- 
municating itself  by  a  charm  that 
attests  the  truth  of  the  feeling,  and 
the  felicity  of  the  expression.  Im- 
parting his  own  emotions  he  seems 
but  to  be  the  echo  of  yours.  It  is  thus 
that  the  true  poet  is  known  and  ap- 
proved— he  is /eft ;  he  speaks^r  the 
mcapable  man ;  his  language  is  your 
feeling,  clothed  as  you  womd  clothe 
it,  had  Heaven  but  willed  to  endow 
you  with  that  glorious  "art  divine 
of  words  ;**  and  your  heart  leaps  with 
gratitude  to  the  interpreter  of  that, 
which,  beating  in  your  breast  and 
crowding  your  brain,  had  never  found 
freedom  and  expression  but  for  him 
whose  magic  voice  sets  open  the  gates, 
and  liberates  thought  from  its  silent 
chamber,  and  struggling,  fluttering, 
panting  passion  from  its  cage.  So  is 
It,  in  many  a  strain  of  personal  in- 
tensity, that  Byron  has  made  him- 
self tne  voice  of  the  burning  long- 
ings of  the  heart ;  so  that  Campbell 
has  breathed  the  breath  of  delicate 
passion  in  verse  of  such  sensible 
fragrance,  that,  as  you  read,  you  in- 
hale a  rich  atmosphere  of  which  you 
had  dimlydreamed,  but  never  tasted 
before.  These  are  they  that  relieve 
the  burdened  heart  from  its  incapa- 
bility, and  give  form  and  vocality  to 
the  vague,  the  bodiless,  and  the  un- 
expressed. What  the  spirit  has 
dreamed,  what  the  soul  has  imaffined 
and  felt,  has  at  length  been  told  to 
it— to  itself,  better  than  itself  yet 
knew ;  the  wondrous,  the  all-expres- 
sive, the  verjf  words  it  has  never  heoi 
able  to  devise  for  its  emotions,  Oiey 
have  been  spoken;  and  the  "£u- 
«ka!**  of  the  philosopher  was  not 
lore  joyous,  or  more  sincere,  than 
tie  recognition  which  the  heart  at 


such  moments  makes  of  the  kxig- 
desired,  the  at-last  discovered.  Hear 
the  Victor  in  a  mournful  mood, — a 
plaintive  but  subdued  strain,  wherein 
many  a  listening  ear  will  catch  the 
tones  which,  soothing  sorrow  by  the 
faithful  expression  they  yield  to  it, 
are  the  favourite  music  of  mdan- 
choly : — 

Regfti, 

"  Qui,  le  boobeur  biea  vite  a  pass^  daas 


ma  yie ! 


On  Id  suit ;  dans  sei  bras  on  se  li? re  aa 
sommeil ; 
Puis,  comme  oeUe  vierge  aux  diampi 
cr^toit  ra?ie, 
On  se  voit  seal  a  son  r^veil. 

On  le  chercbe  de  loin  dans  TaTenir  inz- 
mense. 
On  lui  crie  '  Oh !  rsTtens,  oompag^uMi 
de  mesjoun.' 
£t  le  pUisir  accouit,  mais  sans  remplir 
I'absence 
De  celui  qu*oa  pleura  toujouct. 

Moi,  si    Timpur  plaisir  ofire  sa  raiae 
flamme, 
Je  lui   dirai  *  Va,  fuis,  et  reapede 
men  sort ; 
Le  bonlieur  a  Iatss6  le  regret  dans  bkmi 
&me, 
Mais  toi,  tu  laisses  le  remord  !' 

Fourtant  je  ne  dois  point  troobler  rotre 
d^lire, 
Amis :  je  veux  parsUre  ignorer  las 
dooleurs ; 
Je  souris  avec  vous,  je  vous  cache  ms 
Ijre 
L^rsqu'elle  est  humide  de  pleura. 

Chacun  de  vous  peut*dtre,  en  son  ccear 
solitaire, 
Sous  des  ris  passagera  ^touffe  un  loo^ 
regret ; 
H61as !  nous  souffrons  tous  ensemble  sor 
la  terra, 
Et  nous  souffrons  tous  en  secrat ! 

On  est  honteux  des  pleura ;  on  rougit  de 
sea  peines, 
Des  innocens  chagrins,  des  aouveairs 
touchans ; 
Comme  ai  nous  n'^tiona  sous  lee  ter- 
restres  chaines 
Que  pour  la  joie  et  pour  les  chants ! 

H61as !  il  m'a  done  fui  sans  me  laiiser 
de  trace, 
Mais  pour  le  ratenir  j*ai  fait  ce  qua 
j'ai  pn, 
Ce  temps  oik  le  bonbeur  brille,  et  aoudsio 
s'efface, 
Comme  un  sourire  ioterrompu !" 


1846.] 


Something  More  about  Victor  Hugo. 


517 


Regret* 
Yes,  Happiness  bath  left  me  sooa  be- 
hind! 
AIas»  we  all  pursue  its  steps !  aod 
when 
WeVe  sunk  to  rest  within  its  arms  en- 
twined, 
Litre  the  Phoenician  virgin,*  wake,  and 
find 
Oarselves  alone  again. 

Then,  through  the  distant  future's  bound- 
less space 
We  seek  the  lost  companion  of  our 
days: 
*'  Return,' return !"  we  cry;  and  lo,  apace 
Pleasure  appears !    but  not  to  fill  the 
place 
Of  that  we  moam  always. 

I.  should  unhallowed  Fleasfire  woo  me 
now, 
Will  to  the  wanton  sore 'ress  say,  "  Be- 
gone ! 
Respect  the  cypress  on  my  mournful 

brow, 
Lost  Happiness    hath  left  regret — but 
thou 
Lea  vest  remorse,  alone.' 


>» 


Yet,  haply  lest  I  check  the  mounting 
fire, 
O  friends,  that  in  your  revelry  ap- 
pears ! 
With  you  III  breathe  the  air  which  ye 

respire, 
And,  smiling,  hide  my  melancholy  lyre 
When  it  is  wet  with  tears. 

Each  in  his  secret  heart  perchance  doth 

OWTJ 

Some  fond  regret  'neath  passing  smiles 
concealed ;.. 
Sufiferers  alike  together  and  alone 
Are  we ', — with  many  a  grief  to  others 
known. 
How  many  unrevealed ! 

Alas  !  for  natural  tears  and  simple  pains. 
For   tender    recollections,    cherished 
long. 
For  guileless  griefs,  which  no  compunc- 
tion stains. 
We  blnsh  ; — as  if  we  wore  these  earthly 
chains 
Only  for  sport  and  song ! 

Yes,  my  blest  hours  have  fled  without  a 
trace: 
In  vain  I  strove  their  parting  to  delay  ; 
Brightlv  tbey  beamed,  then  left  a  cheer- 
less space. 
Like  an  o'erclouded  smile,  that  in  the 
face 
Lightens,  and  fades  away. 

There  is  a  graeeftil  melancholy,  at 


once  kindly  and  dignified — a  deep 
but  not  a  morose  moumfulcess,  which 
pleases  us  greatly  in  this  unpretend- 
mg  composition.  There  is  a  polish, 
and  a  finish  too :  excellencies  observ- 
able in  many  of  the  smaller  poems  of 
our  author,  and  in  which  he  strikes 
us  as  bearing  a  peculiar  similarity  to 
our  own  elegant  and  tasteful  Camp- 
beU. 

On  a  former  occasion  we  expressed 
our  admiration  of  Hugo's  powers  as 
a  descriptive  poet ;  asserting  our  opi- 
nion, that  in  delineations  of  natural 
scenery  he  is  without  a  rival  in  the 
poetical  literature  of  his  country. 
We  shall  only  so  far  qualify  that 
praise  as  to  say,  that  if  fault  is  to  be 
found  with  his  landscapes,  it  is  that 
they  are  occasionally  too  crowded. 
The  richness  of  resource  with  which 
he  accumulates  unaffe  upon  image  is 
sometimes  indulged  to  an  excess, 
which  may  be  thought  to  impair  the 
general  efiect.  Yet,  for  ourselves, 
we  confess  that  even  in  those  in- 
stances we  have  experienced  in  the 
penis»d  that  species  of  pleasing  be- 
wilderment which  every  one  must 
have  felt  when,  in  some  gorgeous 
prospect,  rich  with  the  wonders,  the 
ffraces,  and  the  sportive  caprices  of 
Nature,  the  demands  made  upon  the 
eye  are  too  numerous  to  be  satisfied, 
— fail  (if  failure  it  can  be  called),  by 
the  very  abundance  of  beauty.  For 
examples  of  our  author's  descriptive 
powers  applied  to  external  nature, 
we  specially  refer  the  reader  to  a 
poem  in  the  Chants  du  Cr^puscuLe^ 
entitled  '*  Au  bord  de  la  Mer,"  con- 
taining a  magnificent  picture,  and 
fumisning  a  conspicuous  instance  of 
Victor's  diffuse  style :  to  two  pieces 
in  the  Femlles  d^Auiomne,  under  the 
titles  of  "  Pan,"  and  »*  Bievre ;"  and 
to  a  portion  of  a  long  narrative  in 
the  Uayons  et  Ombres^  "Ce  qui  se 
passait  aux  Feuillantines  vers  1813." 
In  these  particularly,  and  in  some 
delightful  verses  "  a  Virgile,"  in  the 
Voix  IrUSrieures^  will  be  found  that 
richness  and  truthfulness  of  descrip- 
tion, that  intimacy  with  and  enjoy- 
ment of  Nature,  which  distingtiish 
in  a  remarkable  degree  the  poetical 
character  of  our  favourite — ^in  so 
ffreat  a  degree,  that  there  are  really 
few  pages  of  Victor's  volumes  (some 
of  the  nistorical  poetry  excepted)  in 


Europsi 


M8 


Something  M&re  about  Vietar  Hugo. 


[May, 


which  the  reader  will  not  be  made 
aensiUe,  by  inxMnpt  and  vivid  meta- 
phor, striking  simile  and  illustration, 
that  he  is  in  the  hands  and  under 
the  gnidanee  of  one  whose  study  has 
been  the  book  of  Nature  since  first 
he  looked  upon  its  papes,  who  has 
mastered  his  subject  with  the  mas- 
tery of  love,  and  treasured  it  in  heart 
and  mind, — a  store  from  which  he 
can  draw  inexhaustibly,  and  with  all 
the  freedom,  vigour,  and  boldness,  of 
one  who,  knowmg  that  he  hath  the 
knowledge,  knoweth  also  how  to  em- 
ploy it. 

There  is,  however,  a  form  of  poet- 
ical power  which,  perhaps,  may  be 
most  properly  termed  alhtaive  de- 
McripOon  (rcMders  of  Milton  cannot 
be  unacquainted  with  its  exerdse); 
and  which,  not  so  exclusively  re- 
specting scenery — understanding  that 
word  as  applied  to  the  mere  compo- 
nents of  a  landscape — consists  in  pre- 
senting an  idea  of  a  region,  a  coun- 
try, or  (if  you  like)  a  more  confined 
locality,  either  by  the  designation  of 
some  prevailing  quality  which  at 
once  conveys  the  spirit,  the  influence 
of  the  whole  to  tne  reader's  mind, 
reflects  the  light  and  shade  that  form 
the  colour  of  the  scene,  or  by  group- 
ing, together  in  more  or  less  quantity, 
the  separate  objects  of  association 
and  interest  which,  at  once  height- 
ening and  heightened  by  the  attrac- 
tions of  external  nature,  giving  and 
receiving  charm,  make  up  a  more 
complete  picturesque  than  is  within 
the  reach  even  of  that  art, — 

*'  Whicb  morning,  noontide,  even, 
Do  serre  with  all  tbeir  changeful  pa- 
geantry." 

For  the  antiqiiarian  and  man  of 
art  are  the  remains  and  monuments 
of  a  country;  for  the  ^nter  its 
landscapes ;  for  the  historian  its  an- 
nals ;  for  the  romancer  and  the  lover 
of  grotesque  lore  its  traditions,  fables, 
superstitions,  legends ;  for  the  com- 
mentator on  life  and  character,  its 
manners,  tastes,  and  tone :  but  tiil  of 
these  are  for  the  poet.  Of  other 
men,  each  anpreciates  in  his  own 
department;  but  the  poet  alone  com- 
bines and  exhibits  in  masterly  por- 
traiture the  whole  of  which  their  re- 
spective subiects  are  parts.  Thus,  he 
coinpels  and  seizes  the  spirit  that 
eludes  the  grasp  of  others :  thus,  he 


brings  into  presenee  before  his  readers 
that  national  existence  which  is  eom- 
posed  of  a  people's  past  and  prcient, 
its  aspect  and  its  associations,  its  hia- 
tonr  and  romance,  its  tone  of  fediag 
and  popular  characteristics^  its  works 
of  ait,  its  ridiea  of  nature — loenery, 
and  soil,  and  clime.  Victor  Hugo 
abounds  in  this  aUusiTe  description ; 
and  of  its  two  modes  of  bringing 
scenes  before  the  eyes  we  seleet  some 
few  examples,  which  the  reader,  tak- 
ing the  autnor's  volumes  in  his 
hand,  will  have  no  difficulty  in  mul- 
tiplyinff.  Sometimes  this  presenta- 
tion of  the  scene  is  effected  by  an 
epithet,  the  beauty  or  the  vivid  troth- 
fulness  of  which  is  instantaneously 
felt  and  acknowledged:  and  in  tlus 
our  Victor  is  most  happy. 


'*  Le  Tolcan  de  la  Sicile  Uonds" 

wherein  you  see  the  yellow  surface 
of  that  land  of  the  golden  ear,  the 
granary  of  old  Rome, — 

"  De  noirs  Escurials,  mystSrieux  i^joar.*' 

Tou  recognise  the  resort  of  Philip 
the  dark-souled,  up  among  the 
gloomy  sierra  of  Guaoanuna. 

<<  Le  Nil,  le  Rhin,  le  Tibre ;  Autterlits 
rayonnant§, 
"EylfkUtjroid  et  bnimeHx" 

You  behold  that  immortal  sun  peer- 
ing over  and  blazinff  upon  Monvian 
uplands ;  vou  behold,  too,  that  wintrv 
scene  of  norror  on  the  inhospitable 
plain  of  ProBsiaa-Fdland.    In 


(( 


L'Arabie 


•» 


you  feel  that  a  single  word  has 
spread  out  the  desert  before  you. 
And  be  it  remarked,  by  the  yny, 
that,  in  that  excellent  test  of  a  poet, 
the  degree  in  which  he  possesses,  and 
the  manner  in  which  he  exercises  a 
sway  over  epithets,  the  author  in 
question  will  bear  the  closest  and 
nicest  criticism.  Paj^es  of  commend- 
ation might  be  written,  and  pages 
filled  witn  instances  shewing  how 
rich  is  his  command,  and  how  grace- 
ful and  judicious  his  employment  of 
this  most  expressive  quality  of  his 
native  lansuage. 

At  another  time,  the  poet^s  power 
in  bringiii^eit^er*ainglefleeBe,ortbe 
grand  national  features  and  histocical 
cBsociationa  of  a  country,  to  the  know- 


1S460 


Something  Mote  about  Vieii>r  Hugo, 


519 


ledee  and  appredatioii  of  his  retden, 
is  shewn  in  a  few  rapid  and  off-hand 
touches — sufficient, — ^rapid  and  off- 
hand as  they  are — to  place  the  indi- 
Tidual  spot,  or  the  succession  of  views, 
the  whole  picturesaue  character  of 
the  land,  indeed,  beibie  them.  Look 
at  this  tableau  of  the  renowned  Chris- 
tian and  Moslem  fortresses  on  the 
hanks  of  the  glorious  stream  that 
reaches  from  its  8wabian  springs  to 

"  iThe  vast  enctnctnre  of  that  gloomy  sea. 
Whose  waves  the  Orphean  lyre  forbad  to 

meet 
la  conflict." 

It  is  from  a  piece  in  the  Otientalesj 
entitled  ''Le  Danuhe  en  oolere,"  a 
piece  finely  conceived,  indeed,  but 
spoilt  by  sundry  extrav^igancies,  such 
as  this  undoubted  genius  sometimes 
permits  himself  to  run  into.  Old 
Father  Danube  is  chiding  these  his 
unruly  children  for  their  ever-recur« 
ring  hostilities : 

"  Quoi  1  nepouvez-vonsvivre  ensemble, 
Mes  filles  1  faut  il  que  je  tremble 
Da  destin  qui  ne  tous  rassemble 

Que  pour  yous  bair  de  plus  pres  ? 
Quand  toos  poarries,  aoeurs  paoifiques» 
Mirer  dans  mes  eauz  magnifiques 
Semlin  !  tea  noirs  clocbers  gotbiques, 

Belgrade,  tes  blancs  minarets !" 

Ye  daughters  mine  1  will  nought  abate 
Your  fierce  interminable  batel 
Still  am  I  doomed  to  rue  the  fate 

That    such     unfriendly    neighbours 
madet 
Tbe  while  ye  might,  in  peaceful  cheer. 
Mirror  upon  my  waters  clear 
Semlin !  tby  Gotbto  steeples  drear, 

And  thy  bright  minarets,  Belgrade! 

Now,  here  you  have  the  spot  under 
your  eye,  witn  all  the  conmcting  in- 
terest that  peculiarly  attaches  to  it^ 
Here  are  the  broad  glassy  river,  the 
confronting  batlJements,  the  territo* 
rial  approximation,  the  more  than 
territorial  separation  of  Christianity 
and  Islamism.  The  stanza  contains 
at  once  the  picture  of  the  place  and 
its  history,  its  aspect  and  its  asso- 


cialions.  Look,  again,  at  this  grand 
and  delicious  view  of  a  knd  dear  to 
the  soul  of  Victor,  this  morinff  pa- 
naroma  of  Iberian  scenery.  A  few 
bold  dashes,  and  the  spell  of  the 
country  is  upon  you.  Its  romance 
of  olden  time,  its  historic  mndeur, 
its  romance  of  modem  war ;  the  drear, 
and  wild,  and  sublime  features  of  its 
external  nature ;  its  wide-lying  cities, 
its  long  and  melancholy  trwts,  its 
glorious  monumental  remains,  are 
seen  in — ^ay,  and  something  of  the 
character  of  its  singular  people  is 
transparent  through — the  vigorous, 
the  beautiful,  the  most  muscaiverses 
which  we  attempt  to  render.  The 
lines  afford,  also,  an  excellent  exam- 
ple of  that  felicity  of  illustration 
which  we  numboed  amoM-  our  au- 
thor's acoomplishments.  The  poem 
of  which  they  form  the  dose  is  oc- 
cupied with  the  sweetness  and  inno- 
cent jcnrousness  of  childhood,  and 
pleads  K>r,  and  exhorts  to  indulgence 
for  its  free  and  sportive  sallies.  ^As 
for  me,*'  exclaims  the  poet, — 

"  Moi,  quel  qas  SQtt  Ic  moods,  et  IIkmubs, 

el  rav«nir» 
Soitqu'il  faille  oablierou  se  nssouvenir. 

Que  Dieu  m'afflige  ou  me  console, 
Je  ne  veuz  habiter  la  cit6  dea  vivans 
Que  dans  une  maison  qu'une  rumeur 
d'enfans 
Fasse  toujoars  Tivante  et  folle. 

Be  mteie,  si  jamais  enfin  j«  voas  revois, 
Besa  pays,  doot  la  laagse  esl  faite  pour 
ma  voix, 
Dont  mes  yeaz  aimaient  leurs  cam- 
pagnea, 
Bords  ou  mes  pas  enfass  suivaient  Na- 
poleon, 
Fortes  villes  du  Cid !  6  Valence,  6  L^on, 
Castille,  Aragon,  mes  Espagnes, 

Je  ne  veux  traverser  tob  plaines,  vos 

cit6s, 
Franchir  vos  ponts  d'une  arche  eotre 

deux  monts  jet^s, 
Voir  vos  palaia  romaios  ou  mauref » 
Votre  OuadalqutTir  qui  aerpente  et  s'en- 

foit. 
Que  dans  ces  chars  dor^s  qu'enpliaseiit 

de  leur  bruit 

Les  grelots  des  males  sonores !"  * 


•  Observe  the  exceeding  beauty  of  the  mnsieal  word  ionort  (so  effective  at  the 
close  of  a  line,  and  often  so  effectively  employed  by  our  author),  tbe  uses  of  which 
are  more  compiehensive  than  those  of  our  own  word  similarly  derived.  Here  we 
have  it  applied  to  the  jingle  of  bells,  and  expressive  of  their  shrill  music.  In  the 
▼erses  on  the  CarUUniy  which  closed  our  former  paper,  we  found  it  applied  to  the 
rhythmi  the  graduated  succession  of  sounds.    And  in  the  following  it  expresses  tl' 


520 


Somelhwg  More  about  Vtci^r  Hngo. 


[Miy, 


For  me,  w1iite*er  ny  life  and  lot  may 

sliew. 
Years  blank  with  gloom  or  cheered  by 

memory's  glow. 
Turmoil  or  peace  \  ne'er  be  it  mine,  I 

To  be  a  dweller  of  the  peopled  earth. 
Save  'neath  a  roof  aUre  with  children's 
mirth. 
Load  through  the  livelong  day. 

So,  if  my  hap  it  be  to  see  once  more 
Those  noble  scenes  my  footeteps  trod 
before. 

An  infant  follower  in  NapoleoD*s  train ; 
Rodrigo's  holds.  Valencia  and  Leon, 
And  both  CastUles,  aod  mated  Aragon ; 

Ne'er  be  it  mine,  O  Spain ! 

To  pass  thy  plains  with  cities  sprent  be- 
tween. 

Thy  stttely  arches flaoc  o'er  deep  ravine. 
Thy  palaces,  of  Moor's  or  Roman's 
time; 

Or  the  swift  windings  of  thy  Guadal- 
quivir, 

Save  in  those  gilded  cars,  where  bells  for 
ever 
Ring  their  melodious  chime." 

But  they  whose  favour  is  dear  to 
us  as  the  light  of  our  eyes,  are,  doubt- 
less, desirous  to  hear  a  love-lay  of 
our  boasted  bard.  They  shall  surely 
have  one,  if  they  will  but  permit  us 
first  to  select  a  few  felicitous  speci- 
mens ;  some  small  gems,  but  spark- 
ling, even  amidst  an  atmosphere  of 
brilliancy.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a 
sweet  transparency,  a  veil  of  soft 
liffht,  a  gleam  from  an  open  comer 
of  heaven,  such  as  Campbell  was 
wont  to  shed  in  liquid  verse.  Here 
it  is,  clothing  you  with  beauty : — 

"  La  lane  au  jour  eat  tidde  et  pftle, 
Comme  un  joyeuz  convalescent ; 

Tend  re,  elle  ouvre  ses  yeuz  d'opale, 
D'ou  la  douceur  du  ciel  descend !" 


The  p«le  -  faced  aoon  in  the  noondsy 

ftkj 
Shines  with  a  mild-reviviog  gkw ; 

Soflly  andoeiag  her  opal  eye. 

Shedding  the  sweetness  ofbeav'obe- 
low. 

From  the  same  piece,  and  what  a 
noontide  effisct  I — 

"  Toot  Tit,  et  se  pose  avec  grics, 
Xe  layoa  sor  le  aeail  ouveit, 

L'ombr«  qui  fait  sur  I'eao  qui  pwje, 
Le  ciel  blea  sur  le  coteau  vsrt.' 

How  graceful  the  picture!  theli/e.thf 
repose !  ^ 

The  sunbeam  that  plays  on  the  pordi- 
stone  wide ; 
And  the  shadow  that  fleets  o'er  the  ilwm 
that  flows,  ,    ,  .,„ 

And  the  soft  blue  aky  with  tbelalls 
green  side. 

In  the  foUowing  there  a^jpean  W 
us  something  of  the  expression  whictt 
CoUins,  his  fancy  dwelling  on  the 
dim  and  mysterious,  knew  so  weu  w 
throw  into  a  line, — a  word:— 

"  Chfenes,  vous  grandirea  an  fond  dtf 

solitudes,  ^        .  ,; 

Dans  les  lointains*  brumeux  a  la  ciifw 


des  soirs. 


n 


Nor  is  this  fine  stroke  of  personi- 
fication unlike  the  effect  of  the  ma- 
gician's  wand,  swayed  by  that  Dow 
yet  tender,  that  most  — perhaps, J^ 
aU  the  immortal  throng  of  Bnteins 
bards— wkw/  picturesque  of  poets  .— 

"  Ou  8ont.ils  les  marins  sombr^i  danalei 

nuits  noires  1  ,      .  .^ 

O   flots !  que  vous  savei  de  lujru»rw 

histoires!  »       5 

FloU  profonds,  redout^s  des  mcrw 
genouz  I 


hollow  revet  beration  rendered  by  the  substance  upon  which  the  action  of  ^^  r^^ 
exercised.  In  the  long,  wild,  dreamy  "  Ode  a  I'Arc  de  Triompbe,"  in  the  J'^  ^ 
tc'rifMre*,— describing  Uie  scene  when  Paris,  the  city  of  fame,  the  centre  ^^J,^  jijer- 
focus  of  politics,  tbe  officina  of  ^meutet  and  revolutions,  shall  be  a  ruin  and  a  ^  ^^^ 
ness,  "  1^  jour  ou  Paris  se  tairait,"  the  poet  bursts  into  the  fine  and  moufnJ"' 
scription,  thus, — 

"  II  se  taira  pourtant !  apres  bien  des  aurores, 
Bien  des  mois,  bien  des  ans,  bien  des  siecles  couches, 
Quand  cetie  rive  oil  reau  u  hrise  aux  pontt  tonore$ 
Sera  rendiu  auxjotus  murmurans  et  pench(t,** 

Only  note  tbe  beauty  of  the  epithets ;  only  remark  the  flow,  or  rather  the  ^^•^g' 
lion  in  the  former,  the  flow  in  ibe  latter  of  tlie  last  two  lines.    The  sound  w  ^ro 
deed  an  echo  to  the  sense.     We  know  few  finer  examples.  .i^^ 

•  "  The  ulurol  use  of  the  word  lointain  seems  peculiarly  beautiful.    '^^^^. 
'nctoess  of  distance  is  thereby  deepened,  the  wonclers  of  the  unknown  gre»7 
"^ced. 


1846.] 


Something  More  about  Victor  Hugo, 


521 


Vous  vous  l68  raoontez  en  montant  les 

marges, 
£t  c'est  ce  qui  yova  fait  ces  Toiz  d^s- 

esper^es 
Que  vous  arez  le  aoir  quand  vous  venez 

vers  nous." 

Where  are  the  hapless  shipmen? — dis- 
appeared. 
Gone  down,  when  witness  none,  save 

Night,  hath  been. 
Ye  deep,  deep  wavesi  of  kneeling  mo« 

thers  feared. 
What  dismal  tales  know  ye  of  things 

unseen ! 
Tales,  that  ye  tell  your  whispering  selves 

between 
The  while  in  crowds  to  the  flood-tide 

ve  pour ; 
And  this  it  is  that  gives  you,  as  I  ween, 
Those  mournful  voices,  mournful  ever 

morBf 
When  ye  come  in  at  eve  to  us  that  dwell 

on  shore. 

Here  is  a  magnificent  image : — 

'*  Ob,    regardez  le  ciel !    cent   nuages 

mouvans, 
Amonceles  la-haut  sous  le  souffle  des 

vents, 
Groupent  leurs  formes  inconnues ; 
Sous  leurs  flots  par  momens  flamboie  un 

pale  Eclair, 
Comma  si  tout-i-coup  quelque  g^ant  de 

Tair 
Tirait  son  glaive  dans  les  nuas !" 

See,    where    on    high    the    vapouring 

masses  piled 
By  the  wind's  breath  in  groups  grotesque 

and  wild, 
Present  strange  shapes  to  view  ; 
Now  darts  a  ghastly  flash  from  out  their 

shrouds. 
As  though  some  air-born  giant  'mid  the 

clouds 
Sudden  his  falchion  drew  I" 

Was  Milton  floating  in  the  brain 
of  Victor  ?— 


<• 


Millions  of  flaming  swords  drawn  from 

the  thighs 
O f  migh ty  cherubim ." 


Here  a  simile,  exjjressed  with  what 
simple  solemnity,  bringing  to  the  ac- 
tive spirit  a  scene  how  pensive  and 
religious,  how  melancholy,  shadowy, 
and  dim  I — 

"  C'etaitune  humble  6glise  an  cintre  sur* 
baiss^, 
L'^glise  ou  nous  entrames, 
Ou  depuis  trois  cents  ans  avaient  d^ja 
pass£ 
£1  pleur^  bien  des  iimes. 

YOJL,  XXZXU.  »0.  CXCYU. 


EUe  etait  triste  et  calme  a  la  chute  du 
jour, 
L'^glise  ou  nous  entrames, 
L'autel  sans  serviteur,  comme  un  cceur 
Sana  amour 
Avait  ^teint  ses  flammes. 

4>  «  *  * 

A  peine  on  entendait   flotter   quelque 
soupir, 

Quelque  basse  parole, 
Comme  en  uue  foret  qui  vient  d*assoupir 

Un  dernier  oiseau  vole." 

It  was   a  humble  church,  with   arches 
low. 

The  church  we  entered  there. 
Where  many  a  weary  soul  since  long  ago 

Had  passed,  with  plaint  or  pray'r. 

Mournful  and  still  it  was  at  day's  decline. 

The  church  wo  entered  there ; 
As  in  a  loveless  heart,  at  the  lone  shrine. 

The  fires  extinguish'd  were. 

«  •  *  « 

Scarcely  was  heard  to  float  some  gentlest 
sigh. 

Scarcely  some  low-breath'd  word. 
As  in  a  forest  fall'n  asleep,  doth  fly 

One  last,  belated  bird. 

Here,  again,  how  touching  an  ap- 
plication! — 

"  Les  feuilles  qui  gisaient  dans  le  hois 

solitaire, 
S'efl'or^ant  sous  ses  pas  de  s'^lever  de 

terre, 
Couraient  dans  le  jardin  ; 
Ainsi,  parfois,  quand  I'iUme  est  triste,  nos 

pensees 
S'envolent  un  moment  sur  leurs  ailes 

blessees. 
Puis  retonibent  soudain." 

The   leaves   that  in   the  lonely  walks 

were  spread. 
Starting  from  off  tho  ground  beneath  his 

tread. 
Coursed  o'er  the  garden.plain  ; 
Thus,  sometimes,  'mid  the  soul's  deep 

Borrowings 
Our   thoughts   a    moment    mount    on 

wounded  wings, 
llien,  sudden,  fall  again. 

Reader  I  intelligent,  susceptible, 
and  tasteful  as  thou  doubtless  art, 
tell  us  now  in  confidence,  are  not 
these  the  touches  of  a  true  poet? 
Do  you  not  acknowledge  in  sucn  the 
exquisite  hand  of  a  master  ?  of  one 
who,  whether  he  strike  the  chords 
of  the  great  world-music  or  the  more 
interior  ones  of  the  human  instru- 
ment, has  the  skill — power  j^ossessed 
by  the  mighty  alone — to  thnll  either 
lyre  with  responsive  vibrations  t 
tne  tones  of  the  other  ? 

M  M 


522 


Smething  Har$  alnmt  Yieiar  Hugo. 


[May, 


But  the  love-dittv  ?  XoaOf  amw, 
sweet  lectress!  There  are,  really, 
so  many  of  exceeding  tenderness 
and  beauty,  of  sneli  earnest  pas- 
sion, such  graceM  and  attractive 
melancholy,  that  to  say  we  present 
you  with  the  best,  would  De  t^n 
assertion  we  should  fear  to  hazard; 
lest  feminine  discernment — quick  and 
criticid  in  these  matters,  at  all  events — 
shoiUd  dispute  our  choice  and  re- 
verse our  judgment,  and  from  such 
decinon  there  would  be  no  appeal. 
We  pray  you,  therefore,  sweetest 
Adriana,  to  kindly  affection  the  lay 
we  here  select;  accepting  the  concetti 
(if  such,  indeed,  they  be)  for  the 
sake  of  the  devotion  and  utter  aban' 
don  of  the  passion-stricken : — 

**  Poisqu'ici-baa  toute  kme 
Donne  a  quelqu'ua 
Sa  mosique,  sa  flamme, 
Ou  son  parfum  ^ 

Puisqu'ici  toute  chose 

Donne  toujours 
Son  6pine  ou  sa  rose 

A  sesamonn; 

Puisqu'Arril  donne  auz  eh^nes 

Un  bruit  charmant  i 
Que  la  nuit  donne  aux  pmss 

L'oubU  donnant ; 

Puisque  Tair  a  la  branohe 

Donne  I'oiaeatt ; 
Que  Taube  A  la  pervenebe 

Donne  un  peu  d'eeu } 

Puiaque,  lorsqu'elle  arri?e 

S'y  reposer, 
L'onde  amere  a  la  rive 

Dooaa  ua  baiser ; 

Je  te  donne  a  cette  heure» 

Fench^  sur  toi ; 
La  chose  la  meUleure 

Quej*aie  en  moil 

Recois  done  ma  peos^e 

Triste  d'ailleurs. 
Qui,  comme  une  ros^e, 

T'arrire  en  pleurs ! 

Recois  mes  voeuz  saae  nombre, 

O  mas  amoun ! 
Btcoia  la  ianme  oa  ronbre 

^  tous  mas  jours  I 

transports  pleins  d'ivresses, 
s  de  soup9on8 1 
tes  les  caresses 
D68  chansons  * 


Um  esprit  qui  sans 

VoRue  an  hasard, 
St  qiu  «'a  pour  ^toUa 

Que  ton  regard  1 

Ma  Muse  que  Im  benres 

fiercent  r^vant. 
Qui,  plenrant  qoaiid  ta  plasm, 

Pleure  souvent ! 

Hecois*  mon  bien  celeste, 

O  ma  beauts, 
Mon  ccBur,  doot  rien  ne  reste, 

L'amour  ol6  !" 

Since  every  tbing  below 
Doth,  in  tbts  mortal  state, 

lU  tone,  iU  fragrance,  or  iu  giow 
Co«imiinicat«; 

Sines  all  that  Uvea  and  mares 
Upon  this  eartbt  bestows 

On  what  it  seeks  and  what  it  wrei 
Its  thorn  or  rose ; 

Since  April  to  the  trees 
Gives  a  bewitching  sound. 

And  sombre  night  to  griefs  girea  esse 
And  peace  profound  ; 

Sums  dav^spriiiff  on  ftbs  flo«er 

A  fresh'nmg  drop  confieri. 
And  tho  frank  air  oa  branch  «d  boirer 

Its  cheristars  ; 

^iaoe  tha  dark  wave  bestovs 

A  soft  caress,  imprest 
On  ths  (peen  baak  to  wbi^  it  gM* 

Seeking  its  reat ; 

I  give  thee  at  this  hoar, 
Thus  fondly  bent  o'er  thee,     ^ 

The  best  of  all  the  things  in  dow  r 
That  in  me  be. 

Receive,— poor  gift,  'tis  true, 
Which  grief,  not  joy,  endears,— 

My  thooghte,  that  like  a  shorer of  de"^' 
Reach  thee  in  tears. 

My  vows  untold  receive,^ 
All  pure  before  thee  Isid  '. 

Receive  of  all  the  days  I  U^o 
The  Hght  or  shade! 

My  hours  with  rapture  fiU'd, 
Which  no  suspicion  wrongs  r^ 

And  all  the  bhndishments  distm-tf 
From  all  my  songs. 

My  spitit,  whose  esssy 
Flies  fearless,  wild,  and  b9*} 

And  hath,  and  seeks,  to  jfside  its  w»/ 
No  star  but  thsa.^ 


*  "  Cleave  the  dark  air,  and  seek  no  star  but  thee.*' — Dab  win. 
sbic  linoi  be  it  observed,  remarkable  for  melodious  svprassioa- 


1846.] 


Something  More  about  Victoi'  Hugo. 


623 


My  p6osiv9i  draamy  Muse, 

Wbo,  though  all  else  should  smile. 

Oft  as  thou  weep'st  with  thee  would 
choose 
To  weep  the  while. 

Oh,  sweetest  mioe !  this  gift 
ReeeiYB  ;~>'tis  thiiKS  alone  ;— 

My  heart,  of  which  there's  nothing  left 
When  Love  is  gone ! 

Yet  a  little  more  coUn-maSlard 
among  Victor's  crowd  of  fair  forms. 
We  snatch  at  them  '^  quite  promis- 
cuously ;"  we  stretch  out  our  hands, 
and  they  are  filled.  Pause,  then, 
yet  a  moment  with  us,  ere  we  pro- 
ceed to  touch  the  ballad-poetry  of 
our  author,  and  admire  sucn  beauty 
and  such  happiness  of  expression  as 
these: — 


<« 


Ferait  fuir  U  tommeil,  U  plus  craintif 
des  angei : " 

' '  Par  la  blanche  colombe  atnf  rapidet 
adUux  ;" 

'*  Cette  tente  d'un  jour  qu'U  faat  sitot 

plqyer," 

spolcen  of  mortal  life. 

We  cannot  doubt  but  that  you  will 
tfippToye  and  enjoy  sentiments  so  en- 
3ioDling,  so  cheering,  so  calming, 
coaebed  in  sueh  beautiM  form  as 
liere  they  lie : — 

**  L'auguste  Fi^t6,  mvanie  dt$  pro§eritt»** 

**  Cet  lange,  qui  donne  et  qui  tremblei 
C'eat  Taumdne  aux  yeux  de  douceur, 

Au  front  cr6dule,  et  qui  ressemhle 
A  la  Foi  dont  elle  est  la  sceur." 

Au  Jront  cridide  I  How  sweetly 
expresiiYe  of  unsospectiDg  innocence ! 
the  purity,  the  "  whiteness  of  the 
soul,  patent  in  the  calm,  clear,  and 
candid  brow  I — 

"  Le  soir,  au  seuil  de  sa  demeure, 
Heureux  celui  qui  sait  encore 
Ramasser  nn  enfiint  qui  pleure, 
Comme  un  arare  un  sequin  d'or !  *' 

Beautiful  as  a  proverb  of  Palestine 
or  of  Persia  I  Shall  we  go  on  ?  It 
would  be  as  easy  as  agreeable  to 
prolong  this  occupation.  We  might 
continue  to  gratify  the  reader  of 
taste  with  admirable  passages,  striking 
and  original  expressions,  taking  the 
jewels  from  out  their  rich  entourage. 
We  might,  we  say,  continue  to  pre- 
sent to  notice  single  lines  of  fine 
effect  md  ^igqificance,  %a — 


**  Douz  comme  un  chant  dn  soir,  for 
comme  un  choc  d'armures  -" 

or  vkforous  and  impetuous,  graceful 
and  flowing  numbers,  as  these : — 

«  Darid  1  commeungrandroi  qui  partage 

a  des  pnncei 
Les  ^tats  patemels  provinces  par  prop 

Tinces, 
Dien  donne  4  cheque  artiste  un  empire 

divers : 
Au  poete  le  souffle  ^pars  dans  Tunivers, 
La  vie  et  la  pens^e  et  les  foudres  ton* 

nantes 
Et  le  splendids  essaim  det  sirophet  friupn* 

nantes, 
Volant  de  Thomme  a  I'ange,  et  du  monstra 

&  k  fleur ; 
La  forme  au  statuaire ;   au  peintre  la 

couleur ; 
Ao  doux  musicien,  rivtur  limpidt  el  sombre^ 
Le  monde  obscur  des  sons  qui  murmure  dans 

Vombre." 

We  purposely  refr^  from  giving 
any  thmff  but  the  original,  that  you 
may  the  better  appreciate  these  noble 
lines.  Verily,  with  such  command 
of  language  and  such  resounding 
march  of  versification,  we,  for  our- 
selves, shall  begin  to  believe  in  the 
possibility  of  a  French  Dryden  — 
a  ^'glonous  John,'*  and  eke — of 
Paris. 

Shall  we  go  on?  we  say*  No; 
for  when  should  we  have  gone  with 
so  pleasing  an  employment  ?  Yet 
this  one  little  curiosity  we  must  com- 
mend to  our  loving  countrymen  and 
dearly  beloved  Cocknevs,  —  this  de- 
signation of  time  and  locality  to  the 
nativity  of 

**  Ce  pedant  qu'on  appelle  Ennui ; '' 

whom  the  wicked  Frenchman,  with 
true  national  raillery,  calls 

'*  Ce  docteur,  n^  dans  Londret  un 
Dimanche  en  D6ceinbre" 

But  since  wc  must  perforce  take 
this  hit  at  the  hands  of  Victor,  we 
e*en  beg  leave  to  pass  on  the  fun ; 
and,  accordingly,  despatch  this  com- 
pliment to  Anierica,  with  our  best 
bow  to  President  Polk  and  his  swag- 
gering statists : — 


yk,  nation  de  baaard, 
saos  histoire,  et 


**  Peuple  R  peine 
Sans  tige,  sans 
snns  art." 


Thus  it  is  that  our  friend  disposes  pf 
^tl)e  gr^Qdiloqu^Qt  Jonathan :— ^ 


5^4 


Something  Mare  about  Victor  Hngo. 


[May, 


/ 


**Many  penons,  whose  opinkm 
u  of  weight,  have  said  that  the  au- 
thor's odes  are  not  odes:  be  it  so. 
Biany  others  will  say  (with  less 
reason)  that  his  ballads  are  no  bal- 
lads at  all :  granted  also.  Let  folks 
give  them  any  other  appellation  they 
choose :  the  aothor  wees  to  it  be- 
forehand.** So  says  victor  himself, 
in  one  of  his  preuces  to  the  Odet  el 
BaUadet;  and  it  must  be  confessed 
that  his  ballad  is  almost  as  great  a 
novelty  in  that  class  of  French  poetry, 
as  in  its  own  department  was  lus 
ode.  Into  his  effusions  of  high  lyrical 
effort  the  poet  has  poured  a  flood  of 
song,  drawn  from  other  sooroes  of  in- 
spiration than  such  as  supplied  the 
greater  and  the  lesser  daasical  copy- 
ists,—  the  pure  imitators  and  the 
mixed  herd  of  imitators  of  imitation. 
A  bolder  grasp  of  measures,  a  more 
ample  sweep  of  language,  a  greater 
freedom  of  thought,  a  finer  play  of 
imagination,  and  an  immeasurably 
deeper  intensity  of  feeling  by  the  in- 
troduction into  that  heretofore  cold 
and  formal  style,  that  distant,  and, 
so  to  say,  objective  life,  of  a  pervading 
|»8sion,  a  natural  earnestness  of  sen- 
timent, a  vivid  personality  of  emo- 
tion,— ^these  have  been  the  contribu- 
tions of  Victor  Hugo  to  the  Ode  of 
France;  endowments  of  which  there 
was  so  much  need,  qualities  whose 
absence  was  so  felt,  that  the  contem- 
plation of  the  otherwise  well -ex- 
ecuted compositions  became  as  dis- 
tasteful to  tne  poetic  student  as  to  the 
lonely  husbana  in  his  Spartan  halls 
was  the  aspect  of  the  fair-proportioned 
statues,  wanting  the  tenderness  and 
the  fire,  the  melting  and  kindling 
glance  of  vitality : — 

"Effu  ir»/  'Af^4/r«. — JEsCH,  Agam, 

So  great  and  so  novel  in  their  cha- 
racter are,  we  again  repeat,  the  merits 
of  our  author  with  reference  to  the 
higher  lyrical  poetry  of  his  country. 
Without  cltuming  ior  him  so  high  a 
meed  of  praise,  we  can  hardly  regard 
his  productions  under  the  head  of 
ballads  as  forming  a  less  striking 
contrast  with  their  predecessors  efus- 
dem  naminis.  Although  a  taste  for 
antiquarian  research,  and  a  tendency 
to  reproduce  the  characteristics  of 
the  olden  times  of  theix'  history,  have 


now  been  for 
in  the  literrtore  of  our  aceomplishfd 
ne^bonn,  it  wasnotalittleitaitiiif 
to  hemr  a  yoong  poet  aBDoonee, 
twenty  yean  ago,  that  hii  bsUids 
were  an  **  endearoor  to  give  tarn 
idea  of  wliai  might  be  the  poems  of 
the  first  tronbadoars  of  the  middle 
ages, — of  those  Qmstianrhapndirts 
idio  had  nothiiw  in  the  wond  bot 
their  sword  and  their  guitar,  and 
who  went  aboot  finom  diiten  to 
ch&teau,  requiting  hospitBlitx  with 
songs.**  Thn  was  oertainlj  a  nord 
announoement,  and  a  bdd  one;  for 
if,  on  one  part,  from  **libeni' 
France  was  to  be  expected  ooCluAg 
but  contempt  for  Hook  dark  tfo 
of  knightly  courtesy  and  idigioDs 
enthufliaflm;  or  from  the  ranoants 
of  imperial  France,  only  that  indif- 
ference which  it  manifested  to  emy 
thing  but  the  mmvemrw  of  its  owi 
achievements;  the  sympathies  of  the 
Restoration,  on  another  hand,  wooM 
revert  rather  to  the  pure  "ehsac 
glories  of  Limifl  XrV.  (V,  at  fwtM 
to  the  CausMdeo  and  Gandaks»  lad 
the  GabrieUes  of  his  fiuheraadbB 
grandfiither.  To  avow,  therefore^ 
before  a 


public  a  niedirTal 

flight  of  imagination,  was  nUber  i 
daring  attem^  at  reactioa  in  poeUc 
sympathies;  albeit  the  cmay  w» 
made  during  the  restoration  of  an 
ancient  dyi^sty,  and  under  the  bto- 
sed  rule  of  a  "  n»  chevaUerP  W« 
might  dispute  the  successful  reaUa- 
tion  of  the  author*s  design,  but  we 
are  content  to  take  them  Q^^  .3 
name  he  has  given  theminhisfint 
volume— Ballads ; and  embradogm 
our  notice  others  which  come  unoer 
the  same  head,  without  pretending  to 
the  same  purpose,  shall  cntovoitf 
to  give  our  readers  a  notion  of  Hngoj 
ability  in  this  department  Onc,ttd 
a  splendid  one,  among  thoae  wmcn 
profess  a  troubadour  chaia^"* 
La  FiancSe  du  Tmbedkr--^  kmrji 
to  the  readers  of  Fbassb  by  the  aa- 
mirable  transhoion  in  «  The  Beto  oi 
Father  Prout"  We  select  anoth^t 
as  excelling  by  its  toachiogflanpuav* 
and  as  presenting— if  not  eiaaiy  » 
specimen  of  what  the  t«mbad<w»« 
themselves  would  have  ^ojog-^^r" 
events,  a  colouring  of  imagmation 
drawn  from  those  times  o^  P^P^ 
credence  with  their  conntos  «^ 
picturesque  superstitions*  ^^?K 
faa  to  be  struck,  we  think,  witb  the 


1846.] 


Something  More  about  Victor  Hvgo, 


625 


beautiful  picture  contoined  in  the 
sixth  stanza : — 

"  La  Gran^mere, 

"  '  Dora-tu  1  rereiUe-toi,  mere  de  noire 

mere! 
D*ordiiiaire  en  dormant  ta  booche  re- 

muait ; 
Car  ton  lommeil  souvent  ressemble  a  ta 

priere. 
Maia,  ce  aoir,  on  dirait  la  madooe  de 

pierre; 
Ta  levre  est  immobile  et  ton  loniBe  eat 

muet. 

Pourquoi  conrber  ton  front  plas  baa  qne 
de  coutume  ? 
Qael  mal  aroos  noaa  fait,  pour  ne 
plua  none  cb^rir  1 

Vois,  la  lampe  pftlit,  TAtre  tcintille  et 
fame; 

Si  ta  ne  paries  pas,  le  fen  qni  se  con- 
sume, 
£t  la  lampe,  et  nous  deuz,  nous  allons 
tons  mourir ! 

Ta  nous  trouveras  morts  pres  dels  lampe 

6teinte, 
Alors,  que  diraa  tu  qaand  tu  t'^veiU 

lerasi 
Tea  mfans  a  leur  tour  seront  lourds  a  ta 

plainte. 
Pour  nous  rendre  la  ne,  en  invoquant  ta 

sainte, 
II  faudra  bien  longtemps  nous  serrer 

dans  tee  bras. 

I>onne*nous  done  tes  mains  dans  nos 

mains  r6cbauff(6es, 
Cbante-nous  quelque  chant  de  pauvre 

troubadour, 
Dis-noua  ees  chevaliers,  qui,  senris  par 

lesfte. 
Pour  bouquets  a  leur  dame  apportaient 

dee  tropb£es» 
£t  dont  le  eri  de  guerre  kitai  un  nom 

d'amour. 

Dts-nouB  quel  di?in  eigne  est  funeite  anx 
fantdmes ; 
Qnel  ermite  dans  Tair  ?it  Lucifer  vo- 
lant; 

Quel  rubis  ^tincelle  au  front  du  roi  des 
gnomes; 

£t  si  le  noir  d^mon  craint  plus,  dans  ses 
rojaumee. 
Lea  paaumes  de  Turpin  que  le  fer  de 
Roland. 

Ou,  montre-nons  ta  Bible  et  lea  belles 

imues, 
Le  del  a  or,  les  saints  bleus,  les  saintes 

a  genoux, 
L'enfant  J^sus,  la  creche,  et  le  bceuf,  et 

les  mages: 
Fait'noui  /tr«  du  doigt  dant  le  milieu  det 

paget 
Un  peu  de  ce  latin,  qui  parle  a  Dieu  de 

nov9. 


Mere !  —  H^las  f  par  degr^s  t'affaisse  la 

lumiere, 
L'ombre  joyense  dense  autour  du  noir 

foyer, 
Les  esprits  rent  peut-^tre  entrer  dans  la 

chaumiere ; 
Oh,  aors  de  ton  sommeil,  interrorope  ta 

priere ! 
Toi  qui  noua  rassurais,  yeux  tu  nous 

effrayer  1 

Dieu !  que  tes  bras  sont  froids  !  rouvre 

les  yeuz. — Naguere 
Tu  nous  parlais  d'un  monde  ou  nous 

menent  nos  pas, 
£t  de  ciel,  et  de  tombe,  et  de  vie  6pb^- 

mere, 
Ttt  parlais  de  la  mort  —  dis*nous,  6  noire 

mere ! 
Qu'est  ce  done  que  la  morti— Tu  ne 

nous  r^ponds  pas !' 

Leur  g6missante  voix  longtemps  se  plai« 

gnit  seule. 
La   jeune    aube    parut    sans   r^reiller 

Taieule, 
La  cloche  frappa  Tair  de  ses  funebres 

coups ; 
£t,  le  soir,  un  passant,  par  la   porta 

entr'ouverte, 
Vit,  devant  le  saint  livre  et  la  concbe 

d^serte, 
Les  deux  petits  enfans  qui  priaient  u 


t> 


genoux. 

Tke  Grandmcther, 

"  Mother  of  our  own  dear  mother,  good  old 

grandam,  wake  and  smile  F 
Commonly  your  lips  keep  moving  when 

you're  sleeping  all  the  while  : 
For  between  your  pray'r  and  slumber 

scarce  the  difference  is  known  ; 
But  tcuight  you're  like  the  image  of 

Madonna  cut  in  stone, 
With  your  lips  without  a  motion  or  a 

breath — a  single  one. 

Why  more  heavily  than  usual  dost  thou 

bend  thine  old  grey  browl 
What  is  it  we've  done  to  grieve  thee, 

that  thou'ltnot  caress  us  now  1 
Grandam,  see!  the  lamp  is  paling,  and 

the  fire  bums  fast  away ; 
Speak  to  us,  or  fire  and  lamp-light  will 

not  any  longer  stay. 
And  thy  two  poor  little   children,  we 

ahall  die  as  well  as  they. 

Ah !  when  thou  shalt  wake  and  find  us,  near 

the  lamp  that's  ceased  to  burn, 
Dead,  and  wnen  thou  speakest  to  us, 

deaf  and  silent  in  our  turn — 
Then,  how  great  will  be  your  sorrow! 

then  you  11  cry  for  us  in  vain ; 
Call  upon  your  saint  and  ]>fltroa  for  a 

long,  long  time  and  fain, 
And  a  long,  long  time  embrace  us,  ere  w 

come  to  life  again ! 


524: 


Something  More  about  Victor  Hugo. 


[May, 


*'Many  persons,  vrhoee  opinion 
is  of  weight,  have  said  that  the  au- 
thor's odes  are  not  odes:  be  it  so. 
Many  others  vrill  say  (with  less 
reason)  that  his  ballads  are  no  bal- 
lads at  all :  granted  also.  Let  folks 
give  them  any  other  appellation  they 
choose :  the  author  wrees  to  it  be- 
fordiand.**  So  says  Victor  himself, 
in  one  of  his  prefaces  to  the  Odes  et 
Baliades;  and  it  must  be  confessed 
that  his  ballad  is  almost  as  great  a 
novelty  in  that  class  of  French  poetiy, 
as  in  Its  own  dej^rtment  was  his 
ode.  Into  his  effusions  of  high  lyrical 
effort  the  poet  has  poured  a  flood  of 
song,  drawn  iVom  other  sources  of  in- 
spiration than  such  as  supplied  the 
greater  and  the  lesser  clasaical  copy- 
ists,—  the  pure  imitators  and  the 
mixed  herd  of  imitators  of  imitation. 
A  bolder  grasp  of  measures,  a  more 
ample  sweep  of  language,  a  greater 
freedom  of  thouffht,  a  finer  play  of 
imagination,  ana  an  immeasurably 
deeper  intensity  of  feeling  by  the  in- 
troduction into  that  heretofore  cold 
and  formal  st}rle,  that  distant,  and, 
so  to  say,  objective  life,  of  a  pervading 
IMusion,  a  natural  earnestness  of  sen- 
timent, a  vivid  personality  of  emo- 
tion,— these  have  been  the  contribu- 
tions of  Victor  Hugo  to  the  Ode  of 
France;  endowments  of  which  there 
was  so  much  need,  qualities  whose 
absence  was  so  felt,  that  the  contem- 
plation of  the  otherwise  well -ex- 
ecuted compositions  became  as  dis- 
tasteful to  tne  poetic  student  as  to  the 
lonelv  husband  in  his  Spartan  halls 
was  the  aspect  of  the  fair-proportioned 
statues,  wanting  the  tenderness  and 
the  fire,  the  melting  and  kindling 
glance  of  vitality  :— 

'ISiffu  irSr  'A^^Va. — ^scHt  Agam, 

So  great  and  so  novel  in  their  cha- 
racter are,  we  again  repeat,  the  merits 
of  our  author  with  reference  to  the 
higher  lyrical  poetrv  of  lus  country. 
Without  claiming  lor  him  so  high  a 
meed  of  praise,  we  can  hardly  regard 
his  proouctions  under  the  nead  of 
ballads  as  forming  a  less  striking 
contrast  with  thor  predecessors  ejuS' 
dem  nofnima.  Although  a  taste  for 
antiquarian  research,  and  a  tendency 
to  reproduce  the  characteristics  of 
the  olden  times  of  their  hiBtoxyi  have 


now  been  for  some  time  conspicuous 
in  the  literature  of  our  accomplished 
neighbours,  it  was  not  a  little  startling 
to  hear  a  young  poet  announce, 
twenty  years  ago,  that  his  ballads 
were  an  ^  endeavour  to  give  some 
idea  of  what  might  be  the  poems  of 
the  first  troubttdours  of  the  middle 
affes, — of  those  Christian  rhapsodists 
ymo  had  nothinff  in  the  world  but 
their  sword  and  their  guitar,  and 
who  went  about  firom  chftteau  to 
chliteau,  requiting  hospitality  with 
songs.**  This  was  certainly  a  novel 
announcement,  and  a  bold  one ;  for 
if,  on  one  part,  from  **  liberal** 
France  was  to  be  expected  nothing 
but  contempt  for  those  dark  ages 
of  kni^hUy  courtesy  and  rdigiqus 
enthusiasm;  or  from  the  leninants 
of  imperial  France,  only  that  indif- 
ference which  it  manifested  to  every 
thing  but  the  mmvenire  of  its  own 
achievements;  the  sympathies  of  the 
Restoration,  on  anotner  hand,  would 
revert  rather  to  the  pure  '*  daanc** 
glories  of  Louis  XIV.  or,  at  furthest, 
to  the  Caussades  and  Candales,  and 
the  Gabrielles  of  his  father  and  his 
grandfather.  To  avow,  therefore, 
before  a  Parisian  public  a  mediaeval 
flight  of  imagination,  was  rather  a 
daring  attempt  at  reaction  in  poetic 
sympathies;  albeit  the  essay  was 
made  during  the  restoration  of  an 
ancient  dynasty,  and  under  the  bles- 
sed rule  of  a  "  roi  cheoaHerJ*  We 
might  dispute  the  successful  realiaa* 
tion  of  the  author*s  design,  but  we 
are  content  to  take  them  under  the 
name  he  has  given  them  in  his  first 
volume — ^BallMs ;  and  embracing  in 
our  notice  others  which  come  under 
the  same  head,  without  pretending  to 
the  same  purpose,  shall  endeavour 
to  mve  our  readers  a  notion  of  Hugo's 
ability  in  this  department.  One,  and 
a  splendid  one,  among  those  which 
profess  a  troubadour  chaimcter  — 
La  Fiancie  du  TlmiMMr— is  known 
to  the  readers  of  Fbabbb  by  the  ad- 
mirable translation  in  "TheRdksof 
Father  Front**  We  select  another, 
as  excelling  by  its  touching  flimplicity, 
and  as  presenting— if  not  exactly  a 
specimen  of  what  the  tronbadourB 
themselves  would  have  sung — at  all 
events,  a  oolouring  of  imagination 
drawn  from  those  times  of  popular 
credence  with  their  countless  and 

g'cturesque  superstitionB.    Few  can 
il  to  be  BtmcKy  we  think,  with  the 


526 


Something  More  about  Victor  Hugo. 


[May, 


Only  feel  how  warm  onr  hands  are  ;  wake, 

and  place  thy  hands  in  ours. 
Wake,  and  sing  us  some  old  ballad  of  the 

wand'ring  troubadours. 
Tell  us  of  those  knights  whom  fairies  used 

to  help  to  love  and  fame. 
Knights  who  brought,  instead  of  posies, 

spoils  and  trophies  to  their  dame. 
And  whose  war-cry  in  the  battle  was  a 

lady's  gentle  name. 

Tell  us  what*8  the  sacred  token  wicked 

shapes  and  sptites  to  soare ! 
And  of  Lucifer— who  was  it  saw  him 

flying  through  the  air  1 
What's  the  gem  that*s  on  the  forehead  ot 

the  King  of  Gnomes  display 'd  1 
Does  Archbishop   Turpin's    nsafter,  of 

Roland's  enormous  blade, 
Daunt  the  great  black  King  of  Evil?— Say, 

which  makes  him  most  afraid  1 

Or  thy  large  old  Bible  reach  us,  with  its 

pictures  bright  and  blue,— • 
Heaven  all  gold ;  and  saints  a-kaeellng ; 

and  the  infant  Jesus  too, 
In  the  manger  with  the  oien ;  and  the 

kings ;  and  soft  and  slow 
0*er  the  middle  of  the  pages  guide  our 

fingers  as  we  go, 
Reading  some  of  that  good  Latin,  speaks 

to  God  from  us,  you  know. 

Grandam,  see  !  the  light  is  failing,.— fail- 
ing ;  and  upon  the  hearth 

And  around  the  blackened  ingle  leaps 
the  shadow  in  its  mirth. 

Ha  I  perhaps  the  sprites  are  coming  !— 
yes,  they  '11  soon  be  at  the  door  ;— 

Wake,  oh,  wake !  and  if  you  're  praying, 
dearest  grtndam,  pray  no  more  : 

Sure,  you  do  not  wish  to  fright  us,  you 
who  cheered  us  aye  belbre ! 

But  thine  arms  are  colder,  colder ;  and 

thine  eyes  so  closdd  are ; — 
'T  was  but  lately  you  did  tell  ui  of  another 

world  afar ; 
And  of  hear'n  you  were  discoursing,  and 

the  grave,  where  people  He,— 
Tbid  us  life  was  short  and  fleeting,  and  of 

death,  that  all  most  die. 
What  it  death?  dear  grandam,  tell  us  what 

it  is,— yon  don't  reply !" 

Long  time  did  those  slender  voices  moan 

and  murmur  all  alone : 
Still  the  aged  dame  awaked  not,  though 

the  golden  morning  shone. 
Soon  was  beard  the  dismal  tolling  of  the 

solemn  funeral  bell, 
MounfoUy  the  air  resounded:  and^  as 

silent  evening  fell. 
One  who  paas'd  that  door  half-open 'd 

those  two  little  ones  espied. 
With  the  holy  book  before  them  kneeling 

at  the  lone  bedside. 

To  quit  troabadoun  and  trmvkres^ 


FroYen^als  or  Ficards,  liere  is  a  snatch 
from  the  Romancero  Oenend.  Who, 
native  or  foreign,  has  eyer  ventured 
to  compete  with  Lockhart  in  the 
handling  of  a  Spanish  ballad  ?  The 
following  *'  Romance  Maureaqne  ** 
stands  in  the  middle  of  the  Orienttdet; 
Spain  is  a  ground  that  Victor  delights 
to  tread  over  again.  We  place  the 
English  version  of  this,  one  of  the 
many  ballads  on  the  infanta  of  Lara, 
besiae  that  of  our  author,  and  we 
think  the  Frenchman  must  here  cede 
the  palm.  His  version  is  gallant  and 
easy  in  parts,  but  it  wants  the  total 
spirit  and  the  dash  of  Lockhait's 
bounding  lines ;  it  has  not  the  reso- 
lute compreanon,the  masterW  abrupt- 
ness of  the  Scot*s  handiwork : — 

VICTOn  HUGO. 

"  Romanes  MaiifVtfir«« 

"  Don  Rodrigue  est  a  la  chasse. 
Sans  £p6e  et  sans  cuirasse, 

Un  jour  d*et6,  vers  mudi, 
Sous  la  feuill6e  et  sur  I'herbe 
II  s'assied,  Thomme  superbe, 

Don  Rodrigue  le  hardi. 

La  haine  en  feu  le  d^vore. 
Sombre  il  pense  au  balard  maure 

A  son  neveu  Mudarra, 
Dont  aes  oomplots  sanguinaires, 
Jadis  ont  tu6  les  frdres 

Les  sept  infans  de  Larat 

Pour  le  trourer  eu  cnmpagne, 
11  traverserait  TEspagne 

De  Figudre  A  Seiuval, 
L'un  des  deux  moortait  ians  doute, 
En  ce  moment  sur  la  route 

II  passe  un  honune  k  oheval. 

*  Chevalier,  chr^tien  ou  maure. 
Qui  dors  sous  la  sycamore, 

Dieu  te  guide  par  la  main ! ' 
'  Que  Dieu  r^pande  ses  gtftoes 
Sur  toi,  r6euyer  qui  passes. 

Qui  passes  par  le  cnemiD ! ' 

'  Chevalier,  chr6tien  on  maure, 
Qui  dors  sous  la  sycamore, 

Parmi  Therbe  du  vAlIon, 
Die  ton  nom,  ifin  qv'on  saebe 
Si  tu  portes  le  panache 

D'iin  vaillant  ou  d'un  fl^lODt' 

'  Si  c'est  la  ce  qui  t'intrirue. 
On  m^appelle  Don  Rodrigue, 

Don  Kodrtgue  de  Lara ; 
Doiia  Sanche  est  ma  sceur  m^me ; 
Da  moins,  c*est  d  mon  bapt^nei 

Ce  qu'un  pretre  declare. 


1846.] 


SameiMng  More  about  Vkior  Hugo. 


527 


J 'attends  sons  ce  sycamore, 
J'ai  cherch6  d'Albe  a  Zamore 

Ce  Mudarra  le  b&tard, 
L6  fils  de  la  ren^ate. 
Qui  commando  une  (b^gate 

Da  n»  maoro  Aliatar. 

Certo,  a  moins  qn'il  nem'^Tite, 
Je  le  reconnaitrais  vite ; 

Tonjoun  il  porte  avec  lui 
Notre  dague  de  famille ; 
Une  agate  au  pommeau  brille, 

£t  la  lame  est  sans  ^tui. 

Ooi|  par  mon  &me  chr^enoe, 
D'nne  aotfo  mala  que  la  mienne, 

Ce  micrtant  ne  mourra ; 
C'est  le  bonheur  que  je  brigae«'*«* 
'  On  t'appelle  Don  Rodrigne, 

Don  Kodrigue  de  Lan  1 

£h  bien !  seignenr,  le  Jeune  homme 
Qui  te  parle  et  qui  te  nomme. 

Cost  Mudarra  le  b^tard. 
C'est  le  yengenr  et  le  juge, 
Cherehe  k  ^r^nt  on  refuge  i* 

L'autre  dit ;  '  tu  rieos  bien  tsrd !' 

• 

'  Moi,  fils  de  la  ren6gate, 
Qui  oomma&de  une  frigate 

Du  roi  maure  Aliatar ; 
Moif  ma  dagae  et  ma  rengeanoe, 
Tons  les  trois  d'intelUg^nce, 

NousToici ! '  '  Tu  ^iens  bien  tard  !* 

'  Trop  tdt  pour  toi,  Don  Rodriguei 
A  moins  qnll  ne  te  fatigue 

De  vivre.     Ab  !  la  peur  t'^meut, 
Ton  front  p&lit ;  rends,  inflme, 
A  moi  ta  vie,  et  ton  ame 

A  ton  ange,  s'il  en  veut. 

Si  mon  poignard  de  Toledo 
£t  mon  Dieu  me  sont  en  aide, 

Re^arde  mes  yeux  ardens ; 
Je  snis  ton  seigneur,  ton  mattre, 
£t Je  t'arraohends,  traitre, 

Le  souffle  d*entre  les  dents  ! 

Le  neveu  de  Doiia  Sancbe, 
Dans  ton  sang  enfin  Itanche 

La  soif  qui  Id  d^rora ; 
Mon  oncle,  il  iant  que  tn  mearss, 
Four  toi  plus  de  jonn  ni  d'beures  !' 

'  Mon  bon  neveo,  Madam. 

Un  moment !  afin  que  j'aille 
Ch«roher  mon  fer  de  bataiUa.'^- 

'  Tu  n'anras  d'autres  d61ais, 
Que  celui  qu'ont  eu  mes  freres ; 
Dans  les  (nrreanx  fun^raires, 

Ou  tu  les  as  mis,  suis-les ! 

Si,  jusqu*&  rbeurd  venne, 
J'ai  gard^  ma  lame  nue, 

C'est  que  je  vonlais,  bourreou, 
Que,  vengeant  la  ren^gate, 
Ma  dague  an  pomm^u  d 'agate, 

£ilt  ta  gorge  pour  fburresu.' " 


lockbaht. 
"  Th$  Vengtanee  of  Mudmra. 

'*  To  tbe  cbase  goes  Rodrigo  witb  bound 

and  witb  bawk. 
But  wbat  game  be  desires  is  terealed  in 

bis  talk,— 
'  Ob,  In  rain  bare  I  slaoghterM  ibe  in* 

hhti  of  Lara, 
Tbere'ft  an  beir  in  bis  balls^tbere's  tbe 

bastard  Mudara  1 
Tbero's  the  son  of  tbe  renegade— spawn 

of  Maboun : 
If  I  meet  with  Mudara,  mj  spear  brings 

him  down ! ' 

'While  Rodrigo  rides  on  in  tbe  heat  of  his 

wrath, 
A  striplinfft  armed  cap-k^y  orosses  hit 

path; 
'  Good  morPoWi  young  'squire ! '    '  Good 

morrow,  old  knight ! ' 
'  Will  yon  tide  with  our  psrty  and  sharo 

our  delight  r 
*  Speak  your  name,  conrteoos  stranger,' 


the  stripling  replied, 

iay( 
with  you  I  ride  V 


*  Speak  your  name  ana  your  lineage,  ere 


'  My  name  is  Rodrigo,'  thus  answered 

the  knight, 
'  Of  the  line  of  old  Lara,  though  barr'd 

from  my  right ; 
For  the  kinsman  of  Sahs  proclaims  for 

the  heir 
Of  oar  ancestors'  castles  and  forestries 

fair 
A  bastard-.^  renegade's  offspring — Mu« 

dara. 
Whom  I  '11  send,  if  I  can,  to  the  infanta 

of  Lara.' 

'  I  behold  thee— disgrace  to  thy  lineage ! 

— with  joy, 
I  behold  thee,  thou  murderer  f '  answered 

the  boy : 
'  The  bastard  you  curse^  you  behold  him 


m  me; 


But  his  brothers'  avenger  that  bastard 

sliall  be ! 
Draw  !  for  1  am  the  renegade's  offspring, 

Mudara ; 
Wo  shall  see  who  inherits  tbe  life-blood 

of  Lara ! ' 

*  I  am  armed  for  the  forest  chase,  not  for 

the  fight  \ 
Let  me  go  for  my  shield  and  my  sword/ 
cries  the  knight. 

*  Now  tbe  mercy  you  dealt  to  my  bro- 

thers of  old, 
Be  the  hope  of  that  mercy  the  comfort 

you  hold ! 
Die !  foeman  to  Sancha ;  die  ?  traitor  to 

Lara!' 
As  he  spake,  there  was  blood  on  tbe  spi 

of  Mudara." 


528 


Something  More  about  Victor  Hugo. 


[May. 


And  now  for  a  painful  confession. 
Among  some  pieces  at  the  end  of  the 
volume  of  Uriefitales  is  an  awful 
ballad,  "  La  Legende  de  la  Nonne,** 
which  would  have  gladdened  the  soul 
of  Monk  Lewis,  and— better  than  his 
own  "  Cloud -kings  and  Water- 
kings*'— better  than  Southey's  "  Old 
Women  of  Berkeley*'  and  "  Painters 
of  Florence"— better  than  Sir  Wal- 
ter's contributions  to  that  collection 
— would,  with  its  ^m  Grennan  con- 
ception, clothing  itself  in  the  fierce 
colours  of  Spanish  passion  and  the 
dark  light  jof  Spanish  scenery,  its 
reckless  rapidity  of  verse  contrasting 
with  the  solemn  horror  of  the  tale,  its 
bizarre  refrain  rinsing  ever  and  anon 
amid  the  recounted  crime  and  the  re- 
corded punishment, — would,  we  say, 
have  made  the  fortune  of  the  Tales  of 
Wander.  We  confess,  with  confusion 
of  face,  that  it  has  baffled  our  powers 
of  "  oversetting."  Our  limits  forbid 
us  to  extract  it,  with  its  four-and- 
twenty  stanzas  of  eight  lines  a-piece ; 
but  we  freely  offer  a  couple  of  uncut 
copies  of  Bbgiva  to  whoever  shall 
worthily  execute  its  traduction .  But 
let  him  who  attempts  it  beware  what 
he  is  about.  It  well-nigh  drove  us 
to  an  act  of  the  last  desperation. 
For  the  life  of  us,  we  could  not  sue- 
ceed  in  renderinff,  with  safe  gravity, 
the  singular  re/rain, — which,  by  the 
bve,  while  perfectly  in  character  with 
tne  land  of  the  toreador,  is  decidedly 
of  the  northern  ballad,  by  its  want  of 
connexion  with  the  current  of  the 
story,— 

'*  Enfans,  voici  des  boeufs  qui  pnssent. 
Caches  vos  rouges  tabliers.*' 

To  alter  it  would  be  to  take  the 
tale  into  another  country,  and  thus 
destroy  one  half  of  its  effect. 

To  console  ourselves  for  our  in- 
capacity in  the  terrible  line,  we 
have  had  recourse  to  the  pathetic. 
Under  the  unassuming  title  of  ^*  Gui- 
tare,"  Victor  slips  into  our  hand  a  bit 
of  ballad  poetry  of  that  rich  and 
rare  quality,  in  which  exquisite  Art 
vindicates  to  itself  the  j^race  and 
charm  of  Nature.  Listen  and 
judge:— 

"  Gastibelsa,  riiomtne  a  la  carabine, 

Chantait  ainsi ; 
'  Quelqu'un  a-t-il  connu  dona  Sabine, 

Que1qu*un  d'ici  ? 


Danaez,  chiates,  viUageoia!     La  no  it 
gagne 

Le  moat  Falu...^ 
Le  vent  qui  vient  u  travera  la  montagne 

Me  rendra  fou. 

Quelqu'un  dc  voua  a-t-il  conna  Sabine, 

Masenora? 
Sa  mere  ^tait  la  vieille  maograbine 

D'Antequera. 
Qui  chaque  nuit  criait  dana    la  Tonr- 
Magne 

Comma  un  hibou— 
Le  vent  qui  vient  a  traven  la  montagne 

Me  rendra  fou. 

Danses,  cbantes !  des  biena  qoe  l*heare 
envoie 

II  faut  user, 
Elle  itait  jeune  et  son  ceil  pleia  de  joie 

Fataait  penaer. 
A  ce  vieillard  qu'un  enfant  accompagne 

Jetea  un  sou  !-^ 
Le  vent  qui  vient  a  travers  la  montagne 

Me  rendra  fou. 

Vraiment,  la  reine  ei^t  pres  d'elle  M  laide 

Quand,  vera  le  soir, 
£IIe  pasaait  aur  le  pont  de  Toledo 

En  coraet  noir ; 
Un  chapelet  du  tempa  de  Charlemagne, 

Ornait  son  oou.^» 
Le  vent  qui  vient  a  travers  la  montagne 

Me  rendra  fou. 

Le  roi  diaait,  en  la  voyant  si  belle» 

A  Bon  neveu : 
'  Pour  un  baiser,  pour  un  aourire  d*eUe, 

Pour  on  cheveu, 
Infiint  don  Kuy,  je  donneraia  I'Espagne 

Et  le  P^rou  ! '» 
Le  vent  qui  vient  a  travers  la  montagne 

Me  rendra  fou. 

Je  ne  sais  paa  ai  j'aimais  cette  dame, 

Maia  je  aaia  bien. 
Que  pour  avoir  un  regard  de  son  ftme, 

Moi,  pauvre  chien, 
J'auraii  gaiment  paaad  diz  ana  au  bagne 

Sous  le  verrou.— 
Le  vent  qui  vient  u  travers  la  montagne 

Me  rendra  fou. 


Un 


\  jour  d'^te  que 
Vie  et  douceur. 


tout  £tait  lumiere. 


Elle  s*en  vint  joaer  dana  la  riviere 

Avcc  saaceur; 
Je  vis  le  pied  de  aa  jenne  compagne 

Et  ton  genou«— 
Le  vent  qui  vient  a  travera  la  montagne 

Me  rendra  fou. 

Quand  je  voyais  cette  en&nt,  moi,  le 
p&tre 

De  ce  canton, 
Je  crojais  voir  la  belle  Cltopfttrs 

Qui,  nous  dit-on, 
M^nait  C^aar,  empereur  d*Allemagne, 

Par  le  licou.— 
Le  vent  qui  vient  il  travers  la  montagne 

Me  rendra  fou. 


1846.] 


Something  More  about  Victor  Hugo, 


529 


Dansez,  chantez,  villageois^la  nuit  tombe ! 

Sabine  un  joar 
A  tout  vendu,  aa  beauts  de  colombe, 

£t  8011  amonr, 
Pour  I'anneau  d*ordu  comte  de  Saldagne, 

Pour  un  bijou. — 
Le  vent  qui  vient  a  travers  la  montaghe 

Me  rendra  fou. 

Sor  ce  vieux  banc  soufTrez  que  je  m*ap- 
puie. 

Car  je  auis  las; 
Avec  ce  comte  elle  8*est  done  enfuie, 

Enfuie  b^Iaa ! 
Par  le  chemin  qui  vn  rers  la  Cerdagne, 

Je  ne  aaia  ou.— 
Le  vent  qui  vient  a  travera  la  montagne 

Me  rendra  fou. 

Je  la  yojais  passer  de  ma  demeure, 

£t  c'^tait  tout ; 
Mais  a  present  je  m'ennuie  a  toute  heare, 

Pleinded^goAt, 
Kdveur  oiaif,  I'&me  dana  la  campagne, 

La  dague  au  clou— 
La  vent  qui  vient  a  trarera  la  montagne 

M*a  rendu  fou.' " 

Twas  Gastibelia,  ranger  bold, 

And  thus  it  was  he  sung,.^ 
"  O  who  doth  here  Sabina  know, 

Ye  villagers  among  1 
Dance  on  the  while !     On  Mount  Falou 

Die  the  last  streaks  of  day  ; — 
The  wind   that  'thwart  the    mountain 
comea 

Will  witch  my  wits  away. 

Doth  any  my  aefiora  know, 

Sabina,  bright  and  brown  ? 
Her  mother  was  the  gipsy  old 

Of  Antequera's  town : 
Who  ahriek'd  at  night  in  the  great  towV, 

Like  to  the  owlet  grey. — 
The  wind  that  'thwart  the  mountain  comea 

Will  witch  my  wits  away. 

Dance  on !  the  goods  the  hour  bestows 

Were  meant  for  us  to  use ; 
O  she  was  fair ;  her  bright  black  eye 

Made  lover'a  fancy  muse. 
Now  to  this  greybeard  with  his  child 

Give  ye  an  alms,  I  pray ! — 
The  wind  that 'thwart  the  mountain  comea 

Will  witch  my  wits  away. 

The  queen  beside  her  had  been  plain. 

When,  on  the  bridge  at  eve, 
At  fair  Toledo,  you  beheld 

Her  lovely  boaom  heare, 
'Neath  bodice  black,  and  chaplet  old 

Upon  her  neck  that  lay. — 
The  wind  diat 'thwart  the  mountain  comea 

Will  witoh  my  wits  away. 

The  king  unto  his  nephew  said. 

Beholding  her  so  nir, 
'  But  for  a  kiss,  a  smile  of  her, 

But  for  a  lock  of  hair, 


Trust  me,  Don  Buy,  I'd  gire  broad 
Spain, 

I  'd  give  Peru'a  rich  away  !  '— 
The  wind  that 'thwart  the  mountain  comes 

Will  witch  my  wits  away. 

I  know  not  if  I  loved  this  dame. 

But  this  I  know  and  own. 
That  for  one  look  from  out  her  soul 

Right  gladly  had  I  gone, 
'Neath  bolt  and  chain  to  work  the  oar, 

For  ten  long  years  to  stay. — 
The  wind  that  'tliwart  the  mountain  comes 

Will  witch  my  wita  away. 

One  summer's  day,  one  sunny  day. 

She  with  her  sister  came. 
To  aport  her  in  the  rivulet. 

That  bright  and  beauteous  dame ! 
I  saw  her  young  companion'a  foot, 

I  aaw  her  knee,  i'fay— 
The  wind  that  *ihwart  the  mountain  comes 

Will  witch  my  wits  away. 

When,  simple  ahepherd,  I  beheld 

That  fresh  and  fair  donzel, 
Methought  'twas  Cleopatra'a  aelf. 

Who  ledy-..as  legends  tell, — 
Captive  the  Ca»sar  of  Almatne, 

That  might  not  say  her  nay.— 
The  wind  that 'thwart  the  mountain  comes 

Will  witch  my  wits  away. 

Dance,  villagera ;  the  night  draws  down  ! 

Sabina, — wo  the  hour ! — 
Did  sell  her  lore,  did  sell  her  all. 

Sold  heart  and  beauty's  dow'r. 
For  Count  Saldana'a  ring  of  gold. 

All  for  a  trinket  gay. — 
The  wind  that  'thwart  the  mountain  comes 

Will  witch  my  wits  away. 

Now  let  me  lean  on  this  old  seat. 

For  I  am  tired,  perdy. 
I  tell  you  with  thia  Count  ahe  fled. 

Beyond  the  reach  of  me. 
They  went  by  the  Cerdana  road. 

Whither,  I  cannot  aay. — 
The  wind  that  'thwart  the  mountain  comes 

Will  witch  my  wita  away. 

I  saw  her  pass,  my  dwelling  by, 

T  was  my  last  look  for  aye ! 
And  now  I  go  grieving  an^  low. 

And  dreaming  all  the  day ; 
My  sword 's  hung  up,  my  heart 's  afar 

Over  yon  hills  astray.— 
O  the  wind  that  'thwart  the  mountain 
comes 

Hath  witoh 'd  my  wiU  away." 

And  now,  adieu,  Victor  I     Peer 
though  thou  be,  forget  nil  thine 
other  designation :  for  all  the  green- 
braided  badge  of  thy  new  order,  see 
that  thou  ojscard  not  the   Mus<"' 
livery :  and,  in  the  interrals  of 
natorial  session,  give  us  yet  anc 
of  those  delightful  volumes  of  tl 
with  their  quaint,  fantastic,  arabes 
crepuscular,  enigmatical  titles. 


530 


Th6  Chamber  of  the  iBelL 


[May, 


THE  CHAMBER  OF  THE  BELL. 


Chaptsb  I. 


The  events  wliicb  we  are  about  to 
relate  occurred  in  a  small  and  ob- 
scure German  town,  whicb,  for  our 
ovm  convenience,  we  will  designate 
Nienburg.  Who,  in  the  present 
day,  is  unacquainted  with  the  general 
outline  of  ue  petty  towns  of  the 
''  Fatherland?"  Suffice  it,  that 
Nienburg  formed  no  exception  to 
the  rule,  but  shewed  its  narrow 
streets  of  tall,  many-gabled,  and  pic- 
turesque-looking nouses,  its  dark, 
mvsterious  churches,  its  long  lines 
or  convent  walls,  its  close  and  irre- 
gular-shaped piaces,  and  its  motley 
copulation  of  peasants,  monks,  sof- 
oiers,  b^uines^  and  beg^rs.  As  re- 
garded Its  geography,  it  was  seated 
at  the  base  of  one  of  two  conical  hills; 
that  immediately  in  its  rear  being 
cultivated  to  nearly  two-thirds  of  its 
height,  and  pLuted  on  the  southern 
side  with  vines,  while  the  more  lolly 
and  more  distant  eminence  was 
crowned  by  the  mouldering  remains 
of  what  had  evidently  once  been  a 
formidable  stronghold.  Upon  this 
rock  no  trace  of  ve^tation  could  be 
detected ;  all  was  and,  bleak,  and  de- 
solate ;  the  crude  and  abrupt  outline 
of  the  height  being  broken  in  many 
places  by  the  remains  of  cyclopean 
masonry,  indicating  the  extent  and 
direction  of  the  outwork8,which,  on  the 
more  accessible  sides  of  the  acclivity, 
descended  almost  to  the  valley.  Por- 
tions of  now  mouldering  towers,blend- 
ing  their  hoarv  tints  with  that  of  the 
stones  on  wnich  they  had  been 
seated  for  centuries,  afl&rded  shelter 
to  the  foul  birds  of  carnage  and  dark- 
ness, whose  shrill  screams  and  hoarse 
hootingt  swelled  and  auivered  upon 
the  night-wind,  like  tne  wailings  of 
the  dead  over  the  ruins  of  their 
former  pride.  The  valley  or  gorge 
l)ctween  the  two  hills  was  scarcely 
itiore  efteerfhl  than  the  castled 
lieight  which  fVowned  above  it,  for 
jC  was  occupied  throughout  its  whole 
^^tent  with  graves ;  save  that,  imme- 
diately under  the  shadow  of  the  emi- 
nence last  described,  stood  a  low  and 
^^all  erection  of  stone,  parted  by 
^fiis  city  of  the  dead  from  the  living 
wn  of  Nienburg ;  whicb,  cut  off  by 


an  angle  of  its  own  vine-dad  emi- 
nence from  all  view  of  this  dreary 
necropolis,  was  ^rther  enlivened  by 
a  cheerful  stream,  which  swept 
swiftly  and  smilingly  at  its  foot,  hur- 
rying to  cast  its  pure  and  sparkUng 
waters  into  the  bosom  of  the  Bhine. 
A  few  light  craft,  moored  along  tiie 
shore,  heaved  ksily  upon  the  cur- 
rent, and  the  nets  oi  the  i»hers 
spread  upon  the  hskiak  sufficiently  de- 
noted the  uses  of  the  little  fleet. 

Beyond  the  town,  in  the  opposite 
direction  to  the  ruins,  spread  one  of 
those  fine  old  forests  to  which  Ger- 
many is  indebted  for  so  much  of  her 
prosiierity  and  so  many  of  ber  sa- 
perstitions ;  and  where  the  wsnn  snn 
and  the  flying  clouds  produced  the 
most  fantastic  effects,  as  they  grao- 
pled  for  power  above  the  stem  old 
trees,  spread  over  the  rarely  occur- 
ring glades,  or  succeeded  each  other 
upon  the  dancing  leaves.  The  blast 
which  had  howled  its  defiance  over 
the  neighbouring  ruins,  where  it  beat 
freely  against  the  sharp  rock  and  the 
rigid  masonry,  took  another  and  a 
wUder  tone  as  it  penetrated  into  the 
mystic  depths  of^the  dark  wood,  or 
forced  its  way  through  the  living  net- 
work of  the  swinging  branches. 
None  ventured  liiere  at  nijg^tfiJl: 
the  goatherd  drove  home  his  floe^ 
the  woodsman  laid  by  his  axe,  and 
the  benighted  fowler  hastened  to  es- 
cape into  the  open  country,  without 
venturing  to  cast  one  glance  behind 
upon  the  scenes  of  his  day*8  sport. 

Such  was  the  position  of  the 
little  town,  to  some  of  whose  in- 
habitants wt  are  about  to  hitrodnce 
our  readers.  It  was  evening,  a»d 
a  bright  moon  was  paving  the 
river  with  flakes  of  silver,  which 
looked  like  the  armour  of  some  water- 
giant,  beneath  which  his  huge  frame 
was  quivering  with  desire  to  visit 
the  tranquil  earth  that  slept  so 
peacefully  beside  him.  The  breese 
was  sighing  through  the  vines,  and 
heaving  aside  their  large  glossy  leaves 
and  delicate  tendrils ;  the  laughter 
of  children  and  the  voices  of  women 
might  be  heard  at  intervals;  and 
here  and  there,  upon  the  bosom  of 


1846.] 


The  Chamber  of  the  Bell 


531 


the  stream,  rested  a  bright  red  glare 
which  was  reflected  upon  the  trem- 
bling current.  The  fishermen  were 
busy,  plying  their  trade  by  torch- 
light. 

Upon  the  very  verge  of  the  town 
stooa  a  house,  separated  from  the 
street  by  a  high  wall  inclosing  a  spa- 
cious garden,  laid  out  with  scrupu- 
lous care  and  almost  painful  form- 
ality. Flowers  of  every  scent,  and 
of  every  colour,  blossomed  in  mi- 
nute patches  of  the  most  grotesque 
and  varied  shapes ;  trim-cut  hedges 
of  yew,  with  their  outline  broken  at 
intervals  by  strange  uncouth  figures, 
clipped  into  deformity  from  the  same 
material ;  monstrous  statues  of  dis- 
coloured stone,  and  of  proportions 
which  defied  criticism,  mounted  upon 
square  pedestals ;  basins,  fringed  with 
water-plants  and  peopled  with  gold 
fish ;  and  paths,  smootnly  and  bright- 
ly gravelled,  formed  the  matMel  of 
this  pleasance ;  in  the  midst  of  which 
stood  the  house,  with  its  tall  gable 
turned  towards  the  street,  the  heavy 
beams  of  its  roof  carved  at  the  ex- 
tremities into  whimsical  finials,  and 
its  leaden  gyrgoyles  grinning  like  an 
assemblage  of  demon  heads,  beneath 
the  shadow  of  the  slender  cupola 
which  supported  the  vane. 

Nor  did  the  appearance  of  the 
mansion  within  belie  its  outward 
promise.  It  was  spacious  and  cleanly. 
No  accessory  to  comfort  was  want- 
ing. The  high-backed  chairs,  whose 
carving  was  terminated  by  a  rude 
representation  of  the  family  crest, 
were  well  cushioned.  There  was  a 
soft  carpet  on  the  centre  of  the  floor ; 
ilimily  portraits  were  pannelled  into 
the  walls;  and  the  doors  and  win- 
dows were  screened  by  heavy  dra- 
peries of  fringed  damask.  Every 
thing  bore  the  stamp  of  extreme 
care  and  scrupulous  management. 
There  were  birds  and  flowers  upon  a 
table,  which  stood  within  the  deep 
bay  of  an  Immense  window  looking 
upon  the  garden  firom  the  apartment 
wnere  our  story  is  to  begin;  and 
upon  a  second,  drawn  near  to  the 
porcelain  stove,  which  occupied  an 
angle  of  the  room,  were  placed  a 
lamp,  some  female  working  materials, 
such  as  Berlin  wool,  coloured  silks, 
and  a  half-knitted  stocking ;  a  few 
books,  and  some  fishing  apparatus. 

On  one  side  of  the  stove  sat  a  female, 
of  about  five-and-thirty  years  old. 


She  was  comely  but  not  handsome ; 
her  eyes  were  fine  and  clear,  but  the 
dark  brows  by  which  they  were 
overhung  almost  met  in  the  centre, 
forming  that  waving  line  beneath 
the  forehead  so  prized  by  the  modem 
Greeks,  but  which  gives  such  a 
harshness  to  the  countenance.  There 
was,  moreover,  a  terseness  and  deci- 
sion about  the  lines  of  her  mouth 
which  accorded  well  with  those  dark 
brows ;  and  her  head  was  seated  upon 
her  shoulders  with  a  majesty  which 
would  have  become  an  empress.  Her 
complexion  was  perfectly  rair,  but  its 
freshness  was  gone ;  her  teeth  were 
beautiful,  and  lier  hands  and  arms 
faultless.  Her  face  wore  a  pained 
expression,  as  though  the  sorrows 
which  had  passed  over  her  had  never 
been  forgotten,  and  as  though  she 
did  not  yet  believe  them  to  be  over. 
At  the  moment  in  which  we  are  de- 
scribing her,  she  was  buried  in  deep 
and  evidently  painful  thought :  even 
her  knitting,  that  everlasting  resource 
of  a  German  woman,  was  thrown 
aside,  and  she  sat  with  her  arms 
crossed  upon  her  bosom,  and  her  head 
bowed  down,  as  though  her  reflec- 
tions were  too  heavy  a  burden  for 
her  to  support  upright.  Her  brows 
were  knit  together,  and  her  thin  lips 
compressed,  while  she  beat  upon  the 
floor  with  her  foot  rapidly  and  fever- 
ishly, as  if  in  this  monotonous  move- 
ment she  found  vent  for  the  feeling 
by  which  she  was  oppressed. 

She  was  still  in  tnis  attitude  when 
the  door  was  suddenly  opened,  and 
she  hastily  roused  herself,  and  re- 
sumed the  abandoned  knitting. 

The  intruder  was  a  fine  strongly- 
built  man,  some  five  years  her  ju- 
nior, and  it  was  easy  to  decide  at 
a  glance  that  they  were  nearly  re- 
lated; there  were  the  same  thick 
continuous  brows,  the  same  stem  ex- 

Eression  about  the  mouth,  the  same 
igh  forehead  surmounted  by  masses 
of  rich  brown  hair,  the  same  ma- 
jestic carriage  of  the  head ;  but  all 
these  features  which,  in  the  case  of 
the  female,  produced  an  effect  almo«' 
repelling,  made  of  the  man  a  nf 
specimen     of     masculine     be 
Nevertheless,  it  was  a  fearful  be 
and  wore  the  brightness  of  the 
vapour   which    veils    the    sui 
thunder.    There  was  a  light  j 
large  brown  eyes  which,  even  ii 
calmest  moments,  betrayed  the 


532 


The  Chamber  of  the  Bell. 


[May, 


spirit  that  slept  within,  and  a  scorn 
in  the  curve  of  his  thin  lips  which 
gave  a  bitterness  to  their  harshness. 

"  Yon  are  late,  Elric,"  said  the 
lady ;  "  the  snpper  has  been  served 
for  the  last  hour/* 

**  I  have  been  in  the  forest,"  was 
the  reply,  "•  and  took  no  heed  of 
time." 

"  Durinff  our  mother's  life " 

commenced  the  watcher. 

^  I  know  what  you  are  about  to 
say,  Stephanie,"  interposed  the  young 
man,  imnatiently.  "  During  our 
mother's  life,  I  was  compelled  to  a 
rigid  punctuality;  now,  I  am  my 
own  master,  and  have  to  answer  to 
no  one  for  an  hour's  delay." 

"  Could  I  only  be  assured  that  you 

were  wandering  there  alone " 

murmured  the  Lidy. 

"  Hark  you,  gpriifine,"  said  Elric, 
turning  his  flashing  eyes  full  upon 
her,  as  he  twisted  tightly  about  his 
fingers  a  trout-line  which  he  had 
caught  up  from  the  table ;  ^*  I  have 
alr^y  warned  you  that  I  ydll  hear 
no  more  upon  this  subject.  Do  I 
ever  thwart  your  wishes?  Do  I 
ever  control  your  amusements  P  Do 
I  ever  dictate  to  your  affections? 
You  may  marry,  if  you  will,  the 
veriest  boor  in  Nienburg :  your  des- 
tiny will  be  of  your  own  seeking,  and 
you  are  old  enough  to  exert  your 
free-will ;  but  I  will  be  equally  un- 
fettered. I  respected  the  prejudices 
of  my  mother,  because  she  was  my 
mother ;  but  I  will  brook  no  more 
womanly  dictation.  Be  warned  in 
tune." 

*^  The  daughter  of  a  fisherman ! " 
exclaimed  the  lady,  scornfully,  as 
she  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

The  young  count  sprang  a  pace 
towards  her,  with  a  red  spot  burning 
upon  either  cheek ;  but  ne  instantly 
checked  himself,  and  said,  with  a 
laugh  of  bitter  scorn,  "  Even  so,  my 
lady  countess,  the  daughter  of  a 
fisherman ;  and  you  have  yet  to  learn 
that  the  subtle  essence  which  men 
call  mind  can  be  diffused  through 
the  being  of  a  fisher's  daughter  as 
freely  and  full^  as  through  that  of  a 
landgrave's  heiress;  that  the  sub- 
lime   ^" 

"  Supper  waits,  Herr  Graf,"  said 
his  sister,  rising  haughtily  from  her 
seat,  and  leading  the  way  to  an  inner 
apartment. 

The  meal  passed  in  silence.    The 


pteaenoe  of  the  servants  prevented 
any  allusion  to  the  subject  which  oc- 
cupied the  minds  of  both,  and  neither 
was  willing  to  make  an  effort  to 
banish  it.  Under  such  cireumstaoees 
it  is,  therefore,  scarcely  surprisiiig 
that  on  their  return  to  the  dnwiog- 
room  the  brother  and  sister  at  once 
recurred  to  the  obnoxious  theme. 

It  is,  however,  time  that  we  should 
explain  to  the  reader  the  position  of 
the  noble  orphans.  Count  Elric 
Konigstein  was  the  last  representa- 
tive of  a  proud  and  ancient  fiunily, 
which,  originallv  both  powerful 
and  wealthv,  had  become  impover- 
ished by  ine  lojdliy  and  impravi- 
dence  of  its  chie&,  and,  as  a  nstnrRl 
consequence,  had  lost  its  influence 
with  its  riches.  Oeschenke  habeu 
die  Freundschaft  warm  had  for  gene- 
rations been  the  motto  of  their  nee; 
and  they  had  so  long  been  distin- 
guished for  an  open  hand  and  an  an- 
grudging  generosi^,  that  at  len(^ 
tney  found  themselves  with  nothmg 
more  to  give. 

The  Thirty  Yeajs'  War  had  eost 
Count  Elric  the  small  renuuos 
of  the  family  treasure  and  the  life 
of  his  father;  and  he  found  him- 
self, at  the  age  of  sixteen,  under  the 
tutelage  of  his  mother,  with,  for  all 
patrimony,  the  house  at  Nienbmt 
a  small  estate  in  the  neighboorhood, 
and  the  moiety  of  her  jointure, 
scrupulously  divided  between  himself 
and  his  sister  at  the  death  of  thar 
last  parent.  The  young  man,  like 
all  the  other  males  of  his  race,  pmted 
for  a  military  life;  but  the  old 
Countess  von  Konigstem  positively 
negatived  his  inclination.  He  was 
the  last  hope  of  the  family ;  and  as 
she  looked  upon  the  noble  P^'JJ*^ 
of  his  magnificent  person,  sne  hsd 
proud  dreams  of  the  total  restorati(» 
of  their  house  by  his  alliance  with 
some  high-bom  and  wealthy  heire* 

Meanwhile,  the  high-spinted  Efnc 
led  what  was,  for  him,  a  Ufe  of  slov 
torture.  Denied  the  education  suited 
to  his  rank  by  the  utter  inability  ot 
the  countess  to  meet  the  ^^^P^^*^  ^ 
one  of  the  universities,  he  was  pl«cw 
under  the  care  and  tuition  of  a  pnew 
attached  to  the  principal  church  oi 
Nienburff,  and  soon  mastered  tnc 
very  lunited  stock  of  eniditionwhicn 
was  boasted  by  the  good  father, 
while  his  hours  at  home  were  even 
more  heavy  and  unprofitable.   *'"' 


^4 


1846.] 


the  Chamber  of  the  Bell. 


533 


appointed  in  her  ambition,  crippled 
in  her  means,  and  soured  by  (her 
trials,  the  widowed  countess,  weak  in 
mind  and  tyrannical  by  nature,  ex- 
pended upon  trifles  the  enerj;y  and 
order  which  were  better  suited  to 
matters  of  importance.  •  Her  plea- 
sure-ground was  typical  of  her  whole 
life.  She  had  not  one  enlarged  idea ; 
not  one  great  perception ;  but  pressed 
her  iron  rod  upon  rushes  and  weeds. 
All  was  monotony  and  snbmissiye- 
ness  in  the  old  mansion ;  and  it  will 
be  easily  understood  that  an  under- 
current of  lassitude  and  dis^st  soon 
destroyed  the  beautiful  unity  of  na- 
ture which  is  so  blessed  an  attribute 
of  the  youn^.  Father  Eberhard 
preached  obedience  to  the  revolting 
spirit  of  the  youth,  and  he  obeyed  in 
so  far  as  by  word  and  action  he  could 
follow  the  counsel  he  received,  but  in 
the  depths  of  his  spirit  he  rebelled. 
No  word  of  encouragement,  no  sen- 
tence of  endearment,  ever  escaped  the 
pinched  lips  of  the  countess.  Like 
many  other  weak  persons,  she  be- 
lieved that  dignity  consisted  in  an 
absence  of  all  concession,  and  grati- 
fied her  vanity  by  adopting  as  her 
creed  that  an  absence  oi  rebuke 
should  satisfy  all  around  her,  but 
that  none  should  venture  to  presume 
upon  her  indulgence. 

In  this  dreary  way  did  she  fritter 
away  her  age,  but  the  evil  did  not 
end  there ;  for  she  wasted  along  with 
it  the  fresh  youth  and  pure  spirits  of 
her  children,  already  sufficiently  un- 
fortunate from  their  exceptionable 
position.  In  her  daughter  sne  found 
a  docile  pupil;  nor  did  Stephanie 
resist,  even  when  her  mother  dashed 
the  cup  of  happiness  from  her  lips 
by  refusing  her  consent  to  a  marriage 
which  would  have  crowned  her  dear- 
est hopes.  The  suitor,  unexception- 
able as  he  was  in  point  of  character, 
income,  and  disposition,  failed  in  ex- 
hibiting— like  the  Konigsteins — his 
nine  quarterings,  and  was  rejected 
accordingly.  Stephanie,  as  we  have 
said,  submitted ;  but  she  was  blighted 
in  heart  from  that  day  forth ;  and — 
last  and  worst  misery  for  the  voung 
— she  ceased  to  hope  in  the  future. 
What  could  it  offer  to  her  which 
would  remedy  the  past?  And  with 
her  occasional  bursts  of  cheerfulness 
fled  the  sole  charm  of  home  to  her 
boy-brother.  Yet  still  he  controlled 
himself,  for  his  was  not  a  nature  to 


waste  its  strength  on  trifles  which  he 
felt  to  be  unworthy  of  the  strife. 
There  was  a  fire  within,  but  it  was 
buried  deep  beneath  the  surface,  like 
that  of  a  volcano,  which,  suffering 
even  for  years,  the  vicinity  of  man 
and  of  man's  works,  slowly  collects  its 
deadly  power,  and  then  m  one  dread 
effort  spreads  ruin  and  desolation  on 
all  witnin  its  influence. 

At  length  the  countess  died,  and 
her  children  mourned  for  her  as  we 
all  mourn  over  accustomed  objects  of 
which  wc  are  suddenly  deprived. 
They  missed  her  every  day  and 
every  hour;  they  missed  her  harsh 
and  cold  accents;  they  missed  her 
imperious  orders;   her  minute  re- 

? roaches;  her  restless  movements. 
*hey  felt  themselves  alone;  aban- 
doned to  self-government  after  years 
of  unquestioning  subjection ;  the 
world  of  their  own  home  appeared 
too  vast  to  them  when  they  were 
called  upon  to  inhabit  it  without  the 

gresence  of  the  ruling  spirit  which  had 
itherto  sufficed  to  nil  its  void.    Nor 
did  the  orphans  draw  more  closely  to- 

f  ether  as  they  walked  away,  hand  in 
and,  from  beside  the  grave  of  their 
last  parent.  They  had  no  longer  a 
feeling  in  common.  Stephanie  was 
like  the  tree  prostrated  by  the  light- 
ning, and  crushed  into  the  earth  by 
the  weight  of  its  own  fall :  Elric  was 
like  the  sturdy  sapling  braving  the 
tempest,  and  almost  wooing  it  to 
burst,  that  he  might  feel  its  wild 
breath  rioting  among  the  leaves 
which  now  lay  hushea  and  motion- 
less upon  their  boughs.  Moreover, 
debarred  the  healthful  and  exciting 
exercises  of  her  brother,  the  youns 
countess  had  never  passed  a  day,  ana 
scarcely  an  hour,  beyond  her  mo- 
ther's presence ;  and,  careless  of  her- 
self, she  had  necessarily  followed  the 
monotonous  routine  of  her  home 
duties,  until  she  had  ceased  to  see  to 
how  poor  and  pitiful  a  result  the 
maiority  of  them  led.  The  spring 
of  her  life— if  such  a  life  can  be  said 
ever  to  have  had  a  spring — was  over ; 
the  little  vanities  of  her  sex  had 
ceased  to  occupy  her ;  and  she  pur- 
sued the  same  dlreary  round  of  <*' 
pations  and  anxieties,  eventur 
much  from  choice  as  custom. 
If  Elric,  as  he  turned  away  fl 
mother's  grave,  hoped  for  a  b 
home  or  a  more  congenial  < 
nioDship,  it  was  not  long  ere 


£34 


The  Chamber  of  the  Bell- 


[Maj. 


fnlly  undeceiTed.  Nothing  could 
arouee  Stephanie  from  tbe  mora) 
torpor  into  which  ehe  had  fallen ; 
and,  never  doubting  that  her  privi- 
lege of  cidcrehip  would  leave  her 
light  of  control  unquestioned,  she 
endeavoured  to  compel  her  yawi^ 
and  fiery  brother  to  the  game  weari- 
some, heart- nclcening  monotony  of 
which  she  had  hcreeli  long  ceased  to 
ibel  the  bitterness.  In  this  attcitint 
abe  wat  destined,  however,  si^nall^ 
to  fail.  Crippled  as  he  was  m  hu 
worldly  career  by  the  comparative 

Eiverty  in  which  he  fouiul  nimgelf, 
Iric  was,  nevertheless,  like  the 
wounded  eagle,  which,  although  it 
cannot  soar  against  the  sun,  may  still 
make  its  ai^ne  in  the  free  air  and 
upon  the  mountain  -heights,  llis 
strength  was  crushed  but  not  sub- 
dued. It  is  impossible  to  say  what 
be  might  have  been  had  his  impe- 
tuous passions  been  diffused  and 
rightly  directed.  Tlic  leaping  tor- 
lent  may  be  diverted  into  a  channel, 
and  turned  to  puvposcs  of  usefulness, 
in  which  its  headlong  fury,  exhaust- 


placid  stream ;  while,  unheeded  and 
unguided,  it  must  prove  only  a  source 
of  ruin  and  destruction.  And  such 
was  the  moral  condition  of  Count 
Elric.  He  felt  his  strength,  but  be 
was  yet  ignorant  of  ils  power,  and 
utterly  uiuldlled  in  its  control. 

Many  years,  however,  had  passed 
over  the  orphans  in  dreamy  listless- 
Besa.    Once  the  young  man  liad  en- 
deavoured to  condole  with  his  sister 
upon  the  heart  -  stroke  inflicted  hy 
•'■"  prejudices  of  their  mother ;  but 
empathy  awakened  no  response 
cr  cicatriced  heart.    She  even 
luded    the    rigour  which    liad 
I  her  from  the  remorse  of  dis- 
ng  her  family,  and  urged  upon 
the  necessity  of  being  careful 
her  sacrifice  should  not  be  made 

lis  was  the  last  attempt  of  Elric 
)en  up  tbe  spring  of  family 
ion )  and  he  felt  his  faUure  tlie 

bitterly,  that  he  yearned  for  a 
onionship  of  spirit.  Even  the 
ly  Father  Eberhard  was  lost  to 

for  he  had  been  called  to  a 
It  mission  and  had  quittedNien- 
,  in  all  probability,  for  ever. 
ooked  around  him,  and  envied 
t«  of  tbe  little  tgwB, 


who  pursued  alike  tb^  ivocitiaDs 
and  their  amusements  in  conunan; 
while  he  sifihed  as  he  remembered 
that  from  tnese  be  was  alike  ihut 
out.  lie  could  not,  now  that  he  tud 
attained  tbe  age  of  manhood,  volua- 
teer  a  portaerahip  in  tbe  tocial  occo- 
pations  of  the  plel^eian  citizeiu  nitb 
whom  be  bad  been  forbidden  all 
association  during  his  youth,  lod 
with  whom  be  could  now  never  hope 
to  meet  upon  equal  terms. 

The  solitary  young  man  tunKd,  is 
bis  isolation,  to  Nature;  and  NUun 
is  a  marvellous  comforter  to  tboee  wbc 
can  appreciate  ber  couBolatiaui  uui 
her  endearments.  He  threw  wit 
his  books;  they  had  long  ceucd  to 
afford  him  either  amnsemeot  or  in- 
struction ;  be  abandoned  bis  sister  to 
her  solitary  home.  She  Marce'j 
seemed  to  remark  his  abacDce,  Bve 
when  it  interfered  with  tbe  clock- 
work regularity  of  the  little  houK- 
hold ;  and  he  rushed  away  to  d"' 
forest  depths,  aud  flung  himself  down 
l>cncath  tbe  shadows  of  the  tall  treo, 
and  thought  until  thought  baame 
madness ;  and  then  he  seized  bit  ffm, 
and  pursued  the  game  through  the 
tangled  underwood,  until,  in  utigiic 
of  body,  he  forgot  his  bitteniwi  of 
Boul ;  or  plunged  once  more  into  the 
sunshine,  and  paddling  bis  boat  into 
tbe  centre  of  tbe  strasm,  waged  trar 
upon  the  finny  tribes  that  peopled  it 
llis  return,  when  laden  with  tbe« 
spoils,  waa  always  welcome  to  tbe 
countess,  for  she  was  too  good  » 
housewife  not  to  appreciate  suen  "i 
assistance  to  their  slender  means ;  bnt 
suddenly  this  resource,  upon  *'V™ 
she  had  begun  to  calculate  in  ""^ 
daily  arrangements,  failed  her  all  « 
once ;  nor  eould  Elric,  when  qu«- 
tioned  upon  the  subject,  oSa  tacB 
reason  for  his  defection  as  tendd  w 
satisfy  her  mind.  With  tbe  inw 
perception  of  n  woman,  she  fell  "^ 
there  was  a  mystery.  Where  couU 
Elric  spend  the  long  hours  in  ffO"^ 
be  waa  daily  absent  from  bo"""' 
and  with  wtuon  ? 

Suddenly  a  suspicion  grew  "P*" 
her,  and  a  deep  enmson  flush  over- 
spread her  usually  pale  cheek  «s  ehe 
began,  with  a  beating  heaiti  •"  fp' 
a  mental  survey  of  her  distuit  neigh- 
bourhood. 

"  It  cannot  be  the  grttflne  K*!' 
she  murmured  to  herself:  Z 
although  Eliic  could  n>w  to  '^ 


1846.] 


The  Chamber  of  the  Bell. 


635 


sehlofis  in  thiee  faQiire,  be  could  not 
jretum  in  the  same  time  against  the 
current ;  nor  would  the  proud  coun« 
tees  encourage  him :  he  is  too  poor. 
No^  no-— it  cannot  be  the  grafine 
IU)89-  Baron  Kadschan's  daughter  ? 
— £qually  impossible.  Elric  has  no 
horse«i  aii^  there  are  five  long  leanies 
between  us.  Constance  yon  Har- 
theim  ? — Still  more  improbable.  She 
is  to  take  the  vows  next  year  in  Our 
Lady  of  Mercy.  Poor,  too,  as  him- 
self, and  as  noble.  No,  no,  her 
family  would  not  permit  it.  And 
we  know  none  other!    Unless,  in- 


deed, the  dark«^td  daughter  of  the 
Burgomeister  of  Nienburg.  But  I 
am  mad — he  pare  not! — ^I  would 
rather  see  him  stretched  out  yonder 
in  the  death-vaJi^." 

The  eye  of  the  proud  countess 
flamed,  and  the  deep  red  glow  burned 
on  her  cheek  and  toow;  she  clenched 
her  slender  hands  tightlv  together, 
and  her  breath  came  thick  and  &st ; 
but  she  soon  controUed  her  emotiop, 
and  whispered  to  herself  with  a  bitter 
laugh,  wbich  sounded  stmngely  in 
that  silent  room,  *'  No,  no,  he  dase 
not !" 


CUAPTEA  II. 


^'  Whisht,  whisht,  Mina ;  here  is  the 
HerrGraf!" 

A  joyous  and  gracefhl  peal  of 
laughter  waa  the  sole,  and  evidently 
incredulous  reply  to  this  warning. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  origin  of 
that  melodious  mirth  :  you  felt  at  once 
that  the  lips  from  which  it  had  gushed 
were  fresh,  and  rich,  and  youthful ; 
and  that  the  eyes  which  danced  in  their 
own  light  as  it  rang  out  were  eyes 
such  as  poets  dream  of  when  they 
haye  yisions  of  a  world  unknown  of 
sin. 

**Once  more,  Mina,  dear  Mina,  I 
vow  by  my  patron -saint  I  here  is 
the  Herr  Graf.'* 

These  words  were  uttered  by  a 
young  girl  in  the  costume  of  a  peasant, 
with  a  round,  good-humoured,  sun- 
burnt face,  bare  arms  bronaed  by  ex- 
posure to  the  weather,  and  one  of 
those  stunted  and  muscular  figures 
which  seem  to  herald  an  existence  of 
toil  and  hardship.  She  was  standing 
near  a  cluster  of  marsh- willows  which 
oyershadowed  a  little  runlet,  that, 
descending  fix)m  the  height  above  the 
town,  swept  onward  to  the  river.  As 
Elric,  for  it  was  of  him  that  she 
npoke,  reached  the  spot,  a  second 
igtxte  sprang  from  a  sitting  position, 
and  stood  Mfore  him.  Tne  young 
count  started,  and  forgetting  tnat  he 
was  in  the  presence  of  two  mere 
peasant  girls,  with  intuitive  courtesy 
withdrew  his  cap.  Well  might  he 
start ;  ibr  such  a  vision  as  that  upon 
which  he  looked  had  never  berore 
met  his  eyes. 

it  was  that  of  a  young  girl  in  the 
first  dawn  of  her  beauty.  The  glow 
of  fifteen  summers  was  on  her  cheek, 
the  light  of  heaven  dwelt  in  the 
deptlw  of  hev  daiiE  Uue  eyes^  whose 


lashes,  long  and  lustrous,  tempered 
without  concealing  their  brightness. 
A  flood  of  hair  of  that  precious  shade 
of  auburn  which  seems  to  catch  the 
mmbeams,  and  to  imprison  them  in 
its  glowing  meshes,  fell  upon  her 
finely  developed  shoulders,  which 
were  partially  bare.  Her  little  feet, 
moulded  like  those  of  an  antique 
nymph,  and  gleaming  in  their  white- 
ness through  the  limpid  waves  by 
which  they  were  bathed,  were  also 
necessarily  uncovered ;  one  small 
delicate  hand  still  grasped,  and 
slightly  lifted  the  coarse,  but  becom- 
ing drapery  in  which  she  was  attired. 
Her  figure  was  perfect,  and  bending 
slightly  forward,  half  in  fear  and  hau 
in  shame,  looked  as  though  a  sound 
would  startle,  and  impel  it  into  flight. 
The  lips,  parted  by  the  same  impulse, 
revealed  teeth  like  ivory ;  and  the 
whole  aspect  and  attitude  of  the  girl 
was  so  lovely  that  Canova  might 
have  created  his  master-piece  alter 
such  a  model. 

For  an  instant  there  was  silence, 
but  only  for  an  instant ;  for,  his  first 
surprise  over,  the  young  count 
sprang  forward  and  ofrered  nis  hand 
to  the  fair  maid  to  lead  her  to  the 
bank.  She  obeyed  without  re- 
monstrance, for  so  great  an  honour 
had  rendered  her  powerless  to  resist ; 
and,  in  the  next  moment  she  stood 
beside  him,  with  her  small  white  feet 
half-buried  among  the  yielding  grass 

Who  cannot  guess  the  r-*— "*  ^' 
such  a  meetinff  ?  Intoxicatr 
beauty,  thraUed  by  her 
simplicity,  an  hour  had  not 
Elnc  had  forgotten  the  nia 
ings  of  the  Kdnigsteins  an 
position  <tf  the  fisherman's 
A  new  wgsrld  had  deyelope 


^r 


536 


The  Chamber  of  the  BelL 


[May, 


the  fascinated  rediue.  Hitherto,  he 
had  dwelt  only  amid  coldness  and 
restraint ;  no  kindred  spirit  had 
awakened  at  his  touch ;  no  neart  had 
throbbed  beneath  his  gaze.  Now,  he 
saw  a  fair  cheek  glow  and  a  bright 
eye  sink  under  his  praise :  he  felt  the 
trembling  of  the  little  hand  which  he 
grasped  within  his  own;  and  he 
began  to  understand  that  he  was  not 
alone  on  earth. 

The  father  of  Mina  was  poor,  yery 
poor.  Her  mother  was  dead.  She 
was  the  one  pet  lamb  which  to  the 
fisher  was  dearer  than  the  flock  of 
the  rich  man :  she  was  the  child  of 
his  a^e  and  of  his  praters ;  the  light 
of  his  narrow  dweUing;  the  sun- 
beam of  his  home.  He  was  not  long 
ere  he  heard  of  the  meeting  under 
the  alder-trees;  and  poor  and  power- 
less as  he  was,  he  resolved,  as  he 
kissed  the  pure  brow  of  his  daughter 
when  she  fay  down  to  rest,  to  remon- 
strate with  the  Herr  Graf,  that 
his  pure  one  might  be  left  unto  him 
pure.  He  did  so  on  the  morrow, 
when  once  more,  Mina  and  Elric  had 
met  beside  the  mountain-stream. 
The  girl  was  there  because  the  count 
had  made  her  promise  to  meet  him ; 
and  he,  because  his  whole  soul  was 
already  wrapped  up  in  the  peasant- 
maiden.  They  were  sitting  side  by 
side,  and  hand  in  hand,  when  the  old 
fisher  came  upon  them;  and  they 
both  looked  up,  Mina  with  a  blush, 
and  Elric  with  a  smile,  but  neither 
shrank  beneath  the  stern  and  anxious 
eye  of  the  old  man. 

''  Is  this  weU,  Uerr  Graf  ?"  asked 
the  father,  in  a  voice  which  was  full 
of  tears;  *Uhe  strong  against  the 
weak,  the  rich  against  the  poor,  the 
proud  against  the  humble?  Have 
pity  upon  me,  I  have  but  her." 

"And  she  is  worth  all  the  world, 
old  man,"  replied  Elric  calmly ;  "pos- 
sessed of  her,  you  are  the  rich,  the 
strong,  and  the  proud.  I  was  done 
until  I  found  her." 

"  And  now,  my  lord  count  P" 

^*  Now  she  must  be  mine." 

The  sturdy  fisher  clenched  his 
hand,  and  moved  apace  nearer  to  the 
younj^  noble. 

Elric  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  grasped 
the  convulsed  hand. 

"She  has  promised,  and  she  will 
perform :    will    you  condemn    me 
gain  to  solitude  and  to  despair  ?" 

**My   lord  count,"    gasped   the 


grey-haired  man;  ^heaven  knows 
how  I  have  toiled  to  keep  a  roof  above 
her  head,  and  comfort  at  her  heuth ; 
and  my  labour  has  been  light,  for  her 
evening  welcome  has  more  than  paid 
me  for  the  struggle  of  the  day.  Leave 
us  then  in  peace.  Do  not  make  me 
weep  over  the  shame  I  may  not  hare 
the  power  to  avert." 

"  X  ou  are  her  father,"  mnmrared 
Elric  passionately,  as  his  lam  eyes 
flashed,  and  his  lips  quivered;  ^or 
vou  should  not  live  again  to  conple 
her  name  with  the  idea  of  shame. 
Mina  shall  be  my  wife !" 

The  astonished  fisherman  stag- 
gered as  though  he  had  been  stna 
\>y  a  heavy  hand. 

"Your  wife,  Herr  Gwfl  You 
dream  !  Mina  can  never  be  your 
wife.  Your  name  is  the  noblest  that 
has  ever  met  her  ear.  You  dweil  in 
a  palace,  and  may  stand  before  the 
emperor.    And  what  is  she  f" 

"  My  affianced  bride  !**  said  the 
voung  count,  proudly :  "  my  life  had 
become  a  bitter  burden,  and  she  has 
turned  it  to  one  long  dreamof  delttbt; 
the  future  was  a  vision  of  which 
I  feared  to  dwell  upon  the  darkoeas; 
she  is  the  sunbeam  which  has  brought 
day  into  the  gloom,  and  roread  before 
me  a  long  perspective  of  happiness. 
Talk  not  to  me  of  mv  proud  name; 
I  would  I  had  been  bom  a  cotter's 
son,  that  so  I  might  have  had  fellow* 
ship  with  my  kind." 

Mina  only  wept. 

"  Surely  I  dream !"  murmured  the 
old  man,  passiuff  his  hard  hand  across 
his  brow.  "  My  child  is  so  young- 
so  ignorant." 

"  I  will  be  her  tutor." 

"So  unfitted  to  be  the  wife  of  a 

noble." 

"  I  am  poor  enough  to  be  a  pea- 
sant." 

"I  shaU  die  if  I  am  left  desolate.*' 

"  You  shall  be  her  fiithcr  and  m^ 
father;  her  friend  and  my  friend. 
While  he  spoke  Elric  bent  his  knee, 
and  drew  Mina  to  his  bosom ;  and  as 
the  beams  of  the  declining  sun  fell 
upon  the  group,  the  louff  shadow  of 
the  old  man  rested  npon^e  kneeling 
pair.  The  aged  fisher  bent  his  ff«i 
head  and  wept 

No  vows  were  plighted :  none  were 
needed;  and  henceforth  the  whole 
soul  of  Elric  was  wrapped  up  in  ^ 
peasant  •  love.  One  only  weight 
pressed  upon  his  spirit.    He  reoiem' 


1846.] 


The  Chumher  of  ike  BelL 


537 


beced  the  wrejodiees  of  Iub  dsto',  and 
riirank  bdbre  the  bitter  icora  ^with 
which  he  well  knew  that  ahe  would 
Yisit  the  timid  and  unoffending  Mina. 
This  waa  the  only  evil  from  which 
he  felt  powerless  to  screen  her.  That 
the  coldandprond  Countess  Stei^anie 
and  the  fisher^s  danffhier  could  share 
one  common  home,  he  did  not  dare  to 
hone ;  yet  his  roof  must  be  the  idielter 
of  nis  young  bride ;  nor  could  he  ccm- 
template  the  departure  of  his  sister 
from  the  dwelling  of  her  ancestors 
without  a  pang  m  anguish ;  he  felt 
that  she  would  go  forth  only  to  die. 
This  conHction  made  «  cowwrd  of 
him;  and  he  left  her  knowledge  of 
his  de&lcaticm  to  chance. 

It  was  not  long  ere  a  rumour 
reached  ha*  of  the  truth,  but  she 
spumed  it  in  haughty  disbdJef.  It 
could  not  be — day  and  nicht  might 
diange  their  course,  and  me  stars  of 
heayen  spring  to  earthly  life  amid 
the  green  swaxd  of  the  swelling  hills 
— but  a  Kdnigstein  to  wed  with  a 
peasant  1  No — no — the  young 
countess  remembered  her  own  youth, 
and  laughed  the  tale  to  scorn.  Still 
she  watdied,  and  pondered  over  the 
long  and  profitless  absences  of  Elric; 
and  still  her  midnight  dreams  were 
full  of  vague  and  terrible  visions ; 
when  at  len^h  she  was  compelled  to 
admit  the  frightful  truth. 

Had  the  gr&fine  been  a  woman  of 
enei^  and  impetuous  passions,  she 
would  have  become  insane  under  the 
blow ;  but  she  had  passed  a  life  of 
sdf-centred  submissiveness ;  and  if 
the  thunder  was  indeed  awakened,  it 
reverberated  only  in  the  depths  of 
her  spirit,  and  carried  no  desolation 
n^n  its  breath.  Cold,  uncompro- 
mising, and  resolute,  she  had  gradu- 
ally become  under  the  example  of 
her  mother  and  the  force  of  circum- 
stances. The  one  greait  end  of  her 
existence  was  now  the  honour  of  her 
race,  of  which  she  was  only  the  more 
jealous  as  their  poverty  rendered  it 
the  more  difficult  to  uphold.  All 
ehie  had  been  denied  to  her ;  a  home 
of  loving  affection,  the  charm  of  social 
intercourse,  the  pleasures  of  her  sex 
and  of  her  rank — she  had  grasped 
nothing  but  the  overweening  pride  of 
ancestry,  and  a  deep  scorn  for  all 
who  were  less  noblv  bom. 

The  last  hoLt  had  now  fallen! 
Months  passed  on ;  months  of  dissen- 
sion, reproach,  and  bittemess.    For 

VOL.  XXXni.  NO.  GXCVU. 


awhile  she  hoped  thai  what  she 
deemed  the  wild  and  unworthy  faney 
of  her  brother  would  not  stand  ta& 
test  of  time:  nav,  in  her  cold-hearted 
pride,  Ae  pernaps  had  other  and 
more  guilty  hopes,  but  thev  were 
equally  in  vain.  Mina  was  daily  move 
dear  to  the  young  count,  for  sne  had 
opened  up  to  him  an  existence  of  af- 
feetkm  and  of  trust  to  which  he  had 
been  hitherto  a  stranger;  his  time 
was  no  lo^gci'  ^  buraen  upon  his 
strength.  The  days  were  too  shofit 
for  the  Inight  thoughts  which 
crowded  upon  him,  the  ni^ts  for 
his  dreams  of  happiness.  Mina  had 
already  become  nis  pupil,  and  they 
studied  beside  the  running  streams 
and  under  the  leafy  boi^s;  and 
when  the  page  was  too  difficult  to 
read,  the  young  girl  lifted  her  sun- 
bright  eyes  to  those  of  her  tutor, 
and  found  its  solution  there. 

Hie  lovers  eared  not  for  time,  for 
they  were  happy;  and  the  seasons 
had  once  revolved,  and  when  the 
winter  snows  had  forbidden  them  to 
pursue  their  daily  task  in  the  valley 
or  upon  the  hiil-ade,  the  last  de- 
scendant of  the  counts  of  Kdnigstein 
had  taken  his  place  beside  the  fisher's 
hearth,  without  bestowing  one 
thought  upon  its  povertv.  But  the 
father's  heart  was  full  of  care.  Al- 
ready had  idle  tongues  breathed  foul 
suspicions  of  his  pure  and  innocent 
child.  She  was  becoming  the  sub- 
ject of  a  new  legend  for  the  gossips 
of  the  neighbourhood;  and  he  was 
powerless  to  avenge  her.  Humble 
nimself  as  he  might  to  their  level,  the 
fisherman  could  not  forget  that  it 
was  the  young  Graf  von  Kdnigstein 
who  was  thus  domesticated  beneath 
his  roof;  and  as  time  wore  on,  he 
trembled  to  think  how  all  this  might 
end.  Should  he  even  preserve  the 
honour  of  his  bdovea  Mina,  her 
peace  of  mind  would  be  gone  for  ever, 
and  she  would  be  totally  unfitted  for 
the  existence  of  toil  and  poverty, 
which  was  her  birthright.  He  could  not 
endure  this  cruel  thought  for  ever  in 
silence,  and  on  the  evening  in  which 
we  have  introduced  the  orphans  to 
our  readers,  he  had  profitea  by  the 
temporary  absence  of  Mina  to  pour 
out  before  the  young  count  alt  the 
treasure  of  wretchedness  which  he 
had  so  long  concealed.  Elric  started 
as  the  friehtful  fact  burst  jggon  him. 
He  bad  already  spumed  tftiEiMcid's 


538 


The  Chamber  of  the  BelL 


[May, 


nieer,  bat  he  could  not  brook  that 
its  seom  should  rest  upon  his  inno- 
cent young  bride. 

''£nougb,  old  man!"  he  said, 
hoarsely;  ** enough.  These  busy 
tongues  ^all  be  stayed.  These  won- 
der-mongen  shall  he  silenced.  And 
when  once  Mina  has  become  my  wife, 
woe  be  to  him  who  shall  dare  to 
couple  her  pure  image  with  suspi- 
cion r 

He  left  the  hut  with  a  hasty  step, 
and  was  soon  lost  among  the  dense 
shadows  of  the  neighbouring  forest. 
A  bitter  task  was  before  him,  but  it 
was  too  late  to  shrink  from  its  com- 
pletion ;  yet  still  he  lin^red,  for  he 
dared  not  picture  to  hunself  what 
might  be  the  result  of  his  explana- 
tion with  his  sister. 

We  have  already  described  their 
meeting ;  and  now  navin|^  acquainted 
the  reaidcr  with  the  excited  state  of 
mhid  and  feeling  in  which  the  young 
count  entered  nis  dreary  hon^e,  we 
will  rejoin  the  noble  orphans  in  the 
apartment  to  which  they  had  re- 
turned from  the  supper-room.  The 
countess  at  once  resumed  her  seat 
beside  the  stove,  and  drawing  her 
frame  towards  her,  affected  to  be  in- 
tently occuined  on  the  elaborate  piece 
of  embroidery  which  it  contained ; 
but  Elric  had  less  self-government. 
He  paced  the  floor  withnurried  and 
unequal  steps:  and  the  moisture 
started  to  his  brow  as  he  strove  to 
control  the  emotion  which  shook 
his  frame.  At  length  he  spoke,  and 
his  voice  was  so  hoarse,  so  deep,  and 
so  unnatural,  that  the  young  gr&fine 
involuntarily  started. 

^  Stephanie  !**  he  said ;  ^  the  mo- 
ment is  at  last  come  in  which  we 
must  understand  each  other  without 
disguise.  We  are  alone  in  the  world 
-^we  are  strangers  in  heart— as  ut- 
terly strangers  as  on  the  day  when 
we  buried  our  last  parent.  I  sought 
in  vain,  long  vears  a^,  to  draw  the 
bond  of  relationship  closer,  but 
such  was  not  your  will.  You  had 
decided  that  my  youth  and  my  man- 
hood alike  should  be  one  long  season 
of  weariness  and  isolation.  I  utter 
no  reproach,  it  was  idle  in  me  to  be- 
lieve that  without  feeling  for  your- 
sdf  you  could  feel  for  me.  You 
knew  thatlbad  no  escape,  that  Ihad 
no  resource;  but  you  cared  not  for 
*lus,  and  ^ou  have  lived  on  among 

"^epuerihties  of  which  ^'ou  havemi^e 


duties,  and  the  nt^ndices  of  which 
you  have  made  ensins  of  inm,  with- 
out remembering  their  effect  o&  me. 
I  have  endured  this  long,  too  Ions; 
I  have  endured  it  uncomplaimogry, 
but  the  limits  of  that  endunmce  are 
now  overpast.  Henceforth  we  most  be 
more,  far  more,  or  nothing  to  euh 
other." 

"  I  understand  your  meanings  Gruf 
von  Konigstein,"  said  the  bdy,  rising 
coldly  and  haughtily  from  ia  Bot; 
"  there  is  to  be  a  bridal  beneath  the 
roof  of  your  noble  ancestors;  tbe 
daughter  of  a  serf  is  to  take  oar 
mother*s  place  and  to  ut  in  cor 
mother*s  chair.  Is  it  not  so?  Thea 
hear  me  in  my  turn;  and  I  am  calm, 


I 


ou  see,  for  this  is  an  hour  for  which 

en  long  prenerei  Aw 

me  swear  that,  while  I  nave  liie,  this 

shall  never  be !" 

There  was  rage  as  well  is  woni  in 
the  laughter  by  which  the  oonnt  re- 
plied. 

*' Beneath  the  roof  of  my  father 
was  I  bom,"  pursued  the  connte* ; 
«' and  beneath  his  roof  Willi  die.  I, 
at  least,  have  never  sullied  it  by  one 
thought  of  dishonour.  I  can  look 
around  me  boldly,  upon  these  por- 
traits of  our  honoured  race,  for  the 
spirits  of  the  dead  will  not  blush  ovtr 
my  degeneracy.  Mistake  me  not. 
My  days  shall  end  here  where  they 
b4;an;  and  no  churrs  daughter  shill 
sit  with  me  at  my  ancestral  hearth. 

''Stephanie,  Stephanie,  forbear ! 
exclaimed  the  count,  writhing  lue 
one  in  physical  agony.  "  You  know 
not  the  spirit  that  you  brave. 
Hitherto  I  have  been  supine,  v« 
hitherto  my  existence  has  not  beta 
worth  a  struggle ;  to-day  it  is  other- 
wise; I  will  submit  no  longer  to  s 
code  of  narrow-hearted  bigotry,  i  <^ 
say  truly.  There  will  ere  long  be » 
bndal    m   my  father*s  house,  and 

Surer  or  fairer  bride  never  pledgpl 
er  faith  to  one  of  his  ancient  race. 
"  None  fairer,  perchance,"  said  the 
lady,  with  a  withering  gesture  oi 
contempt;  ''but  profane  not  the 
glorious  blood  that  fills  your  vein^ 
and  that  ought  now  to  leap  in  hot  re* 
proach  to  your  false  heart,by  alander- 
ing  the  blameless  dead !  Fnrer,  ^ 
you?  The  breath  of  slander  has 
already  fastened  upon  the  pQritjr}0>^ 
seek  to  vaunt.  Your  miracle  of  virtw 
has  long  been  the  proverb  of  tbt' 
chaste." 


1846.] 


The  Chmnher  of  the  Bell. 


539 


rr^i 


The  yoanff  man  Btruck  his  hrow 
heavily  withliis  clenched  hand,  and 
Bank  into  a  chair. 

^  Once  more,"  he  gasped  out,  ^  I 
warn  you  to  beware.  You  are 
awakening  ademon  within  me !  Do 
you  not  see,  weak  woman,  that  you 
aie  yourself  arming  me  with  weapons 
against  your  pride  ?  If  slander  has 
indeed  rested  upon  the  young  and 
innocent  head  of  her  whom  you  affect 
to^despise,  by  whom  did  that  slander 
comer 

^'Iferein  we  are  at  least  agreed,** 
answered  thecountess,  in  thesamecold 
and  unimpassbned  tone  in  which  she 
had  all  along  spoken;  "had  you, 
Herr  Grai^  never  forgotten  what 
was  due  to  yourself  and  to  your  race, 
the  fisher*s  daughter  might  have 
mated  vrith  one  o?  her  own  class,  and 
so  have  escaped ;  but  you  saw  fit  to 
drag  her  forth  from  the  slough  which 
was  her  natural  ]jatrimony  into  the 
light,  that  scorn  might  point  its  fiiu^r 
at  her  and  blight  her  as  it  passed  ner 
by.** 

"  Could  I  but  learn  whose  was  that 
deyilish  finger — could  I  but  know 
who  first  dued  to  breathe  a  whisper 
against  her  fair  &me-- — " 

^  What  vengeance  would  yon  wreak 
upon  the  culprit.  Count  von  Konig- 
stein  ?  Suppose  I  were  to  tell  you 
that  it  was  I,  who  to  screen  the  honour 
of  our  house,  to  screen  your  own, 
rebutted  the  rumour  which  was 
brought  to  me  of  your  mad  folly,  and 
bade  the  gossips  look  closer  ere  they 
dared  to  couple  vour  name  with  that 
of  a  begg^tf's  cnild?  Suppose  that 
others  spoke  upon  that  hint,  do  you 
deem  that  I  am  likely  to  tremble  be- 
neath your  firown  ?** 

**  Devil !  **  muttered  the  young  man 
from  between  his  clenched  teeth; 
"  you  may  have  cause !  Thus,  then, 
griifine,  you  have  dishonoured  your 
sister,**  he  said,  after  a  pause. 

The  lady  threw  back  her  head 
Bcomiully.'^ 

*'  Do  you  still  persist  ?**  she  asked, 
as  her  heavy  brow  gathered  into  a 
■tontt. 

**  Now  more  than  ever.  Those  who 
have  done  the  wroiu^  shall  repair  it, 
and  that  speedilv.  You  have  deckred 
that  you  will  die  beneath  the  roof  of 
your  ancestors;  be  it  so:  but  that 
roof  shall  be  shared  by  your  brother*s 
wife ;  and  woe  be  to  them  who  cause 
the  first  tear  that  she  shall  sh^  here !" 


"Madman  and  fooli**  exclaimed 
the  exasperated  countess,  whose  long- 
pent-up  passions  at  length  barst  their 
bounds,  and  swept  down  all  before 
them:  "complete  this  disgraceful 
compact  if  you  dare!  Remember, 
that  although  your  solitary  life  might 
have  enabled  you  to  marry  without 
the  interference  of  the  Emperor,  bad 
you  chosen  a  wife  suited  to  your  birth 
and  rank,  one  word  from  me  will  end 
your  disgraceful  dream;  or  should 
yon  still  persist,  you  will  exchange 
your  birthplace  for  a  prison.  t£s 
word  should  have  been  said  ere  now, 
but  that  I  shrank  from  exposing  your 
desgenera^;  trust  no  longer,  how- 
ever, to  my  forbearance :  the  honour 
of  our  rsce  is  in  my  hands,  and  I  will 
save  it  at  whatever  cost.  Either 
pledge  yourself  upon  the  spot  to 
forqi;o  tnis  degrading  fancy,  or  the 
sun  of  to*morrow  shali  not  set  before 
I  depart  for  Vienna.** 

iaric  gasped  for  breath.  He  well 
knew  the  stem  and  unfiinching 
nature  of  his  sister,  she  felt  that  he 
was  indeed  in  her  power.  The 
whole  happiness  of  his  future  life 
hun^  upon  that  hour,  but  he  scorned 
to  give  a  pledge  which  he  had  not 
the  strengtn,  nay  more,  which  he  had 
no  longer  even  the  rij^ht,  to  keep. 

"  Beware,  Stephanie,  beware  !**  he 
exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  menace;  "be- 
ware alike  of  what  you  say  and  of 
what  you  do;  for  you  are  rapidly 
bursting  the  bonds  by  which  we  are 
united.'^ 

"  You  have  yourself  already  done 
so,**  was  the  bitter  retort;  **when 
you  sought  to  make  me  share  your 
afiection  with  a  base-bom  hmd*s 
daughter,  you  released  me  from  those 
ties,  which  I  no  longer  reco^^nise.** 

"  Are  you  seeking  to  dnve  roe  to 
extremity  ?** 

"  I  am  endeavouring  to  awaken 
you  to  a  sense  of  duty  and  of  ho- 
nour.*' 

"  Stephanie,  we  must  part!  The 
same  roof  can  no  longer  cover  us. 
Ton  have  aroused  an  evil  spirit 
within  my  breast  which  I  never 
knew  abided  there.  Take  your  in- 
heritance and  depart.** 

"  Never !  I  have  already  told  you 
that  I  have  sworn  to  live  and  die 
under  this  roof,  and  that  while  I  have 
life  you  shall  be  saved  from  dishonour. 
You  dare  not  put  me  forth,  and  I 
will  perform  my  vow." 


540 


7%tf  ChambiT  of  ihe  Bell. 


[Miy, 


"  Grftfine,  I  am  the  nuiBter  here  T 

^  It  may  be  so,  and  yet  I  despise 
your  menace.  We  will  talk  no  more 
on  this  hateful  subject." 

"  On  this  or  none.  If  you  remain 
here,  yon  remain  as  the  associate  of 
my  wife." 

**  Never !  And  were  my  eyes  once 
profaned  by  her  presence  within 
these  sacred  walls,  she  would  hare 
cause  to  curse  the  hour  in  which  she 
entered  them.** 

«  Ha  1" 

*'  Nature,  the  laws  of  your  classi 
and  the  custom  of  your  rank,  oppose 
so  glaring  a  degradation ;  nor  am  I 
more  forbearing  than  Nature,  cub- 
tom,  and  the  law.  My  determin- 
ation is  irrerocable.** 

^  It  may  be  that  it  is  of  slight  im- 
portance," said  the  younff  noble,  as 
ne  turned  upon  her  eyes  whose  pupils 
were  dilated,  and  seemed  shghtly 
tinged  with  blood,  "  I  cannot  con- 
descend to  further  entreaty  or  ex- 
postulation. We  now  understand 
each  other." 

As  he  ceased  speaking,  the  countess 
re-seoted  herself,  with  a  sarcastic 
smile  playing  about  her  lip,  but  the 
tempest  whKh  was  ragincr  in  the 
breast  of  Elric  was  frightful.  His 
hands  were  so  tightly  c&nched  that 
the  blood  had  started  beneath  the 
nails.  The  veins  of  his  throat  and 
forehead  were  swollen  like  cords, 
and  his  thin  lips  were  livid  and 
trembling.  As  he  passed  athwart 
the  apartment  he  suddenly  paused ; 
a  deadly  paleness  overspread  his 
counten/nceV  and  he  gLped  for 
breath,  and  clung  to  a  chair,  like 
one  suddenly  smitten  with  paralysis. 
Then  came  a  rush  of  crimson 
over  his  features,  as  though  his 
heart  had  rejected  the  coward  blood 
which  had  just  fled  to  it,  and  flung 
it  back  as  a  damninff  witness  to  his 
burning  brow.  And  still  the  lady 
wrought  upon  her  tapestry  with  a 
steady  hand  beneath  the  broad  light 
of  the  lamp;  nor  could  a  line  of 
passion  be  traced  upon  her  calm,  pale 
face. 

Before  the  count  retired  to  rest 
that  night,  he  heard  the  voice  of 
his  sister  desiring  that  a  seat  might 
be  secured  for  her  in  the  post-car- 
riage which  passed  throuffn  Nien- 
burg  during  the  followinff  day,  on  its 
o  Vienna.  She  haa  uttered  no 
eat,  and  Elric  was  not  ignor- 


ant of  the  stringene^  of^iniMitbo- 
rity  which  die  was  about  to  eroke. 
Should  his  intended  mairiige  snoe 
reach  the  ears  of  the  emperor,  Mina 
was  lost  for  ever.    Driven  slm<Mt  to 
frenzy,  the  young  man  raised  in  bk 
powerful  hand  the  heavy  lamp  whieb 
still  burnt   upon  the    table,  ud 
eagerly  made  the  circuit  of  tberooDf 
pausing    befotre    each    pietare,  m 
though  he  still  hoped  to  find  among 
those  of  his  female  ancestors  a  p^ 
cedent  for  his  own  wild  nassion;  but 
he  looked  in  vain.     Upon  all  he 
traced  the  daborately-cmblaaoDei 
shield  and  the  pompous  titk.  He 
had  long  known  that  it  was  bo;  bat 
at  that  moment  he  scrutiBiBed  tbea 
closely,  as  thouffh  he  anticipitedtb^ 
a  mirade  would  be  wroa^  in  bii 
behalf:     This  done,  he  onee  bior 
replaced  the  lamp  on  its  aeeoakomcd 
stand ;  and  after  glaring  fn  *^k^ 
into  the  ftone,  as  if  to  biive  Ae 
fire  that  burnt  pale  beside  tint  vUcb 
flashed  from  beneath  his  own  da^ 
brows,  he  walked  slowly  to  a  caWnet 
which  ooeupied  an  angle  of  the  apart' 
ment. 

It  contaiiied  a  slender  coUectiaa  d 
shells  and  minerals,  the  beqaert  of 
Father  Eberhard  to  his  pnpii  oa  bis 
departure  frntn  Nienbnig;  a  few 
stuffed  birds,  shot  and  prtterved  by 

the  oount  himself;  ani,  ^°'^7'.  I| 
£sw  chemical  preparatioaB  with  wbicfa 
the  good  pnest  had  tried  aaodit 
simpte  experiments  as  a  pnctiGU 
illustration  of  his  lessons.  It  was  to 
this  latter  division  of  the  cabinet 
that  the  young  man  directed  bisat- 
tention.  He  deliberately  lighted  a 
small  taper  at  the  lamp,  and  tben 
drew  from  their  oonoealmeBt  sun^ 
phialfl,  containing  various  coloorea 
liquids.  Of  theae  he  seleeted  one 
two-thirds  full  of  a  ^^uie  and  limpw 
fluid,  which  he  placed  in  his  breast; 
and  this  done,  ne  extinguiabed  bis 
tapor,  returned  it  to  its  nifllie»  and, 
closing  the  cabinet,  threw  himseii 
into  a  chair,  pale,  haggard,  and  psnt- 
ing. 

He  had  not  been  seated  nnny 
seconds  when,  at  the  sound  of  >& 
approaching  step,  he  lifted  hisachinfi 
head  from  his  arm,  and  endeavouiw 
to  assume  an  appearance  of  compo- 
sure. It  was  ihat  of  the  venen^ 
woman  who  had  been  the  flivouiite 
attendant  of  his  mother,  and  wbo 
had,  upon  her  marriage,  followed 


1846.] 


The  Chamber  of  theBtll. 


^41 


J  ^ 


^ 


ber  from  her  hdme,  and  tiltiiiuKtdy 
become  his  ntirse.  A  shuddering 
thrill  pMsed  through  his  yeins,  for 
he  was  awaiting  her.  She  was  accus- 
tomed each  night,  after  his  nster  had 
retired,  to  prepare  for  both  a  draught 
of  lemonaae  as  their  night*beyerage, 
and  first  leaving  one  with  her  young 
master,  to  carry  the  other  to  the 
chamber  of  the  countess.  Her  ap- 
pearance was  therefore  anticipated; 
and  she  remained  for  an  instant,  as 
usual,  in  order  to  receive  the  praise 
which  her  beloved  nurseling  never 
failed  to  lavish  upon  her  dml ;  but, 
for  the  first  time,  Elric  objected  to 
the  flavour  of  the  draught,  and  re- 

rited  her  to  bring  bun  a  lemon 
be  might  augment  its  acidity. 
The  discomfited  old  woman  obeyed, 
and,  having  deposited  her  saJver 
upon  the  table,  left  the  room.  Elric 
started  up,  grasped  a  mass  of  his 
dishevelled  £ur  m  his  hand  with  a 
violenoe  whidi  threatened  to  rend 
it  from  the  roots,  uttered  one  groan 


which  seemed  to  tear  asunder  all  the 
fibres  of  his  h€»rt,  and  then  glared 
about  him,  rapidly  but  searchmgly, 
ere  he  drew  the  fatal  phial  from  his 
breast,  and  slowly,  gloatingly  poured 
out  the  whole  of  the  liquid  into  the 
porcelain  cup  which  had  been  pre- 
pared for  his  sister.  As  he  did  so,  a 
slight  acrid  scent  diffused  itself  over 
the  apartment,  but  almost  instantly 
evaporated,  and  the  death-draught 
remained  as  dear  and  limpid  as 
before. 

'*  To-morrow  1  **  murmured  the 
wretched  young  man,  as  he  watched 
the  retiring  form  of  the  grey-haired 
attendant  when  she  finaUy  left  the 
room ;  and  then  he  once  more  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands,  and  fell  into  a 
state  of  torpor. 

*'  To-morrow !  '*  he  repeated,  as 
he  at  length  rose,  staggeringly,  to 
seek  his  chamber.  '^  Mma,  Gloved 
Mina,  I  have  bought  you  at  a  fearful 
price!" 


Chaptbb  m. 


The  voice  of  lamentation  was  loud 
upon  the  morrow  in  that  ancient 
house.  The  Ck>untess  Stephanie  had 
ceased  to  exist.  The  agea  nurse  had 
drawn  back  the  curtains  of  the  win- 
dow, that  her  mistress  might,  as 
usual,  be  awakened  by  the  cheorful 
sunlight ;  but  she  was  no  longer  con- 
scious of  its  beams.  She  lay  upon 
her  bed,  pale,  placid,  and  uncnanged, 
like  one  who  had  passed  from  the 
calm  slumber  of  repose  to  the  deep 
sleep  of  death.  One  hand  pillowed 
her  cheek,  and  the  other  still  clasped 
her  rosary.  Death  had  touched  ner 
lovingly,  for  there  was  almost  a  smile 
upcm  her  lips;  and  the  hard  lines 
wnich  the  world  traces  upon  the 
countenance  had  disappeared  beneath 
hisgentle  pressure. 

^e  count  stood  gloomily  beside 
her  bed,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the 
physician  who  had  been  summoned. 
He  trembled  vi<^ently,  but  he  was 
surrounded  by  the  voice  of  wailing 
and  the  sight  of  tears ;  he  had  lost 
his  only  sister,  his  last  relative. 
How,  then,  could  he  have  remained 
unmoved?  The  ph3rsic]an  came; 
he  felt  the  small  and  rounded  wrists, 
but  there  was  no  pulsation :  he  bared 
the  white  and  beautiftil  arm  to  the 
shoulder,  and  applied  the  lancet,  but 
the  blood  bad  ceased  to  circulate  in 


the  blue  veins.  The  man  of  science 
shook  his  head,  and  extended  his 
hand  in  sympathy  to  the  anxious  bro- 
ther. The  catastrophe,  he  said,  was 
subject  of  regret  to  him  rather  than 
of  surprise.  The  young  grafine  had 
long  suffered  from  an  affection  of  the 
hea^  A  little  sooner  or  a  little 
later  the  blow  must  have  faUen.  It 
was  a  mere  question  of  time.  All 
human  aid  was  useless.  And  so  he 
departed  from  the  house  of  mourn- 
ing. 
The  few  individuals  of  Nienburg 

and  its  immediate  neighbourhood 
who  were  privileged  to  intrude  at 
such  a  moment,  crowded  to  the  man- 
sion to  offer  their  condolences  to  the 
young  graf,  and  to  talk  over  the 
sudden  and  melancholy  death  of  his 
sister ;  and  meanwhile,  Elric,  unable 
to  rest  for  an  instant  in  the  same 
place,  wandered  through  the  desolate 
apartments,  tearless  and  silent,  occa- 
sionally lifting  the  different  articles 
which  had  belonged  to  Stephanie  in 
his  trembling  hands,  and  looking  in- 
tently upon  them,  as  though  he 
dreaded  to  behold  the  characters  of 
his  crime  traced  upon  their  surface. 

The  German  ceremonial  of  inter- 
ment is  complicated  and  minute,  and 
all  persons  of  high  birth  are  expected 
to  conform  to  it  in  every  porticnlar. 


542 


The  Chamber  of  the  Bell. 


IMay, 


Among  the  rites  ^vliicli  precede  bu- 
rial is  one  which,  tryine  as  it  cannot 
fail  to  prove  to  the  principal  actor, 
must,  nevertheless,  greatly  tend  to 
tranquillise  the  minds  of  the  sur- 
vivors. It  is  necessary  that  we 
should  describe  this. 

For  four-and-twenty  hours  the 
corpse  remains  beneath  the  roof 
where  the  death  has  taken  place, 
and  while  there  all  the  affecting 
offices  necessary  to  its  final  burial 
are  performed.  This  time  elapsed, 
it  is  carried  to  the  cemetery,  and 
laid,  in  its  winding-sheet,  upon  a  bed 
in  the  inner  apartment  of  the  low 
stone  building  to  which,  in  our  de-- 
scription  of  the  death-valley  of  Nien- 
burg,  we  have  already  made  allusion. 
This  solitary  erection  consbts  only 
of  two  rooms;  that  in  which  the 
body  is  deposited  is  called  the  Hall 
of  Resurrection,  and  contains  no 
other  furniture  than  the  bed  itself 
and  a  bell-rope,  the  end  of  wliich  is 
placed  in  the  hand  of  the  cori)6e. 
This  cord  is  attached  to  a  bell  which 
rings  in  the  next  room,  and  which  is 
thence  called  the  Chamber  of  the 
Bell.  Thus  should  it  occur  that  the 
friends  of  an  individual  may  have 
been  deceived,  and  have  mistaken 
lethargy  for  death,  and  that  the 
patient  should  awake  during  the 
night  (for  the  body  must  remain  all 
night  in  this  gloomy  refuge),  the 
slightest  movement  which  ne  mav 
make  necessarily  rings  the  bell, 
and  he  obtains  instant  help.  It 
is  customary  for  the  nearest  relative 
to  keep  this  dreary  watch ;  and 
from  a  beautiful  sentiment,  which 
must  almost  tend  to  reconcile  the 
watcher  to  his  ehostly  task,  he  is 
fated  to  watch  there  alone,  that  it 
may  be  he  who  calls  back  the  ebbing 
life,  and  that  none  may  share  in  a 
joy  so  holy  and  so  deep  —  a  joy, 
moreover,  so  rare  and  so  unhoped 
fori 

The  long  day,  and  the  still  longer 
night  in  whicn  the  Countess  Ste- 
phanie lay  dead  beneath  the  roof  she 
had  so  reverenced  throughout  her 
life,  passed  over ;  and  all  the  pom- 
pous accessories  which  could  be  com- 
manded in  so  obscure  a  neighbour- 
hood were  secured  to  do  honour  to 
her  obsequies.  The  mournful  train 
moved  slowly  onward  to  the  cemetery, 
where  a  grave  had  already  been  pre- 
^^«d  fiv  hw  beside  her  mother; 


and,  passing  near  the  spot  ^-here  ibe 
was  mially  to  rest,  entered  the  Hall 
of  Resurrection,  and  gently  and 
carefully  stretched  her  upon  the  bed 
of  gloom.  The  wildest  of  the  monrn- 
ers  was  the  poor  old  nurse,  ifbo, 
with  her  grej  hair  streamipg  over 
her  shoulders,  and  her  dim  eyes 
swollen  with  tears,  knelt  near  the 
head  of  her  mistress,  and  clasped  her 
clay -cold  hands.  But  it  was  the 
young  count  who  was  the  centre  of 
commiseration  The  last  four-and- 
twenty  hours  had  done  the  work  of 
years  upon  him ;  a  sullen,  kaden 
tinge  had  spread  over  bis  skin,  Ms 
voice  was  deep  and  hollow,  and 
his  trembling  hands  could  scarcclT 
perform  their  offices.  "  No  wonder! 
ejaculated  those  who  looked  upon 
him ;  "  for  years  they  had  been  eyciy 
thing  to  each  other.  . 

At  length  the  funeral  tnun  de- 
parted, for  the  sun  was  setting.  Elnc 
listened  in  horror  to  their  retreating 
footsteps,  for  he  felt  that  he  w* 
soon  to  be  alone.  Alone  with  what. 
With  the  dead,  stretched  there  ^ 
his  own  hand— With  his  muidwed 
sister  I  This  was  his  companioMlnp 
within ;  and  without,  graves,  notbig 
but  graves,  sheeted  corpses,  and  tiw 
yawning  tomb  which  was  awMting 
his  victim.  The  sweat  rolled  in  itfJP 
drops  down  the  forehead  of  the  j(m 
man.  He  had  watched  near  the  body 
of  his  mother  in  peace  and  pr^» 
for  she  had  been  token  fro«^7^j 
and  he  was  innocent  then  ^d  m 
of  hope;  but  now— now!  He  tot- 
tered to  the  window  and  looked  ont 
The  twilight  was  thickening,  «w 
the  light  came  pale  through  the  nar- 
row leaded  panes  of  the  little  case- 
ment. He  glanced  around  we  se- 
pulchral chamber  in  which  he  w» 
to  pass  the  night.  There  wasasnMUi 
fire  burning  upon  the  open  betft" 
at  which  he  lighted  his  lamp,  9sa^ 
prayer-book  lyinff  upon  the  tabw, 
on  which  he  vaimy  endeavonrea  w 
concentrate  his  thoughts.  At  |b» 
moment  he  was  beyond  the  i**"*? 
prayer  I  The  strong  man  was  bt^"^' 
bod>r  and  spurit,  beneath  the  prcssflic 
of  his  crime!  Again  and  8^.  f 
asked  himself,  with  a  pertinacit/ tw^ 
bordered  on  delirium,  what  it  ^ 
over  which  he  watched  ?  And  agwj 
and  again  the  question  was  aofl^erea 
in  his  own  heart.  Over  his  aist^ 
hi9  only  snTviving  rdativei  murf*"^ 


1846.] 


The  Chamber  of  ike  BelL 


543 


by  his  own  hand.    The  murderer 
was  watching  beside  his  victim ! 

At  intervals  he  strove  against  the 
horror  by  which  he  was  oppressed ; 
he  endeavoured  to  rally  the  pride  of 
his  sex  and  of  his  strenfl;th.  What 
could  he  fear  f  The  dc»a  are  power- 
less over  the  living ;  and  yet,  fiercer 
and  sharper  came  Uie  memory  that 
his  crime  had  been  gratuitous,  for 
had  he  not  been  told  that  the  death 
which  he  had  given  must  ere  long 
have  come  ?  '*  A  little  sooner,  or  a 
little  later,**  had  said  the  man  of 
science.  Oh,  had  he  only  waited, 
promised,  t^porised;  but  all  was 
now  too  late!  She  lay  there  cold, 
pale,  stark,  within  a  few  paces  of 
nim,  and  tears  of  blood  could  not  re- 
call the  dead ! 

It  was  the  close  of  autumn,  and  as 
the  sun  set  masses  of  lurid  and  sul- 
phureous clouds  gathered  upon  the 
western  horizon,  but  save  an  oeca- 
sional  sweep  of  wind  which  moaned 
through  the  funereal  trees,  all  re- 
mained still,  buried  in  that  ringing 
silence  which  may  be  heard;  and 
the  moon,  as  yet  untouched  by  the 
rising  vapours,  gleamed  on  the  nar- 
row window  of  the  cell,  and  cast 
upon  the  floor  the  quivering  shadows 
of  the  trees  beside  it.  But  at  length 
came  midnight,  the  moon  was  veued 
in  clouds,  and  a  sweeping  wind  rushed 
through  the  long  grass  upon  the 
graves,  and  swayed  to  and  fro  the 
tall  branches  of  the  yews  and  ev- 
presses ;  next  came  the  sound  of  fau- 
ing  rain, — ^large,  heav^  drops,  which 
plashed  upon  the  foliage,  and  then 
fell  with  a  sullen  reverberation  upon 
the  dry  and  thirsty  earth.  Gradually 
the  storm  increased ;  and  ere  long,  as 
the  thunder  be^an  to  growl  hoarsely 
in  the  distance,  it  beat  ancrily  against 
the  diamond  panes,  and  dropped  in  a 
shower  from  the  eaves  of  the  little 
buildine.  Elric  breathed  more  freely. 
This  e&mental  warfare  was  more 
congenial  to  his  troubled  spirit  than 
the  fearful  silence  by  which  it  had 
been  preceded.  He  tried  to  think  of 
Mina ;  but  as  though  her  pure  and 
innocent  image  conm  not  blend  with 
the  objects  around  him,  he  found  it 
impossible  to  pursue  a  continuous 
chain  of  thought.  Once  more  he 
bent  over  the  book  before  him,  but 
as  he  turned  the  page  a  sudden  light 
filled  the  narrow  chamber,  and 
through  the  sheeted  glare  sprang  a 


fierce  flash,  wbiA  te  a 
aecmed  to  destrov  Ida  power  of  , 
sion*  He  rose  nnrriedly  firan  lui 
chair;  the  thmder  appetieil  to  be 
bnrstiitt  over  his  head,  the  BghtBiiig 
danced  like  fiery  demons  acvoaa  the 
flocH*,  the  wind  howled  and  roand  m 
the  wide  chinmer;  and  suddenly,  aa 
he  stood  there,  aghast  and  conscicnee- 
stricken,  a  sharp  blast  penelntiBK 
through  some  aperture  in  the  walk, 
extinpiished  his  scrfitary  lampL  At 
this  instant  the  bell  rang. 

''  The  BeUr  shouted  the  yoaw 
count,  like  a  maniac, — *^  thb  bsu.  ! 
And  then,  gaining  streiigth  from  his 
excess  of  norror,  he  langhed  as 
wOdly  as  he  had  spoken,  **FooI 
that  I  am !  Is  not  snch  a  wind  aa 
this  enough  to  shake  the  very  edifice 
from   its   foundation?    and  am   I 

a  wire?  Das  not  the  same  blast ^fc 
out  my  lamp?  All  is  still  again. 
My  own  thoughts  have  made  a  cow- 
ard of  me  T 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  an- 
other and  a  far%hter  flash  shot 
thnm^h  the  casement  and  ran  along 
the  wire,  and  again  the  bell  rang  oat ; 
but  his  eye  had  been  upon  it,  and  he 
could  no  longer  cheat  himself  into 
the  belief  that  he  had  endeavonrad 
to  create.  The  fienr  vapour  had 
disappeared,  but  still  louder  and 
louder  rang  the  bell,  as  though 
pulled  by  a  hand  of  agony. 

Elric  sank  helpless  to  his  knees. 
At  every  successive  flash  he  saw  the 
violent  moUon  of  the  bell  which 
hung  above  him,  and  as  the  dark- 
ness aeain  gathmd  about  the  eeO, 
he  still  heard  the  maddening  peal, 
which  seemed  to  split  his  brain. 

"* Light!  light r  he  moaned  at 
last,  as  he  rose  painfully  from  the 
floor.  *^I  must  have  liji^ht,  or  I 
shall  become  a  raving  maniac** 

And  then  he  strove  to  re-illnmine 
the  lamp ;  but  his  shakinjr  hand  ill 
obeyed  the  impulse  of  his  frenzied 
will.  And  still,  without  the  inter- 
mission of  a  second,  the  bell  rang  cm. 
At  len^h  he  obtained  a  lisht,  aikl 
staggenng  to  the  wall,  he  fixed  hia 
eyes  upon  the  frightful  wire. 

"  It  stretches,*^  he  muttered,  un- 
consciously; "still  it  stretches,  and 
there  is  no  wind  now ;  there  is  a  lull. 
Some  one  must  be  pulling  U,^ 
the  other  chamber,  and  if  ta 
b€ "" 


544 


The  Chamber  of  the  Bell. 


[May, 


His  voice  became  extinct ;  he 
eould  not  utter  the  name  of  hie 
sister. 

With  a  firantic  gesture  he  seized 
the  lamp  and  turned  towards  the 
door  which  opened  into  the  death- 
chamber,  and  still  the  bell  rang  on, 
without  the  cessation  of  an  instant. 
A  short  passage  parted  the  two  cells, 
and  as  he  sta^;ered  onwards  he  was 
compelled  to  clins  to  the  wall,  for 
his  knees  knocked  togeth^,  and  he 
could  scarcely  support  himself.  At 
lenffth  he  reached  the  inner  door, 
and  desperately  flung  it  open.  A 
chill  like  that  which  escapes  from  a 
Tault  fell  upon  his  brow,  and  the 
sound  of  the  bell  pursued  him  still. 
He  moved  a  pace  forward,  retreated, 
a^in  advanced,  and,  finally,  by  a 
mighty  effort,  sprang  into  the  centre 
of  the  chamber.      One   shrill  and 

I)iercinff  cry  escaped  him,  and  the 
amp  fell  from  his  hand. 

"You  are  then  here  ?"  murmured 
a  low  and  feeble  voice.  "You, 
Elric  von  Kdnigstein,  the  renegade 
ttom  honour,  the  sororicide,  the 
would-be  murderer  I  Yours  is  the 
affection  which  watches  over  my  last 
hours  on  earth?  The  same  hand 
which  mixed  the  deadly  draught  is 
ready  to  lay  me  in  the  grave  ?* 

As  the  words  fell  upon  his  ear,  a 
vivid  ffash  filled  the  room,  and  the 
count  saw  his  sister  sitting  upright 
wrapped  in  her  deathndothes.  A 
deep  groan  escaped  him. 

"That  draugnt  was  scarcely  swal- 
lowed,** pursued  the  voice,  "ere  I 
detected  that  it  had  been  tampered 
with;  but  it  was  then  too  late  to 
save  myself,  and,  for  the  honour  of 
our  name,  I  shrank  from  denouncing 
you,  though  I  felt  at  once  that  you 
were  the  murderer.  But  you  were 
coward  as  well  as  sororicide.    You 


have  subjected  me  to  all  the  i^Diiies 
of  death,  and  have  not  merely  oon- 
demned  me  to  an  after-life  of  rndTer- 
inff,  but  of  suffering  to  us  both,  far 
I  SuM  live  on  under  the  knowledge 
of  the  fate  to  which  you  destined  me, 
and  you  beneath  my  inevocible 
curse.** 

The  last  few  sentences  were  ot- 
tered feebly  and  gaspingly,  as  though 
the  strength  of  the  speaker  were 

rt,  and  then  a  heavy  fall  upon 
bed  betrayed  to  the  horror- 
stricken  Elric  that  some  fresh  cata- 
strophe had  occurred. 

With  the  Clergy  of  despair  he 
rushed  from  the  room,  and  hastened 
to  procure  a  hght.  A  frightful 
spectacle  met  him  on  his  retom. 
Stephanie  lay  across  the  bed,  with  t 
portion  of  her  funeral-dress  dk«)laced. 
The  arm  with  whkh  she  hia  rung 
the  fatal  bell  was  that  from  which 
her  medical  attendant  had  striyen  to 

I>rocure  blood  during  her  insenabi- 
ity,  and  which,  in  preparing  her  for 
the  grave,  had  been  unbound.  The 
violent  exertion  to  which  it  had  beo 
subjected,  added  to  the  power  ef 
the  poison  that  still  lurked  in  hff 
veinsi  had  opened  the  wound,  wd 
ere  the  young  count  returned  .with 
the  lamp  she  was  indeed  a  com, 
with  her  white  bnrial-gsnnents  dib- 
bled in  blood.  The  scene  told  iti 
own  tale  on  the  morrow.  She  bad 
partially  awakened,  and  the  resoit 
was  evident.  None  knew,  saye  he 
who  watched  beside  her,  that  the 
fatal  bell  had  rung ! 

The  cune  worked.  Madnes 
seised  upon  the  wretched  Elric,  m 
for  years  he  was  a  raving  lfln«[*j 
who  might  at  any  moment  be  lasbca 
into  freniy  by  the  mere  ringing  <»  * 
bell. 


1846.]        PHndfal 


in  the  Bue  of  N^oUaiu 


545 


PRINCIPAL  CAMPAIGNS  IN  THE  RISE  OP  NAPOIKON, 

No.V. 

THB  CABIPAIGN  OP  MABSHGO. 
CHAPTEnVm. 


Thb  conquest  of  Italy  had,  as  we 
have  seen,  placed  Kapoleoa  on  a 
pedestal  of  fame  which  already  over- 
shadowed the  government  of  the  Re- 
puhlic.  The  ^wer  of  his  popularity 
weighed  heavily  on  the  Xhrectors; 
and  as  he  was  "  moody  and  dissatis- 
fied, and  brooding  over  the  prospeet 
of  inactivity,"  they  were  as  anxious 
to  find  him  employment  as  he  was  to 
obtain  it.  The  peace  so  lately  con- 
cluded left,  however,  no  opening  for 
military  exertion  on  the  continent  of 
Europe;  and  as  Napokon,  though 
nam^  g^nd  of  the  army  of  £i^- 
land,  declined  after  a  brief  survey  of 
the  ports  of  the  Channel,  to  venture 
on  tne  invasion  of  the  hostile  island, 
attention  was  turned  to  a  different 
quarter. 

The  French  government  had  al- 
ready, under  Louis  XY.,  contem- 
plated the  occupation  of  £gypt  The 
I)irectory  were  also  desirousof  making 
conquests  in  the  East,  and,  some  time 
before  Napoleon's  expedition,  had 
ord^ed  Admiral  Bruyez  to  surprise 
Malta, — a  plan  which  the  knuchts 
fcnled,  by  refusing  to  admit  his  four 
ships  into  the  harbourof  La  Valette. 
During  the  Italian  campaigns  Napo- 
leon had  more  than  once  proposed 
to  seize  the  Turkish  province  of 
Albania ;  at  a  later  period  he  turned 
his  thoughts  towards  Egypt,  and  now 
both  the  general  and  Directory  re- 
solved to  cany  this  last  plan  into 
ezeeutum.  iThat  so  unprincipled 
an  act  of  agmssion  could  not  be 
defended  by^e  slightest  shadow  or 
spjnblance  of  justice,  troubled  the 
pnneetorB  as  little  as  the  executors 
of  we  undertaking. 

The  details  of  the  expedition  be- 
loiw  not  to  our  subject  Treachery 
ana  cowardice  opened  the  gates  of 
Malta  to  the  Bepublican  forces;  and 
in  Egypt  an  amy  of  40,000  F 
reterans  could  experience  b^ 
oppoHtkn  fima  a  ftw  nndr 


Turks  and  Mamelukes;  the  military 
operations  cannoL  therefore,  be 
reckoned  among  tne  principal  cam- 
paigns of  Napoleon.  Biographers 
assure  us  that  he  governed  the  con- 
quered province  with  so  much  ability, 
88  to  obtain  from  the  inhabitants  the 
title  of  ''  the  Just  Sultan.**  On  ex- 
amination it  proves,  however,  that 
his  conduct  was  so  rapacious  and  op- 
pressive, so  directly  at  variance  with 
all  the  long-estabushed  customs  of 
the  East,  that  it  maddened  the 
people  and  drove  them  into  open 
rebelli<m.  The  ruthless  barbarity 
by  which  the  insurrections  were 
crushed,  and  the  sanguinary  cruelty 
which  marked  his  subwquent  oondudE, 
axe  fully  attested  by  his  own  letters. 

Defeated  at  Aone,  disappointed, 
perhaps,  in  his  exnectatioiis  of  found- 
ing a  splendid  Eastern  empire,  he 
deserted  his  ariny — left  tnem  bv 
stealth  in  a  foreign  land,  beset  with 
difficulties  and  cut  off  from  all  com- 
munication with  their  native  country. 
Preceded  bv  the  bulletin  of  a  victory 
he  had  achieved  over  some  Turlu 
who  had  landed  at  Aboukir,  he 
arrived  in  France  after  a  long  and 
tedious  passaoe,  and  his  first  recep- 
tion on  lan£ng  already  told  him 
that  he  was  the  undisputed  lord  of 
the  soil.  His  journey  to  the  capital 
was  a  continued  triumph,  and  the 
intelligence  of  his  arrival  was  hailed 
with  acclamations  in  every  part  of 
the  country. 

This  was  Napoleon's  first  ill- 
omened  return  to  Paris,  after  sacri- 
ficing thousands  to  his  ambition  and 
fbrsiucing  the  remains  of  the  gallant 
army  entrusted  to  his  care :  but  we 
shall  see  him  again  returning,  vam- 
pire-like, to  seek  for  more  victims, 
after  burying  hundreds  of  thousands 
beneath  the  snovrs  of  Russia.  The 
£nssh  victims  are  granted  and  led  to 
K  and  he  appears  aoain  a  lonely 
^^vm  the  slftugnter*8ceDe  of 


516 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napokon.        [May, 


Leipzig;  and,  lastly,  he  comes,  in 
fitting  guise,  a  craven  fugitive  from 
the  crimson  field  of  Waterloo,  where 
the  best  and  bravest  blood  of  France 
was  poured  out  in  torrents  for  him 
I*  who  yet  could  hoard  his  own." 
There  surely  breathes  not  the  man, 
possessing  one  spark  of  high  and 
noble  feelinff,  who  would  have  sur- 
vived a  single  one  of  these  dreadful 
catastrophes:  they  all  blacken  the 
scutcheon  of  Napoleon,  and  yet  thou- 
sands are  willing  to  bwish  every 
sense  of  shame  from  earth  in  order 
to  uphold  the  praise  of  this  dis- 
honoured chieftain. 

The  Directory,  conscious  of  their 
want  of  power  to  punish  his  desertion 
of  the  armj',  received  him  with  dis- 
tinction and  allowed  him  to  remain 
in  Paris,  while  their  own  authority 
was  rapidly  declining.    This  govern- 
ment, which  it  has  been  the  fashion 
to  revile  in  most  extravagant  terms, 
in  order  to  enhance  the  glory  of 
Napoleon,   had,   nevertheless,   con- 
siderable merit.     Composed  of  the 
parties   who   had   overthrown   the 
Jacobins  and  crushed  the  sanguinary 
anarchy  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  it 
had  deviated  widely  from  what  were 
termed  the  principles  of  the  Revolu- 
tion, and  had  thus  forfeited  the  sup- 
port of  the  violent  Republicans  with- 
out gaining  the  friendship   of  the 
Royalists.    Placed  between  these  ex- 
treme factions,  the  Directory  had  no 
hold  on  the  affections  of  the  country ; 
the  five  years  of  internal  peace  which 
they  had  maintained  were  not  suf- 
ficient to  allay  the  wild  elements 
awakened  by  the  Revolution;   nor 
had  repose  blinded  the  nations  to  the 
defects  of  the  constitution,  and  to  the 
indifferent  character  of  the  indivi- 
duals at  the  head  of  affairs. 

A  desire  for  change,  one  of  the 
usual  characteristics  of  revolution, 
was  general ;  and  measures  for  the 
overthrow  of  the  government  were 
already  in  progress  when  Napoleon 
landed.  The  military  part  of  the 
enterpi-ise  had  been  intended  for  Ge- 
neral Joubert,  but  as  he  was  killed 
at  the  battle  of  Novi,  the  post  natur- 
ally devolved  on  the  successful  com- 
mander who  had  planted  the  tricolor 
on  the  lowers  of  Cairo  and  Milan. 

The    revolution    of  the   1 8th   of 
Brumaire  is  foreiffn  to  our  purpose. 
The  total  want  of  courage  and  com- 
posure evinced  by  Napoleon  on  the 


occasion  is  well  knovm.  He  vas  on 
the  point  of  being  outlawed  and  for- 
saken even  by  the  troops,  when  the 
resolution  of  his  brother  Laden  and 
the  gallantry  of  Murat  gave  a  favonr- 
able  turn  to  afiairs,  and  placed  him  is 
First  Consul  at  the  head  of  the  eoTcni- 
ment.  AVhat  the  constitntionai  power 
of  a  consul  might  be,  none  knew  and 
few  inquired,  for  all  felt  that  the 
bayonets  of  the  army  rendered  the 
new  occupant  of  the  curnle  chair 
absolute  and  irresponsible. 

No  revolutionaiy  government  in 
France  had  stood  on  so  firm  a  found- 
ation as  the  one  on  which  the  favoor 
of  the  troops  placed  the  consulate, 
from  the  first  day  of  its  fonnatioii. 
Its  predecessors  had  depended  on  the 
favour  of  mobs  or  on  the  intrigues 
of  factions,  while  the  cumle  chair 
rested  on  the  affections  of  an  anny 
already  distinguished  by  many  gallant 
actions.  The  strength  which  tiie 
new  government  derived  from  i^ 
military  influence  obtained  for  it  the 
support  of  all  the  parties  in  the  state, 
who  were  tired  of  revolntiw 
dreaded  the  return  of  anarchy,  and 
who,  by  their  number  and  re^to- 
bility,  set  an  example  that  was  quickly 
followed  by  the  better  classes  of  the 
people.  By  their  adhesion,  the  many 
thus  augmented  the  very  strengj* 
which  had  attracted  them,  and  whidi 
was  to  be  still  farther  increased  by 
the  military  events  we  have  next  to 
relate. 

France,  which  was  thus  rallying 
round  the  consular  government,  was 
far  stronger  for  the  purposes  of  war 
than  it  had  been  at  any  previous 
period  of  history.  The  Tcvolntion 
had  swept  away  all  tibe  long-esta- 
blished institutions,  the  rights  of  per- 
sons and  of  property,  which  prevent 
even  the  most  absolute  monarcDsfroDi 
wielding  at  pleasure  the  Ksonrces  of 
their  dominions.  But  the  tempest 
which  had  swept  away  these  obstacles 
had  not,  and  could  not,  injure  the 
natural  physical  strength  inherent  in  a 
great  nation  situated  in  the  very  centre 
of  Europe.  The  war  had  even  enlarged 
the  boundaries  of  the  republic,  with- 
out impairing  its  internal  resources, 
which  the  spoils  of  conquered  prO' 
vinoes  had  probably  tended  to  aug^ 
ment.  Belgium  and  the  left  hank 
of  the  Rhine  had  been  incorporated 
with  France;  Holhmd  and  Switser- 
l<in4  were  in  pois^ssioa  of  her  trvoj*' 


1846.] 


The  CamjHiitjn  of  Marengo, 


547 


and  tbcir  resources  completely  at  her 
disposal ;  Spain  was  a  submissive  and 
tributary  ally;  and  Grenoa formed  an 
adYanced  post  towards  Italpr.  The 
long-continued  contest  had  given  her 
warlike  armies,  commanded  by  expe- 
rienced officers ;  the  campaign  of  1 799, 
at  one  time  so  cUsastrous,  h^  ended  as 
fortunately  as  gloriously.  The  Rus- 
sians had  been  forced  altogether  out 
of  the  field,  and  England  nad  with- 
drawn her  troops  from  the  Continent. 
The  Republican  armies  that  had  been 
victorious  in  Switzerland  and  Holland 
could  now  be  united  to  those  which 
were  opposing  Austria,  and  it  was 
hardly  to  be  expected  that  the  im- 
perial power  could  maintain  a  single- 
handed  contest  against  forces  which 
had  just  vanquished  the  troops  of  the 
three  powers  combined.  Austria,  it 
IS  true,  still  retained  possession  of 
Italy,  but,  as  we  shall  see  presently, 
the  occupation  of  Switzerland  by  the 
French  more  than  counterbalanced 
that  advantage.  With  the  hopes  of 
victory  which  the  possession  of  such 
vast  means  naturally  inspired,  anxious, 
no  doubt,  to  reconquer  Italy,  the 
theatre  of  his  first  exploits,  and  to 
fix  his  power  by  new  triumphs,  Na- 
poleon determined  to  stnke  with 
might  and  main  against  the  Austrians. 
Nor  were  the  means  wanting* 

Under  the  Directory,  General 
Jourdan  had  already  perfected  the 
fatal  law  of  conscription,  which 
placed  at  the  disposal  of  govern- 
ment the  whole  male  population 
of  France,  and  obliged  every  man 
canable  of  bearing  arms  to  do 
military  dutv.  A  decree  of  the  Con- 
sul, executed  with  rigour  and  aided 
by  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment, 
brought  160,000  men  to  the  colours, 
including  30,000  old  and  experienced 
soldiers  whose  discharges  were  can- 
celled, and  who  were  again  called 
upon  to  take  service. 

Ten  thousand  French  and  20,000 
Batavians  were  stationed  under  Au- 
gereau  in  Holland,  in  order  to  pro- 
tect that  country  against  the  attack 
of  the  English.  The  frontier,  as  high 
as  Coblentz,  required  few  troops,  as 
the  neutrality  of  Northern  Germany 
could  be  depended  upon.  The  for- 
mer armies,  of  the  Rhine  and  of 
Switzerland,  were  united  and  placed 
under  the  orders  of  General  Moreau, 
who  soon  found  himself  at  the  head 
of  190,000  men.    At  th«  comm«iioe« 


nient  of  the  year  Massena  had  already 
taken  the  command  of  the  army  of 
Italy,  composed  of  the  remnants  of 
the  broken  bands  so  often  defeated 
bv  Suvarofi*,  and  amounting  in  all  to 
about  4^,000  men.  These  troops 
were  cooped  up  in  Genoa  and  the 
Riviera,  and  were  almost  in  a  total 
state  of  disoi^nisation. 

An  army  of  Reserve,  composed  of 
30,000  conscripts  and  of  different 
corps  from  the  interior  of  France, 
assembled  at  Dijon,  from  whence  the 
armies  could  be  reinforced  or  sup- 
ported at  need.  The  mustering  and 
organisation  of  the  troops,  with  every 

Srepuration  necessary  to  render  them 
t  tor  immediate  service,  was  carried 
on  with  the  energy  and  alacrity  of  a 
military  goverment  having  the  good- 
will and  all  the  resources  of  the 
country  at  its  absolute  disposal,  and 
well  aware  that  its  power  and  per- 
manence depended  principally  on 
victory  and  conquest. 

Besides  troops  in  the  TyroU  Au- 
stria had  two  formidable  armies  in 
the  field;  the  one  on  the  Rhine, 
the  other  in  Italy.  The  Archduke 
Charles,  dissatisfied  with  the  treat- 
ment he  had  experienced  from  the 
Aulic  Council  during  the  pre- 
vious campaign,  had  resigned  the 
command  of  the  first,  and  was  suc- 
ceeded by  Marshal  Eray,  a  bold 
and  active  officer,  who,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  operations,  found  him- 
self at  the  head  of  about  75,000  men. 
The  Austrian  army  of  Italy  was  still 
stronger ;  it  consisted  of  1 10,000  men, 
and  was  under  the  command  of  Mar- 
shal Melas,  a  distinguished  veteran  of 
the  Austrian  school,  but  bending 
already  under  the  chilling  weight  ci 
seventy-six  years, — an  age  at  whidi 
few  retain  the  energy  and  activitj 
necessary  for  directing  and  &nyine 
into  effect  the  dangerous,  trying,  ana 
varying  operations  of  war.  D^uct- 
ing  the  troops  stationed  in  Tuscany, 
the  Venetian  States  and  the  Roma- 
gna,  the  disposable  force  under  the 
orders  of  Melas  amounted  to  about 
90,000  men.  Leaving  40,000  of  these 
in  Piedmont  and  Lombardy  to  guard 
the  fortresses  and  to  watch  the  fron- 
tiers of  Switzerland,  which,  as  the 
country  was  now  in  the  possession  of 
the  French,  flanked  the  whole  Italian 
theatre  of  war,  the  aged  commander 
advanced  ^ith  the  rest  against  Genoa 
iwd  the  Riviera. 


548 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napolecn,        [May, 


As  the  Apennines  become  passable 
six  weeks  sooner  than  the  Alps,  Melas 
determmed  to  open  the  campaign  early 
in  the  year,  and  to  finish  the  exnedi- 
tion  against  the  Riviera  in  time  to  nave 
the  troops  again  disposable,  before 
his  flank  eomd  be  tnmed  by  forces 
marching  through  Switzerland.  The 
army  left  their  winter  quarters,  and 
were  ordered  to  assemble  on  the  25th 
of  February ;  but  snow  having  fallen 
on  the  13th  of  the  month,  the  order 
was  countermanded,  and  the  actual 
advance  delayed  till  the  5th  of  April. 
Whether  the  passes  remained  im- 
practicable for  six  weeks  we  are  not 
told,  nor  is  the  delay  which  took 
place  any  where  explained;  that  it 
proved  decisive  of  the  fate  of  the 
campaipi  is  perfectly  evident. 

As  Alassena  had  40,000  men  under 
his  command,  and  General  Thurau 
GOOD  more  in  the  passes  of  Mount 
Genis,  the  superiority  of  the  Aus« 
trians  was  not  very  decisive.  They 
were,  nevertheless,  successful;  they 
carried  the  Bochetta  Pass  by  storm, 
and,  after  a  series  of  san^inaiy  com- 
bats, succeeded  in  forcing  tne  lefl 
winff  of  the  French,  under  General 
Suchet,  to  fkll  back  behind  the  Var ; 
the  right,  under  Massena  himself,  was 
driven  into  Genoa,  which  was  im- 
mediately blockaded  by  sea  and  land ; 
an  Engliih  squadron  under  Lord 
Keith  maintaining  the  naval  invest- 
ment, and  20,000  Austrians  under 
€reneral  Otto  investing  the  fortress 
by  land :  Melas,  with  the  rest  of  his 
forces,  followed  Suchet  and  occupied 
Kice.  The  Austrian  commander  was 
only  waiting  for  the  fall  of  Genoa 
to  press  his  success  still  further,  when 
the  operations  of  the  army  of  reserve 
obliged  hnn  to  retrace  his  steps  back 
into  It^y. 

But  what  the  Austrians  were  gain- 
ing on  one  point,  they  were  already 
losing  on  another.  Moreau  had 
crossed  the  Rhine  on  the  25th  of 
Ajpril,  and,  being  greatly  superior  to 
Marshal  Kray,  continued  to  press 
him,  though  without  gaining  any 
decisive  advantage.  It  was  at  first 
Napoleon's  intention  to  have  placed 
himself  at  the  head  of  the  army  of 
the  Rhine ;  but  he  changed  his  re- 
solution on  the  subject  for  reasons 
that  are  not  known,  unless  we  sup^ 
pose  that  he  did  not  think  himself 
strong  enough  to  make  an  enemy  of  so 
popular  an  officer  as  General  Moreau, 


who  declared  that  he  would  not  re- 
main with  the  army  if  the  lint  Con- 
sul joined  in  person.  This  shem 
how  ill  -  deserved  is  the  praise  so 
generally  bestowed  on  Napoleon  for 
having  generously  given  over  tbe 
most  numeroufl  and  best-appointed 
troops  to  his  riyal  in  militaiy  fiune. 
General  Berthier  had  been  ap- 
pointed commander  of  the  army  of 
the  Reserve,  and  he  no  sooner  re- 
ported that  it  was  ready  to  take  the 
field  than    Nap<^eon  left  Fkris  to 

eace  himself  at  its  head.  A  clan» 
the  eonstitntion  prevented  the 
First  Consul  from  commanding  u 
army  in  person,  but  did  not  prereDt 
him  from  being  present  as  a  spectator 
in  the  field,  and  as  he  had  tlie  ap- 
pointment of  the  generals,  he  was 
sure  to  possess  the  real  authority, 
whoever  might  possess  the  mere 
nominal  title. 

In  the  St.  Helena  Memoirs  the 
exile  relates  with  evident  satisfaction 
that  he  made  all    Europe  bcliere 
that  there  was  no  such  ^""7  "^j** 
anny  of  Reserye  in  existence.    5k 
spies  of  the  different   conrts  only 
found  a  few  raw  conscripts  and  in- 
valids at  Dijon  and  reported  accord- 
ingly, at  the  very  time  wh«  the 
troops  were  advancing  hy  different 
roads  towards  Genoa,  the  pnnap« 
pomt  of  assembly.     AU  historians 
have,  of  course,  repeated  this  m 
proof  of  the  sagacfty  displayed  g 
the   chief  consul,    but   tboae  ww 
know  how  many  preparations  are 
necessary  to  facilitate  the  losm  oi 
40,000  men  through  a  mountainow 
country  will  easily  understand  XW 
such  a  movement  could  not  po«»*>v 
be  concealed.     Besides,  it  now  ap- 
pears that  Meks  had  infonnation  w 
the  march  of  the  army  as  ctfly  » 
the  month  of  May,  but  did  nw 
know  where  the  storm  would  m^ 
for  it  was  only  on  the  27th  of  Ap 
that  Napoleon  decided  on  crosfling 
the  St.  Bernards  in  preference  tot!^ 
St.  Gothard,  as  first  intended.   J^ 
not,  the  minister  of  war,  ^^ 
despatched  mto  Germany,  '^^**: 
order  for  Moreau  to  send  25,000  mej 
of  the  army  of  the  Rhine  to  the  »» 
of  the  army  of  Reserve. 

Early  in  May,  60,000  men  /Jr 
thus  assembled  at  the  foot  of  tne 
Alps,  and  Colonel  Moresoot  hating 
examined  the  Great  St.  Bernard  9^ 
reported  the  passage  practkahfe  •**' 


1846.] 


The  CampaiffU  of  Marengo. 


549 


with  proper  pieeaationa,  easily  to  be 
effected,  the  whole  inttantly  set  out 
on  their  toilsome  njkrch.  The  army 
was  divided  into  six  columns :  four 
moved  upon  Lomhardy  by  the  roads 
over  the  Great  and  Little  St.  Ber- 
nard, the  St.  Gothard,  and  the  Sim- 
plon;  Napc^eon  himself,  with  the 
main  body,  crossing  the  Great  St. 
Bernard;  two  columns  descended 
upon  Piedmont  by  Mount  Cenis  and 
Mount  Gen^yre.  At  all  periods  of 
history  military  bands  have  crossed 
these  mountams,  the  roads  were 
practicable  for  traveUers,  and  though 
the  difficulties  of  the  passage  were 
considerable,  they  have  oeen  greatly 
ex^Bcgerated  by  tne  generality  of  his- 
torians. 

On  the  16th  of  May  all  who  were 
intended  to  cross  the  Great  St.  Ber- 
nard were  assembled  at  Martigny, 
when  Lannes,  at  the  head  of  the  ad- 
vanced guard,  commenced  the  ascent 
of  the  mountain.  Numerous  guides 
and  beasts  of  burden  had  been  pro- 
vided; the  guns  were  dismounted 
and  placed  unon  sledges,  in  the 
trunks  of  trees  hollowed  out  for  the 
purpose,  and  dragged  along  by 
strength  of  arm,  a  hundred  men 
being  sometimes  harnessed  to  a  single 
gun.  The  carriages  were  taken  to 
pieces,  placed  on  sledges,  or  con- 
veyed on  mules.  If  the  difficulties 
of  crossing  these  barriers  of  eternal 
ice  and  snow  were  great,  the  cou- 
rage and  ener^  of  the  soldiers 
were  greater  still,  and  their  good 
will  and  enthusiasm  overcame  every 
obstacle.  National  songs  and  mar- 
tial music  animated  them  to  exer- 
tion, and  the  drums  beat  the  charee 
whenever  any  place  of  peculiar  dim- 
culty  occurred.  As  the  troops  passed 
the  Convent  of  Hospitaliers,  placed 
on  the  summit  of  the  mountain,  the 
monks  furnished  every  soldier  with 
a  luncheon  of  bread  and  cheese  and 
a  glass  of  wine,  and  on  the  fourth 
day  the  last  division  of  the  army  had 
efliected  the  passage  without  Iwrdly 
sustaining  any  loss. 

The  advanoed  guard  of  Lannes 
already  reached  the  valley  of  Aosta 
on  the  17th ;  next  day  six  Austrian 
companies,  stationed  at  Chatillon, 
were  attadted  and  dispersed ;  but  in 
following  up  this  success  an  obstacle 
was  encountered  which  Napoleon 
had  not  counted  upon,  and  which 
tiureatened  ruin  to  the  whole  under- 


takmg.  This  was  Fori  Bard,  a 
castle  of  strength,  buHt  upon  a  steep 
conical  rock,  situated  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Dora,  and  completely 
commanding  the  town  and  narrow 
valley  through  which  the  road  from 
Aosta  to  Ivrea  passes.  The  infantry 
of  the  advanced  guard  proceeded  se- 
curely on  their  inarch  by  a  foot- 
path over  the  Albaredo  mountain, 
but  it  required  several  days  of  labour 
before  Uie  tract  could  be  rendered  fit 
for  cavalry ;  to  cariy  f^ns  alone  it 
proved  totally  impracticable.    Time 

Sressed,  the  success  of  the  campaign 
epended  upon  celerity  of  movement| 
and  any  delay  in  this  Alpine  wilder^ 
neas  would  have  left  the  troons  to- 
tally destitute  of  provisions.  In  this 
perilous  situation  General  Lannes 
caused  the  villsge  of  Bard  to  be  at- 
tacked during  the  night,  trusting 
that  its  capture  would  induce  the 
Austrian  commander  to  surrender 
the  fort  also.  The  village  was 
taken,  but  the  castle  held  out;  its 
brave  defender.  Captain  Bemkoph, 
whose  gallant  conduct  contrasts  so 
brilliantly  with  the  many  melan- 
choly instances  of  different  oehaviour 
we  shall  yet  have  to  record,  refused 
to  resign  his  post,  and  replied  to 
every  summons  by  renewed  dis- 
charges of  round  and  grape. 

On  the  news  of  this  danger,  Napo- 
leon, who  had  not,  as  so  many  fables 
assert,  crossed  the  mountain  with  the 
troops  and  cheered  them  on  during 
the  toilsome  march,  but  remained 
quietly  at  Lausanne,  hastened  up 
to  the  van.  Having  again  caused 
the  castle  to  be  summoned  and  ex- 
perienced another  refusal,  he  or- 
dered 900  men  to  assault  it  during 
the  night.  The  attack  failed  after  a 
considerable  loss  had  been  sustained, 
and  nothing  was  left  but  to  force  the 
passage,  such  as  it  was,  and  to  carry 
the  artillery  along  under  the  very 
guns  of  the  hostUe  fortress.  The 
streets  of  the  village  having  been 
covered  with  straw  and  litter  to 
deaden  the  sound,  the  wheels  of  the 
guns  muffled,  fifty  men  were  har- 
nessed with  the  drag-rope  to  eveiy 
piece  of  artillery,  and  the  darkness  of 
night  gave  them  the  signal  to  set  out 
upon  their  daring  enterprise.  The 
foe  was  not,  however,  unprepared  or 
taken  by  surprise,  as  Napoleon  anf' 
his  biographers  pretend ;  on  the  cor 
trary,  tiiey  opened  a  heavy  fi^JHiy 


Principal  Cantpatgnt  in  tke  Rite  of  Napoleon,        [May, 


rench  m  tbey  burried  along 
lU  passible  speed,  and  many 
were  lost,  several  guns  de- 
d,  and  ammunition  •  waggons 
up  befure  the  dangerous  pas- 
was  effected.  After  three 
of  such  dangerons  toil  the 
aitny  were  at  length  enabled 
low  the  advanced  guard  to< 
Ivrea,  General  Chabren  being 
invest  the  fortrcas. 
:  Austrian  forces,  which,  under 
al  Kaim,  bad  remained  to  pro- 
iedmont  and  Lomhardy,  were 
Kd  iu  a  chain  of  posts  watch- 
e  passes  of  the  Swiss  and  Savoy 
and  presented  on  no  point  any 
ffective  strength.  Their  num- 
[so  bad  been  greatly  diminished 


by  drafts  teat  to  the  mam  tmy  lod 


r'crely  in  the  actions  fought  in  ibe 
Apennines,  in  the  Kivieta,  lod  on 
the  Var,  the  pasMge  of  which  ibe 
Aostrians  had  vainly  endeavoand  to 
force.  No  effective  reairtaace  wu, 
therefore,  offered  to  the  army  of  Ke- 
serve  on  tbcir  first  descent  inm  the 
Alps.  Afler  two  unsneeosfxil  >t- 
tacks  they  carried  Ivrea  by  Oam; 
tber  next  forced  the  passage  of  the 
Chimella,  and  pressed  back  Geoenl 
Haddiek,  who  with  6000  Anatriu! 
was  endeavouring  to  retard  ibeii 
tu-ogress.  Turning  to  the  westrtrd, 
General  Lonnes  had  already  rcaebcd 
the  banks  of  the  Fa  near  Cbivtaa, 


a  march  of  Turin,  and  every 
indicated  that  Napoleon  in- 
to hazard  a  battle  for  the  re- 
Genoa,  which,  after  the  most 
defence,  was  now  reduced  to 


ly  changed  the  direction  of 
rcb,  left  Genoa  to  its  fiite, 
to  the  eastward,  and  hurried 
lilan.  This  movement  has,  of 
been  lauded  by  biographers, 
its    merit   is  certainly   no- 


where made  apparent,  nnlcB  « 
suppose  that  the  mere  Mat  of  (WJ- 
pying  the  cBMtal  of  Lombsroy 
could  countetbdance  the  loss  "^^J 
noa,  and  the  great  advantage  ^bk" 
this  respite  gave  the  Auttnan  com- 
mandcTB.  . , 

General  Vucossowitcb,  who  win 
10,000  Imperialists  observed  »ie 
country  between  Domodasels  s"^ 
Belling^na,  was  too  feeble,  eytnil 
bla  forces  had  been  united,  to  wit"- 
Btand  ibe  whole  I'rencb  annj')  i^" 


1846.] 


The  Campaign  of  Marengo, 


551 


back  fighting  and  in  good  order,  and 
havini^  thrown  a  garrison  into  the 
citadel  of  Milan,  retired  across  the 
Adda  towards'  Mantua,  thus  sepa* 
rating  himself  from  the  main  army 
of  General  Melas.  He  was  followed 
by  some  French  corps  that  occupied 
Cremona,  and  extended  themselves  as 
hr  as  Brescia. 

On  the  2d  June  Napoleon  again 
entered  the  capital  of  Lombardy, 
and  immediately  proclaimed  the  re* 
establishment  of  the  Cisalpine  re- 
public. Having  been  jomed  bv 
General  Moncey,  who  was  left  with 
20,000  men  to  watch  the  far-scat- 
tered detachments  of  Vucassowitch 
that  were  already  behind  the  Mincio, 
he  proceeded  with  the  remainder  of 
his  forces,  amounting  to  30,000  men, 
to  seek  the  battle  which  was  now  to 
dedde  the  fate  of  Italy. 

On  the  5th  June  Murat  appeared 
before  the  bridge-head  of  Piaoenza,  a 
feeble  work,  defended  bv  only  200 
Austrians ;  but  having  failed  to  carry 
it,  he  effected  the  passage  in  boats 
some  distance  above  the  town,  and 
then  advanced  to  the  attack  of  the 
place  on  the  right  bank  of  the  river. 
Some  Austrian  battalions  arriving  at 
the  same  time,  a  sharp  action  here 
took  place,  but  ended  in  favour  of 
the  French,  who  now  crossed  the 
river  in  full  force,  prepared  to  push 
onwards  to  Genoa,  at  the  very  mo- 
ment when  the  corps  which  had  re- 
duced the  fortress  was  already  in 
their  immediate  front  General 
Melas  was  at  Nice  when  he  received 
the  intimation  that  the  army  of  Re- 
serve was  crossing  the  St.  Bernard. 
Accompanied  by  some  troo]^  he  im- 
mediately set  out  for  Turu^  where 
the  news  that  hostile  columns  were 
advancing  by  the  Simplon,  the  St. 
Gothard,  and  Mount  Cenis,  also 
reached  him.  Thus  pressed,  he  de- 
termined to  assemble  his  army,  to 
withdraw  the  troops  ftom  the  Var, 
and  to  raise  the  siege  of  Genoa,  and 
had  actually  sent  orders  to  that 
effect  when  Massena,  after  a  close 
blockade  of  sixty  days,  accepted 
terms  of  capitulation,  and  surren- 
dered the  fortress  on  condition  that 
part  of  the  garrison  should  be  sent 
to  France  by  sea,  the  other  allowed 
to  march  out  by  land  and  join 
Suchefs  amiy.  These  conditions 
were  not  fuHillcd  before  General 
Ott  received  pressing  instructions  to 


send  troops  to  Piacenza  to  protect 
that  important  post,  and  to  follow 
with  all  his  disposable  forces  as 
soon  as  it  should  be  in  his  power, 
in  order  that  the  communication 
with  the  left  bank  of  the  Po  might 
be  maintained. 

It  was  his  advanced  guard,  com- 
posed of  five  or  six  battalions  de- 
tached before  the  fall  of  Genoa,  that 
the  French  encountered  after  the 
passage  of  the  river.  The  main 
body  were  following  by  forced 
marches,  and  had  already  reached 
Yoghera  on  tlie  8th  of  June.  Gene- 
ral Ott  here  found  himself  at  the 
head  of  twenty-six  battalions  of  in- 
fantry and  eleven  squadrons  of  ca- 
valry, the  infantry  greatly  weakened 
bjr  the  many  losses  they^  had  sus- 
tained in  the  severe  actions  fought 
round  Genoa.  Thinkmg,  however, 
that  he  had  only  a  small  French 
force  in  his  front,  and  that  the  main 
army  was  in  margh  towards  Mantua, 
he  determined  to  drive  them  back 
across  the  Po,  and  to  reoccuppr  Pia- 
cenza. But  the  divisions  of'^  Gar- 
dame,  Chamberlac,  and  Mounier 
were  already  assembled  at  Stradella, 
uid  when  General  Lannes,  whose 
division  again  formed  the  advanced 
guard,  found  himself  unexpectedly 
opposed  at  Castegio  on  the  morning 
ot  the  9th  b^  tLlar^  body  of  Aus- 
trians, they  immediately  moved  off 
to  his  support.  A  very  sharp  action, 
called  by  the  French  the  battle  of 
Montebello,  here  took  place.  Lannes 
fought  to  great  disadvantage  during 
the  early  part  of  the  day,  and  it  was 
only  the  timely  arrival  of  the  other 
divisions  which  convinced  the  Aus- 
trians of  their  mistake,  and  decided 
the  contest  in  favour  of  the  French. 
The  vanquished  left  2000  killed  and 
wounded  on  the  field,  207 1  prisoners, 
and  two  guns  were  taken  by  the 
victors.  Napoleon  himself  was  not 
present  in  the  action,  the  honour  of 
which  belongs  to  General  I^Aunes, 
afterwards  Duke  of  Montebello. 

From  the  prisoners  taken  at  Cas- 
tro the  first  intelligence  of  the  fall 
01  Genoa  was  received,  and  Napo- 
leon deeming  haste  no  longer 
tial  gave  the  troo^  two 
rest  at  Stradella,  dunng  w^ 
the  detachments  that  had  crof 
Po  rejoined  the  army.  The 
of  the  whole  force,  after  de 
the  losses  sustained  in  the  ac 


nm 


552 


Principal  Camp^gnM  in  ike  Ri$e  ofNapoleom.         m^Jt 


FuMScnaa  iad  CMtegio,  did  not  miidi 
exceed  28,000  mea,  Genend  Ln, 
Foipe,  with  8000  more,  was  to  have 
joiiied  fsooi  Faria,  bat  a  spy— «&• 
pk^red,  it  if  said,  by  both  purtiea — 
naTiog  been  deceiTed  by  General 
Zacb,  the  Austrian  quartermaster* 
seneral,  informed  Bnoniqparte  that 
Siehu  intended  to  march  upon  Mihm. 
La  Foipe  was  therefore  left  at  Fa* 
via  to  impede  the  movement. 

Napoleim,  finding  no  traces  of  the 
enemy  on  the  12ui  when  he  ad- 
vanced beyond  Vof^era,  nor  even 
when  on  the  following  day  he  en- 
tered  the  wide  plain  of  Marengo, 
situated  between  Alessandria  and 
Tort<ma,  was  confirmed  in  the  be* 
lief  that  the  enemy  intended  to  re- 
tire without  fightii4f.  News  arriving, 
however,  that  no  Auatrians  had  beoi 
observed  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Fo, 
he  eoDcluded  that  thev  intended  to 
&11  faadk  on  Genoa,  ana  immediately 
ordered  General  Dessaix,  who  had 
only  joined  the  army  two  days  be* 
fore,  to  hurry  aa  to  Kivolto  with  the 
division  of  Boudet  and  some  cavalry, 
and  arrest  the  foe,  should  tiiey  at* 
tempt  to  pass  in  that  direction.  It 
was  not  tin  the  evening  of  the  13th 
that  General  YictiHr^s  division  fell 


in  with  the 
at  Marengo,  andf  the  fociGty  wHh 
which  the  latter  rdiaqniahed  the 
viUage  and  allowed  themselvea  to  be 
driven  into  the  bridge-bead  eoveriitf' 
the  pasaase  of  Bormida,  eonvinoed 
the  j?*reBiai  commander  thai  thnr 
intended  to  retire  without  trying  the 
fate  of  arms.  At  this  veiy  time 
Melas  was  making  the  nefifSBaiy  dis- 
position for  attaonng  the  eneaiy  on 
the  following  morning. 

The  Austrian  oonunander  bad 
assembled  all  his  forces  at  Alessan- 
dria on  the  11th  June,  and  deter- 
mined, with  the  advice  of  a  council 
of  war,  to  tiy  the  fate  of  anna  in  a 
general  action  as  soon  as  the  troops 
should  have  enjoyed  s  few  dnjps*  xesL 
His  situation  at  this  time  was  ex* 
oeedingly  precarious.  Suehet,  rein- 
forced from  France  as  well  aa  by  the 
garrison  of  Genoa,  was  advandi^  in 
uie  Biviera,  and  had  already  readied 
Savona.  General  'Unreau  had  de- 
scended into  the  plain,  and  Uie  Aus- 
trian army,  which  amounted  to 
110,000  men  at  the  opening  of  the 
campaign,  now  hardly  exceeded 
75,000,  of  whom  30,000  only  vrere 
disposable  for  battle.* 

There  was  also  a  probability  that 


*  To  shew  how  annies  dwindle  down,  we  shall  here  give  the  strength  and  sitoa* 
tion  of  the  French  and  Austrian  corps  at  the  moment  of  the  battle  of  Marengo : — 

French  Army, 

Generals  lliurau  and  Cbabran,  on  the  Dora  and  at  Chiavasso 9,43S 

Moncey,  between  the  Tessino  and  the  Adda 1 1,564 

Loisson,  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Adda 6,484 

8uchet  in  the  Riviere,  after  being  joined  by  MioUs  and  Gazan  with 

the  garrison  of  Genoa 33,100 

General  Betbencoort  at  Arone 695 

Artillery,  poatoniers,  and  sappeure  attached  to  the  diffinrent  eorpe.  •  1,400 

In  the  plain  of  Marengo,  under  Napoleon  himself 28,169 

Total , 80,845 

0/  this  latter  force,  3688  were  cavalry  and  690  artiUery. 

Auitrian  Armym 

In  the  Romagns,  Tuscany,  letria,  and  the  Venetian  States 8,$9f 

In  the  gaivisoDS  of  Piedmont  sad  Lombardy^that  is,  in  Alesnndria, 
TortODS,  Com,  Turin,  Arona,  citadel  of  Milan,  oitadel  of  Pia- 
cenaa,  Piiaightone,  Peecfateia,  Verona,  Mantua,  Fort  St  Maria, 

Genoa,  and  Savona ,,, ,», 29,556 

Investing  Gavi , , 1,J92 

Perdue  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Bobbio • 1,028 

In  Caasal .•....,.•....     2,617 

In  Aqui     1,088 

At  Alessandria  ready  for  the  field 30,837 

^,  ,     ^  Total 74,704 

or  the  force  assembled  for  battle  at  Alessandria,  7543  were  cavalry ;  but  of  tfaeie 

General  Nimpche's  brigade.  2341  strong,  were  detached  on  the  morning  of  the  battle, 

lesvmg  28,496  at  for  aoUon. 


1846.} 


The  Campaign  of  Marengo. 


553 


the  troops  would  soon  fitid  them- 
selves in  want  of  supplies,  as  several 
of  the  magazines  which,  for  the  con- 
venience of  transport,  had,  as  at 
Pavia,  been  left  in  open  towns,  had 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  French. 
On  the  11th  of  June,  Melas  still  had 
it  in  his  power  to  retire  on  Mantua, 
or  to  fall  back  on  Genoa  and  de- 
pend on  the  English  fleet  for  sup- 
plies; but  he  preferred  risking  the 
chance  of  battle,  confidine  in  his  nu- 
merous cavalry  and  artillery,  which 
had  not  shared  in  the  toils  and  losses 
of  the  Apennine  campaign,  and  were 
in  high  order,  and  superior  to  the 
French  in  numbers;  and  the  wide 
plain  of  Marengo  presented  the  fair- 
est opportunity  for  employing  them 
to  advantage :  information  also  reach- 
ed Alessandria  that  General  La  Fmpe 
was  absent,  and  that  General  Des- 
saix  had  been  detached ;  every  thing 
seemed  in  favour  of  the  Austrian 
arms. 

The  1 4th  June  was  fixed  upon  as 
tbe  day  of  battle,  the  troops  had 
already  received  orders  to  cross  the 
Bormida  at  midnisht,  when  news  ar- 
rived that  the  French  had  taken 


Marengo;  a  loss  that  rendered  it  ne- 
cessary to  delay  the  march  till  day- 
break, as  the  army  had  now  to  begin 
by  conquering  the  very  ground  on 
which  tney  were  to  develope  them- 
selves for  combat. 

The  wide  plain  of  Marengo  is  di- 
vided fh)m  the  Bormida  by  the 
Fontanone,  a  small  rivulet  with 
deep  and  marshy  banks,  that  issues 
from  swampy  eround  about  a  mile 
to  the  left  of  Marengo,  which  may 
be  considered  as  the  centre  of  the 
French  position,  and  falls  into  the 
Tanaro  b^ond  Castel-Ceriolo,  a  vil- 
lage where,  on  the  morning  of  the 
action,  their  extreme  right  was  sta- 
tioned. The  rivulet  thus  protected 
the  whole  front  of  the  French  posi- 
tion, which  was  distant  about  two 
miles  from  the  bridge-h^  of  the 
Bormida.  The  intermediate  hamlet 
of  Padrebona  was  in  possession  of 
the  French  advanced  guard;  General 
Victor  had  his  head-quarters  at  Ma- 
rengo; the  troops  of  Lannes  and 
Murat,  with  Moncey*s  division,  were 
fiirther  in  the  rear;  and  Napoleon 
himself,  with  the  consular  guard,  was 
at  Torri-di-GafTarola,  twelve  miles 


I  MILE 


S.GU1UAN0 


4AtlNA  SIANC^ 


from  the  front.  During  the  night, 
however,  he  received  intelligence  of 
tbe  intended  attack,  and  immediately 
despatched  orders  for  General  Des- 
saix  to  march  with  all  speed  on  San 
Giuliano,  a  village  about  six  miles  in 
the  rear  of  Marengo. 

With  the  first  dawn  of  morning 
tbe  Austrian  army,  amounting  to 
28,500  men,  of  whom  5,300  were  ca- 
valry, with  upwards  of  a  hundred 
pieces  of  artillery,  began  to  cross  the 
Bormida;  but  though  two  bridges 
VOL.  xzxnx.  no.  cxcyu* 


CAUMA  GftOSSA 


led  over  the  river  into  the  bridge- 
head, the  work  itself  had  only  oneout- 
let — a  circumstance  that  occasioned 
a  great,  and  as  it  proved,  a  fatal  de- 
ky.  It  was  thus  eight  o'clock  be- 
fore they  had  carried  the  hamlet  of 
Padrebona,  and  Lannes  and  Murat 
were  already  in  full  march  to  sup- 
port Victor,  before  the  assailants 
were  ready  to  fall  on.  The  Aus- 
trians  were  divided  into  three  " 
lumns:  the  right,  under  C 
0*ReiIy,  was  to  ascend  the  Be 

oo 


554 


Principal  Campaiffm  in  the  Ri$e  of  Napoleon,         [May, 


and  attack  ihe  left  of  the  French ; 
the  main  column,  under  Melas  him- 
sdf,  was  d^ined  to  carry  Marengo ; 
and  the  left,  under  Marshal  Ott,  was 
to  march  on  Sale,  and  turn  the  right 
of  the  enemy. 

Towards  nine  o'clock,  the  troops 
being  formed,  the  first  line  of  the 
main  body  advanced  against  Ma- 
rengo and  the  Fontana  water :  they 
were  supported  by  the  fire  of  thirl^ 
pieeeil  of  artillery,  and  the  attack 
was  made  in  gallant  style,  but  failed 
completely,  every  attempt  to  pass 
the  rivulet  provmg  fruitless.  The 
second  line  took  up  their  defeated 
comrades  and  renewed  the  onset  with 
equal  bravery,  but  with  no  better 
success :  they  were  forced  to  fall 
back  with  loss,  while  Lannes  and 
Murat,  with  the  whole  French  ca- 
valry, were  already  in  line  prepAred 
to  assist  the  defenders.  On  toe  right, 
three  squadrons  of  hussars  had  con- 
trived to  pass  the  rivulet  by  single 
files,  under  cover  of  some  brusli- 
wood ;  but  were  no  sooner  disco- 
vered by  General  Eellerman  than 
he  attached  them  at  the  head  of  his 
whole  brigade  of  heavy  cavalry,  and 
completely  routed  them.  Five  bat- 
talions of  grenadiers,  who  under  Ge- 
neral Latterman  composed  the  re- 
serve of  the  Austrian  main  division, 
made  a  third  effort,  and  by  dint  of 
gallantry  succeeded  in  establishing 
themselves  beyond  the  streamlet: 
they  were  fiercely  charged  home  by 
the  troops  of  Victor  and  Lannes,  but 
resisted  the  dauntless  bravery :  ar- 
tillery was  brought  up  on  both  sides, 
and  tne  open  and  level  nature  of  the 
ground  gave  a  murderous  efiSlcienc^ 
to  its  fire.  The  carnage  was  horri- 
ble, says  an  eye-witness ;  in  a  quarter 
of  an  nour  half  the  division  of  Ri- 
vond  were  struck  down ;-  all  the 
mounted  ofiicers  were  killed  or 
wounded ;  all  General  Rivaud*s  order- 
lies were  slain,  his  aide-de-camp  was 
severely  wounded,  and  he  himself 
was  struck  by  a  bdl  on  the  hip ;  but 
nothing  daunted  his  courage.  The 
Austrian  grenadiers  carried  the  vil- 
lage of  Afmngo ;  the  French  retook 
it,  but  were  unable  to  drive  their 
adversaries  back  across  the  stream- 
let, over  which  a  bridge  had  now 
been  thrown,  that  enabl^  the  assail- 
ants to  advance  additional  numbers 
to  the  plain. 

9b  other  points,  also,  success  was 


gatheriog  roand  the  imperial  stand- 
ards. Count  O'Reily  had  carried 
the  farm  of  La  Sortiglia,  whence  he 
was  enabled  to  enfilade  the  whole  of 
the  position  occupied  by  Gieneral 
Chambarlhac*s  division,  some  batta- 
lions of  which  already  began  to  give 
way.  General  Ott  was  still  more 
successful :  he  had  found  Castd- 
Geriolo  feebly  occupied,  and  had 
takai  it  without  difficulty,  and  meet- 
ing with  no  enemy  on  the  Sale 
road,  but  hearing  the  ocmtbat  raging 
fiercely  on  his  right,  immediately 
turned  in  that  direction,  and  fell 
upon  the  ri|[ht  .flank  of  General 
I^uuies'  division,  already  engaged  in 
firont  with  the  Austrian  battalioni, 
who  had  effected  the  passage  of  the 
rivulet  near  the  hamlet  of  La  Bar- 
botta.     Lannes,    though    severely 

Sressed,  threw  back  his  only  reserve 
rigade  to  confront  these  new  asnil- 
ants,  and  maintained  the  combat  in 
brave  style;  but  fortune  had  for  the 
moment,  at  least,  forsakoi  the  fn- 
cojor  flag. 

It  was  now  about  eleven  o'clock, 
and  Napoleon  arrived  on  the  field 
with  Mmicey*8  division  and  the  con- 
sular guara,  amounting  in  all  to 
4700  men.  Instead  of  lending  direct 
aid  to  the  troops  so  hardly  pressed, 
he  ordered  Moncey  to  attack  Castel- 
Ceriolo,  which  was  not  even  in  the 
line  of  combat,  and  made  the  guard 
advance  beyond  the  farm  of  Li  f  oggi, 
situated  in  the  centre  of  the  plain. 
These  indirect  efforts  producoi  no 
result.  Moncey  took  Gastel-Ceriolo, 
which  was  only  defended  by  a  few 
Austrian  companies ;  but  General 
Ott  having  detached  a  brigade  against 
him,  he  was  obliged  to  resigp  the  pnze 
as  rapidly  as  he  bad  taken  it ;  and  his 
troops,  threatened  by  the  Austrian 
cavalry,  threw  themselves  into  the 
vineyards,  and  retired  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Torri-di-Gaffarola. 

The  Imperialists  followed  up  their 
success  ¥rith  vigour.  General  Bele- 
garde's  division  forced  the  passage  of 
the  rivulet  at  La  Barbatto;  Marengo 
was  carried,  and  the  Austrian  artd- 
lery,  brought  across  the  Fontanone, 
swept  the  plain  with  deadly  showers 
of  grape  and  canister.  At  this  time, 
when  the  whole  of  the  Frendb  army 
were  fallins  back  in  great  confusion, 
Napoleon  directed  the  grenadiers  of 
the  consular  guard,  amounting  to  only 
900  men,  to  break  through  the  con- 


1846.] 


The  Campaign  of  Marengo, 


555 


fased  mass  of  Lamies*  diviaon,  and 
front  General  Ott*s  troops  that  were 
following  in  pursuit.  Tne  order  was 
nobly  executed :  this  handftil  of 
brave  soldiers  advanced  in  open 
column  with  skirmishers  on  their 
flanks.  Seeinff  cavalry  preparing  to 
charge  them,  they  dosed  up,  and  re- 
ceived the  onset  with  rock-like  firm- 
ness, and  repulsed  the  assaUants. 
The  fugitive  Austrians  were  pursued 
by  General  Champeaux*s  dragoons, 
who  were  soon  arrested  in  their  turn 
bv  the  infantry  regiment  of  Spleney. 
Formed  in  Ime  these  steady  troops 
first  drove  back  the  French  cavalry, 
and  then  advanced  npon  the  consular 
guard,  who  to  meet  them  with  an 
equal  fire  were  forced  to  depl<w  in  the 
middle  of  the  hostile  plain.  The  com- 
bat was  sharp  but  ofshort  duration : 
four  squadrons  of  Austrian  hussars, 
under  Baron  Frimont)  turned  the 
flank  of  the  brave  grenadiers  so  use- 
lessly sent  forwu^  to  certain  destruc- 
tion, and  completely  routed  them. 
It  was  now  one  o'clock,  all  further 
lesistance  on  the  part  of  the  French 
seemed  to  have  ceased.  In  this  hour 
of  fear  Napoleon  is  described  as  rid- 
ing about  with  depressed  looks,  ex- 
trraiely  agitated,  but  Inraving  dsui|;er 
better  than  misfortune,  attemptmg 
nothing,  and  trusting  only  to  for- 
tune. Why  the  3000  Austrian  ca- 
valnr  of  the  main  column,  who  had 
hardly  struck  a  blow,  did  not  profit 
by  the  disorder  of  the  retiring  enemy, 
and  complete  the  victory  which  had 
been  so  dearly  purchased,  is  a  ques- 
tion which  history  has  not  yet  been 
enabled  to  answer. 

Still  Fortune  smiled  brightly  on 
the  imperial  standards,  but  unpro- 
nusing,  indeed,  were  the  measures 
taken  to  secure  the  favour  of  the 
fickle  goddess.  Count  0*BeOy  hav- 
ing taken  Gasa-Bianca,  and  forced  a 
battalion  by  which  it  was  defended 
to  lay  down  their  arms,  continued 
his  movement  towards  Frugarolo, 
where  he  took  post,  thus  placing 
himself  completeljr  beyond  the  verge 
of  battle,  there  being  no  foe  in  that 
direction.  General  Ott  also  resumed 
his  first  line  of  march,  and  advanced 
by  the  road  to  La  GhSma,  without 
meeting  any  opposition.  In  the  cen- 
tre Uie  main  column  pushed  on  in 
the  follovring  order.  General  Zach, 
the  quartermaster-general,  led  the 
way  at  the  head  of  eight  battalionsand 


six  squadrons:  following, a  thousand 
yards  behind  this  advanced  body, 
came  nine  battalicms  and  twelve  squa- 
drons;  iWther  in  the  rear  were  six 
battalions  of  grenadiers,  who  had 
taken  no  share  m  the  action :  ibak" 
ing  corps  to  the  ri^ht  and  left  kept 
up  his  c(»nmunication  vrith  Ott  and 
O  Beily.  Some  time  seems  to  have 
elapsed  between  the  defeat  of  the 
consular  guard  and  the  advanee  of 
the  corps  thus  drawn  up, — a  delay 
that  might  be  rendered  necessary  for 
reforming  the  troops,  and  allowing 
them  some  rest  after  the  fatigues  of 
the  long  and  stem  combat  which  had 
already  been  fought. 

General  Meliu  was  seventy -six 
years  of  age ;  and  the  success  achiev- 
ed was  a  noble  effort,  indeed,  for  the 
time  and  toil-worn  soldier.  Ex- 
hausted by  &tigae,  having  had  two 
horses  shot  under  him,  and  being 
besides  slightly  wounded,  he  now  re- 
tired to  Alessandria;  and  thinking* 
the  battle  already  gained,  resigned 
the  command  to  Marshal  Kaim,  who 
was  also  wounded:  Generals  Had- 
dick  and  Latterman,  and  many 
other  officers  of  rank,  were  like- 
wise, obliged  to  leave  the  field  in 
consequence  of  severe  wounds.  These 
changes  at  such  a  moment  could  cer- 
tainly not  augment  the  vigour  and 
uniformity  of  action  in  the  higher 
departments  of  command,  while  in 
the  lower  grades,  the  appearance  of 
authority  seemed  to  have  vanished 
altogether.  The  whole  mass,  intoxi- 
cated with  success,  seeing  the  roads 
covered  with  the  dead,  the  wounded, 
and  the  flying,  expecting  probably 
no  further  resistance,  aavanced  in 
the  disorderly  and  careless  manner 
which  in  war  is  rarely  allowed  to 
pass  unpunished.  An  eye-witness 
thus  expresses  himself  on  the  sub- 

i'ect : — "  The  resistance  of  the  enemy 
lad  become  so  feeble,  the  success  of 
the  Austrians  was  so  decided  along 
the  whole  line,  that  they  seemed  to 
think  it  imposrible  for  victory  to 
escape  them.  The  ranks  ^ot  into 
oonnision,  the  soldiers  laid  aside  their 
armsto  despoil  the  dead.  All  marched 
carelessly  and  without  precaution, 
observing  less  regularity  tnan  a  regi- 
ment would  observe  on  a  march  in 
profound  peace:  every  one  was  oc- 
cupied in  giving  and  receiving  con- 
gratulations." 
Ill-timed,  and  pituature  inMlf 


656 


Principal  Campaigni  in  the  Ri$e  of  Napoleon,  [May, 


It  was  past  fire  o*ciock,  day  was  draw- 
inff  to  a  close,  the  Austrians  were 
stul  advancing,  when  the  arrival  of 
Dessaix  checked  the  farther  retreat 
of  the  French.  He  stationed  his  di- 
vision, consisting  of  6000  men  with 
twelve  pieces  of  artUlery,  in  front  of 
the  village  of  San  Giuliano,  where 
some  vines  and  patches  of  trees  oon- 
oeal^  them  fh>m  view.  Kellennan*8 
brigade  of  cavalry  was  on  his  right, 
the  other  troops  took  post  on  the 
&ttiks  and  in  the  rear,  as  they  could 
be  collected  and  re&rmed.  Biogra- 
phers make  Napoleon  remind  his 
soldiers  that  "  he  was  accustomed  to 
sleep  on  the  field  of  battle;**  but  as 
we  shall  see,  victory  was  not  achieved 
by  idle  words. 

At  a  mile  from  the  village,  Gene- 
ral Zach  formed  three  battalions, 
and  supported  by  cavalry  and  artil- 
lery, 1^  them  on  to  the  attack ;  ar- 
rived within  range,  th^  were  re- 
edved  with  so  heavy  a  nre  of  grape 
and  musketry,  that  they  instanuy 
save  way,  the  artillerymen  with- 
drawing the  guns  after  the  first  few 
rounds.  This  was  the  signal  for  the 
whole  French  division  to  advance: 
their  gallant  leader  Dessaix  fell  at 
the  first  onset;  and  as  the  Austrian 
grenadiers  stood  firm,  the  combat 
soon  reached  the  noint  when  the 
slightest  additional  blow  dealt  by  one 

Sxty  or  the  other  is  sure  to  give 
e  decision.  It  was  here  given  by 
Kellerman  at  the  head  of  1200  horse- 
men. 

Posted  on  the  right  of  De8saix*8 
division,  he  accompanied  them  in 
their  advance,  and  no  sooner  per- 
ceived the  Austrian  grenadiers  en- 
gaged in  a  closely  balanced  combat 
with  the  French  infiintry,  than 
wheeling  to  the  left  he  fell  upon 
their  unj^narded  fiank  with  one  part 
of  his  brigade,  while  the  other,  bear- 
ing right  onwards,  charged  the  Aus- 
trian cavaLry  by  whom  they  were 
supported.  One  instant  changed  the 
&te  of  battle :  tbe  Austrian  cavalry, 
unworthy  of  their  fame,  fled  without 
striking  a  blow;  the  infantry,  sur- 
prised and  left  to  their  fate,  were 
trodden  under  hoof,  sabred,  or  cap- 
tured. General  Zach,  37  officers,  and 
1600  men,  were  taken  prisoners. 

Encouraged  by  this  splendid  and 
unexpectedsuccess,  the  whole  French 
army  agun  started  forward.  Far  in 
fVant,  AeUerman  and  his  daring 


horsemen  stiU  led  the  way  to  vic- 
tory. When  he  reached  the  second 
Austrian  division,  a  melancholy  re- 
petition of  the  scene  of  shame  just 
described  again  occurred.  The  2000 
cavalry  of  the  main  column  fled 
panic-struck,  without  awaiting  the 
onset;  some  galloped  away  to  Ge- 
neral Ott*s  corps,  others  rushed 
madly  along  the  h^h  road,  over- 
throwing in  their  diKraoeful  career 
their  very  infiintry,  which  was  endea- 
vouring to  form.  The  astonished 
battalions,  broken  by  friends,  were 
unable  to  withstand  the  onset  of 
foes ;  they  were  charged  and  dis- 
persed, and  would  have  been  utterly 
oestroved,  had  not  Kellerman  halted 
to  rerorm  his  ranks  and  await  the 
rest  of  the  army,  which  was  still  far 
behind. 

And  where,  during  this  scene  of 
death  and  shame,  were  the  victorious 
corps  of  Ott  and  0*Reily ;  and  why 
did  thev  not  close  in  and  crush  be- 
tween tnem  the  confused  mass  of  pur- 
suers, disordered  even  by  their  own 
unexpected  success  f  This  is  a  ques- 
tion which  history  cannot  yet  ans- 
wer :  the  character  of  individuals, 
the  views,  practices,  and  opinions  of 
the  armies  m  which  thev  serve,  must 
sometimes  account  for  the  feeble  ac- 
tions even  of  the  bold  and  the  re- 
solute. The  six  reserve  battidions 
seeing  the  general  route,  formed 
on  the  left  of  the  road,  and  al- 
lowed the  crowd  of  fugitives  to 
roll  on  towards  Marengo :  not  find- 
ing themselves  attacked  they  retired 
towards  the  village,  which  they 
maintained  till  the  flanking  columns 
had  gained  the  bridge-head. 

General  Ott  had  nearly  reached 
Ghilina  when  he  observed  the  action 
near  San  Giuliano ;  he  instantly  pre- 
pared to  fall  on  the  right  flank  of 
the  French,  but  the  rapidity  with 
which  the  fire  flew  back  towards 
Marengo,  unfortunately  made  him 
conclude  that  his  aid  would  be  too 
late.  He  retired  to  Castel-Ceriolo, 
drove  out  some  French  who  had 
already  occupied  the  place,  and 
reached  the  bridge- head  without 
difficulty. 

The  victors  pursued  their  flying 
foes  to  the  very  ditch  of  the  works, 
nor  did  the  confusion  of  the  routed 
cease  even  within  the  ramparts.  In- 
fantry, cavalry,  artillery,  all  hurried 
to  the  bridges,  that  were  soon  blocked 


1846.] 


The  Campaign  c^f  Marengo* 


657 


ST' 

H' 

i 

P 


up.  An  artillery  driver,  fkncying 
that  safety  could  only  be  gained  on 
the  opponte  iMink,  plunffed  with  his 
gun  into  the  stream  and  effected  a 
passage;  others,  seeing  what  had 
happened,  followed  the  example,  but 
the  marshy  bed  of  the  riyer  giymg 
way  beneath  the  additional  weight 
between  thirty  and  forty  guns  and 
ammunition-wagons  remained  fast  in 
the  water.  As  the  French  made  no 
attempt  to  carry  the  works  of  the 
bridge-head,  the  action  ceased  be- 
tween nine  and  ten  o*clock,  both  par- 
ties resuming  the  positions  they  nad 
held  in  the  morning. 

On  the  part  of  the  Austrians,  6 
generals,  246  officers,  and  6229  men 
were  killed  or  wounded ;  and  1  ge- 
neral, 74  officers,  and  2846  taken: 
13  guns  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
conqueror.  The  French  in  their 
bulletin  acknowledge  a  loss  of  only 
600  killed,  1500  wounded,  and  900 
taken  prisoners ;  though  it  is  evident, 
from  the  nature  of  tne  action,  that 
they  could  not,  in  killed  and  wounded, 
have  sustained  a  loss  much  inferior 
to  that  of  the  enemy.  Brossier,  in 
the  Mimoire  already  quoted,  allows 
that  6000  men  were  placed  hars  de 
combat 

Such  was  the  battle  of  Marengo, 
that  for  thirteen  years  prostrated  all 
the  Continental  monarchies  at  the 
feet  of  a  fortunate  soldier ;  and  never, 
since  the  time  of  Wallenstein  and 
Gustavus  Adolphus,  had  results  of 
equal  ma^tude  been  produced  by 
the  exertions  of  armies  numerically 
so  feeble.  It  was  on  the  news  of  this 
decisive  battle,  that  Mr.  Pitt  desired 
the  map  of  £uropc  to  be  rolled  up, 
saying  that  ^  it  would  not  be  required 
for  the  next  twenty  years : "  nor  was 
he  greatly  mistaken  in  his  calcula- 
tion. 

If  we  believe  a  widely  circulated 
and  jienerally  accredited  anecdote, 
the  victor  was  not  on  this  occasion  so 
great  as  his  victory;  he  had  not 
ordered  the  brilliant  onset  which  de- 
cided the  day.  Kellerman  saw  and 
seized  the  opportunity  for  striking 
the  blow,  and  the  chieftain  deigned, 
it  seems,  to  be  a  little  jealous  of  the 
fame  the  subordinate  had  acquired. 
When  Uie  real  victor  entered  the 
room  in  which  Napoleon  was  at  sup- 
per liter  the  battle  with  his  staif 
and  a  number  of  ffenerals,  the  latter 
only  said,  *'  Ah,  Keilejrmaiiy  you  made 


a  pretty  good  charge  there!**— ime 
(usez  beUe  charge;  to  which  the 
offended  general  replied,  **  Yes,  I 
have  nlaoed  the  crown  upon  your 
head !  ^  an  answer  that  caused  kel- 
lerman to  be  ever  afterwwrds  kept  in 
the  background. 

It  was  while  bending  under  the 
heavy  calamiQr  which  had  just  burst 
upon  him,  that  the  aged  commuider 
01  the  Austrian  army  was  forced  to 
dedde  on  the  measures  best  calcu- 
lated to  save  the  remnants  of  hia 
defeated  host.      lie  had  it  in  his 
power  to  try  the  fate  of  another 
tmttle,  or  to  cross  the  Po  at  Cassal, 
and  endeavour  to  reach  the  Min- 
do.    Lastly,  he  could  throw  him- 
self into  Gfenoa,  and  depend  on  the 
British  fleet  for  his  supplies.    The 
reduced  numbers  and  broken  spirits 
of  the  troops  held  out  little  prospect 
of  success  against  the  whole  French 
army  united ;  the  march  towards  the 
Mincio  was  long,  and  certain  of  being 
attended  with  loss  and  difficulty,  even 
if  the  situation  of  Moncey*s  troops 
should  leave  it  practicable ;  the  move- 
ment on   Genoa   held   out   better 
prospects  of  success.    A  few  days 
befbre  the  action,  Melas  had  written 
to  Lord  Keiih,  stating  that,  in  case  of 
reverse,  he  should  throw  himself  into 
that  fortress;  and  the  admiral  had 
informed  him,  in  reply,  that  every 
assistance   the   fleet    could    rei^pr 
should  be  at  his  disposal.    When  we 
consider  the  great  advantages  the 
Austrians  had  derived  from  the  de- 
fence made  by  Mantua  in  1796,  it  is 
not  easy  to  understand  what  induced 
Melas  to   forego   the    intention  of 
marching  to  Genoa,  where  an  Eng- 
lish army  under  Sir  Ralph  Aber- 
cromby  was  hourly  expected,  and 
where,  indeed,  it  arrived  on  the  22d 
of  June,  exactly  like  all  the  English 
armies  of  the  period,  in  time  to  be  too 
late.    Besides  these  expedients,  which 
Melas  submitted  to  a  council  of  war, 
he  also  suggested  to  them  whether, 
considering  the  reverses  sustained  in 
Germany,  and  the  exposed  situation 
of  the  Austrian  dominions,  it  migjht 
not  be  advisable  to  negoti^**  ""* 
the  Consul,  and  obtain  a  ar 
for  the  army,  on  condition 
up  some  of  the  conquests  < 
vious  campaign?     When 
sider  the  influence  which  t^ 
of  a  commander-in-r**"  '  '^ 
exercise,  and  take 


558 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon,         [May, 


rits  of  the  assembly  into  account,  we 
need  not  be  surprised  at  their  yield- 
ing unanimous  consent  to  his  pro- 
pmal.  A  flag  of  truce  was  sent  out 
accordingly,  and  on  conditiim  that  the 
Austrians  should  evacuate  the  bridge- 
head and  retire  to  the  left  bank  of 
the  Bormida,  Napoleon  granted  a  sus- 
pension of  arms  for  forty-eight  hours, 
willing  to  enter  into  a  negotiation 
that  promised  far  greater  results  than 
any  which  had  yet  been  achieved  in 
the  field. 

The  Austrian  negotiator  had,  at 
first,  only  authority  to  offer  the  re- 
stitution of  Piedmont  and  Genoa,  and 
as  an  English  army  was  daily  ex- 
pected to  arrive  at  the  latter  place, 
these  terms  would  nrobably  have 
been  accented  had  ^rtfaer  concessions 
been  resolutely  declined ;  but  Napo- 
leon insisting  on  the  line  of  the  Po 
and  the  Mineio,  his  demand  was  com- 
plied with,  and  the  convention  of 
Alessandria  signed  en  the  very  day 
after  the  battle.  By  this  act,  Lom- 
bardy,  Piedmont,  and  the  Kiviera, 
together  with  the  fortresses  of  Turin, 
Coni,  Alessandria,  Tortona,  Grenoa, 
Pizzightone,  Savona,  Piacenia,  Mai- 
lam,  Ceva,  Arona,  and  Urbino,  which, 
if  properly  defended,  might  have 
arrested  armies  during  entire  cam- 
paigns, were  given  up  without  a  blow 
or  effort.  Nothing  equal  to  this  ili- 
%feed  convention  had  ever  before  been 
known  in  military  history;  it  re- 
mained for  subsequent  events  to  ffive 
it  the  appearance  of  an  absolute  deed 
of  heroism. 

The  resblt  of  this  treaty,  which 
ag;ain  placed  Italv  under  the  do- 
minion of  France,  lent  a  lustre  to  the 
battle  of  Marengo  and  the  passage  of 
the  Alps  far  exceeding  any  reflected 
£tQim  the  brightest  military  actions 
performed  in  modem  times.  And 
Napoleon,  conscious  that  arms  could 
effect  nothing  greater  for  the  mo- 
ment, made  from  the  very  battle- 
field itself  proposals  of  peace  to  Uie 
Austrian  government.  Having  de- 
spatched these  by  Count  St.  Julian, 
an  Austrian  oflicer,  he  set  out  §ar 
Milan  to  reorganise  the  Cisalpine  re- 
public. He  was  received  with  ac- 
clamations, and  attended  divine  service 
in  the  cathedral,  when  Te  Deum 
was  sung  for  the  victory  gained.  "  It 
was  the  first  religious  ceremony,'* 
says  Norvins,  *^  at  which  he  had  been 
present,  since  he  presided  in  £gypt 


over  ihe  festival  of  Mahommet" 
During  his  stav  at  Milan,  the  re- 
storer of  the  liberties  of  luikiDB  and 
the  reficHrmer  of  morals,  aeled  in  a 
manner  hardly  conaiateiit  with  tiie 
character  ao  liberally  ascribed  to  him 
bvlHG^gmphars.  Matehesi,  a  wretched 
smger,  rknsed  to  sin^  before  the 
First  Consul,  aAd  havmg  expressed 
himself  with  silly  imperdnenoe  <m 
the  occasion,  was,  properly  eoough, 
perhaps,  kidced  out  of  the  apartment 
Not  satisfied  with  this,  however,  Na- 
poleon sent  an  order  for  him  to  be 
thrown  into  prison :— a  regular  lettn 
de  cachet^  worthy  of  the  old  Bartifc 
days,  sent  bv  the  chief  magistrate  of 
(Hie  republic  and  the  restorer  of 
others,  to  punirii  a  musieisn  for  re- 
fusing to  sing  a  song ! 

The  attention  publidv  shewn  to 
Madame  Grassini,  the  cdebratcd  vo- 
calist, we  should  not  have  nrtieed, 
had  it  not  been  the  custom  ot  bio- 
graphers to  extol  Napoleon  for  ha 
scrupulous  attention  to  decomni. 

Resuming  his  journey,  the  Coiwu 
reached  theTuileriesontheSdofJuly. 

The  enthusiasm  of  the  Parisianj  mw 
boundless.  Saooess  so  vast,  brribaat, 
and  unexpected,  seemed  to  chtfige 
all  political  opinions  and  w"nw«ti» 
into  an  idohitrous  admiration  of  tbe 
fortunate  conqueror.  IHy  after  m 
the  palace  was  surroundea  ^^^f 
eager  to  obtain  a  moment's  sigW  oi 
the  man  whose  actions,  seen  thro^ 
the  daading  halo  that  victory  c«w 
around  ^e  events  of  war,  appesK^ 
to  border  almost  <m  the  fabaloaa 

As  the  campaign  of  Marengo,  s 
generally  looked  upon  as  funuriung 
brilliant  evidence  of  the  g«»^^' 
tary  genius  aseiibed  to  m  ^^*^ 
emperor,  it  will  be  right  h^  w 
enter  into  some  examinatioD  ^  ^^ 
merits.  ^ 

Early  in  May,  and  a  month  befo« 

the  f  jl  of  Genoa,  the  Coosal^ 
assembled  60,000  men  on  the  b w 
side  of  the  Alps.  He  knew  how 
long  Massena  would  be  able  to  flo» 
out,  and  vras,  of  course,  My  *^ 
that  60,000  men,  mostly  ^^.fZ 
diers,  thrown  into  the  scale,  would  oe 
sure,  as  affairs  stood  in  I^J^^^Z 
the  balance  at  once  in  &vour  of  tne 
French.  On  this  point  *tf«,^ 
not  be  a  shadow  of  doubt.  Ujjr 
these  circumstances,  the  ahon^ 
simplest,  and  most  evident  coune 
seemed  to  be  a  junction  with  Thtf*^ 


1846.] 


The  Campaign  of  Marengo* 


659 


and  Suehet,  and  an  advanee  with 
these  united  foroes  to  the  relief 
of  Genoa,  leaving  Monoey  to  cross 
the  St.  Gothard.  As  Melas  could 
not,  after  the  reduction  of  Grenoa 
and  his  junction  with  Ott  and  Kaiaif 
assemUe  more  than  30,000  men  for 
the  batUe  of  Marengo,  it  is  evident 
that  he  would  not  before  the  sur- 
render of  Masseiia,  and  before  Ott*8 
troops  were  disposable,  have-  been 
able  to  collect  a  force  capable  of 
fadng  the  army  that  might  mtve  been 
brought  to  act  against  nun. 

The  toilsome  march  over  the  St. 
Bernard,  the  difficult  passage  under 
Fort  Bard,  and  all  the  hawds  en- 
countered in  this  boasted  undertak- 
ing, only  brought  Napoleon  into  the 
plains  of  Clnavasso,  which  he  could 
nave  reached  with  far  greater  fiudli^, 
and  with  greater  numbers,  by  joiniujap 
Thurau.  The  march  upon  Milan  is 
still  more  extraordinary.  It  allowed 
Genoa  to  fall,  placed  the  remnants  of 
Ott*s  corps  at  the  disposal  sf  Melas, 
and  gave  the  Austrian  time  to  collect 
his  dispersed  forces,  while  it  did  not 
I^aoe  an  additional  soldier  at  the  dis- 
posal of  Napoleon,  who.  fought  his 
decisive  baUle  with  28,000  men, 
while  he  had  80,000  scattered  up 
and  down  the  country.  That  by  the 
position  of  these  detached  corps  he 
cut  off  Metes*  retreat  to  Mantua  is 
probably  true ;  but  by  his  own  posi- 
tion he  also  cut  himself  off  from  all 
communication  with  France :  and  in 
a  hostile  country,  surrounded  by  nu- 
merous fortresses,  it  is  not  easy  to  see 
what  could  have  saved  his  army  from 
complete  destruction  had  the  battle 
of  Majrengo  been  lost,  as  so  nearly 
proved  the  case.  All  these  boasted 
strategic  movements  tended  in  no- 
thing whatever  to  augment  the 
chances  of  victory  in  the  field,  where 
their  v^ue  was  ultimately  to  be 
tried;  and  not  effecting  this  otject, 
they  must  naturally  be  condemned, 
independent  of  the  hazards  to  which 
they  exposed  the  army  and  the  suc- 
cess of  the  enterprise.  That  the 
dreumstances  under  which  the  battle 
was  fought — Moncey  on  the  Adda, 
Napoleon  to  the  south  of  Alessan- 
dria—the results  of  victory  were  sure 
to  be  heightened  is  certain;  but  the 
results  must  have  been  heightened 
to  either  party,  and  Napoleon's  pre- 
vious movements  tended  in  nothing 
to  augment  his  chances  of  success, 


ttid  to  double  the  stakes  is  no  proof 
of  the  skill  of  the  i^yer. 

As  to  the  batae  itself,  it  offers  no 
evidenee  whatever  of  military  skiU, 
nor  of  anythiiw  but  great  gallantry 
on  the  part  of  the  French  officers 
and  soldiers,  and  a  firm  resolution  to 
fight  it  out  to  the  last  The  slow 
pursuit  of  the  Austrians,  which  al- 
lowed Dessaix  to  arrive  and  the  re- 
tirinff  troo]^  to  form  around  him, 
tegetner  with  a  single  charge  of 
cavaliy,  which  Napolecm  did  not 
even  order,  decided  the  fate  of  die 
day  and  of  the  campaign.  The  Aus- 
trians were  guilty  of  some  eztraor- 
dinary  fiiults.  By  an  unaocounlable 
miscalculation  of  time  and  distanoe 
they  believed  Snchet,  who  was  before 
Savona,  to  be  at  Aqui,  and,  as  we 
have  seen,  detached  2300  cavalry  in 
that  direction  on  the  very  morning 
of  the  battle.  About  noon,  and  after 
the  first  fucoess  had  been  gained, 
Count  O'Beily  with  his  division  of 
infiintry  proceeded  to  Frugardo,  to 
observe  the  same  phantom  host 
And,  lastly,  when  fortune  had  turned, 
and  when  the  French  army  were  in 
pursuit,  aiid,  as  eye-witnesses  allow, 
m  such  total  confusion  that  2000 
men  could  nowhere  be  assembled 
round  their  colours,  the  flanking 
corps  of  Ott  and  0*Reily,  that  were 
in  perfect  order,  retiied  without 
striking  one  blow  at  the  disordered 
mass,  which,  in  the  darkness  of  nisht, 
that  always  magnifies  the  foe,  and  in 
a  state  of  complete  disorganisation 
into  which  their  nurried  advance  had 
thrown  them,  would  probably  have 
been  dispersed  by  the  slightest  effort. 
Add  to  these  great  errors  on  the  part 
of  the  Austrians  the  advantaf|;e8 
which,  in  point  of  personal  position 
and  the  description  of  his  troops. 
Napoleon  formerlv  possessed  over 
Beaulieu,  and  whicn  he  now  possessed 
in  a  far  greater  degree  over  Melas, 
and  we  shall  easily  imderstand  how 
his  army  vanquished  an  equal  num- 
ber of  adversaries,  .without  an^  great 
degree  of  military  genius  bemg  ne- 
cessarily evinced  on  the  occasion. 
The  shameful  and  now  well-known 
attempt  to  forge  a  little  fame  on  this 
occasion,  shews  that  he  was  not  alto- 

f ether  unconscious  of  this  himself, 
n  General  Berthier*s  Relation  de  la 
BataiUe  de  Marengo^ 
Napoleon's  order,  and  un' 
inspection,  the  flight,  o 


560 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Else  of  Napoleon,       [May, 


f 


xetreat,  of  the  Ffench  from  Maren- 
go to  San  Giuliaao,  is  neither  flight 
nor  retreat,  bnt  a  grand  conception 
of  the  Con8ul*S;  who  threw  back  the 
left  of  the  army  towards  San  Giuli- 
ano  while  resting  the  right  on  the 
village  of  Castel-Ceriolo.  In  all 
languages  a  number  of  writers  have 
repeat^  this  idle  &ble,  though  its 
utter  folly  should  have  been  ap- 
parent at  the  very  first  {glance;  and 
not  only  were  the  Austnans  in  pos- 
session of  Castel-Ceriolo,  but  Gene* 
ral  Ott's  division,  which  had  cap- 
tured it  in  the  morning,  vras  actually 
advancing  along  the  road  from  the 
village  to  Jja  Ghilina  at  the  very 
time  this  pretended  movement  must 
have  been  made.  The  Austrians 
must,  therefore,  as  a  single  look  at 
the  map  will  shew,  have  passed  dose 
along  the  rear  of  this  new  French 
line — ^raust  have  brushed  the  very 
knapsacks  of  the  soldiers  of  whom 
it  was  composed ! 

But  if  the  passage  of  the  St.  Ber- 
nard deserve  far  more  blame  than 
praise  as  a  militarj^  operation,  the 
reverse  is  the  case  if  considered  as  a 
political  one ;  for  if  its  object  were  to 
daszle  and  astonish  with  a  view  to  aid 
in  Napoleon's  elevation,  then  cer- 
tainly nothing  could  be  better  cal- 
culated. The  novelty  of  the  under- 
taking, its  real  and  exaggerated 
difficulties,  the  march  of  an  army 


over  the  lofly  barriers  of  snow  ud 
ice  that  cover  the  highest  sammits  of 
the  Alps,  the  bxeaking  mto  the  fair 
fields  of  Italy  from  the  seats  of 
eternal  frost,  and  burstuig  oq  tbe 
astonished  foe,  as  the  avalanche 
bursts  from  the  lofty  regiaiu  whence 
the  invaders  descended,  had  bodk- 
thing  striding  and  romantic  that 
could  not,  if  attended  with  snecesa, 
fail  to  captivate  the  eanlv  excited 
imaginations  of  the  French  people. 
It  ofiered  the  Parisians  subjects  for 
description  and  declamation;  "* en- 
abled them,*"  as  the  German  histoiiam 
Schlosser,  the  extravagant  admirer 
of  Napoleon,  says, ''  to  praise  their 
own  nation,  according  to  eustoni, 
beyond  all  bounds  and  measurer 
and  tended  naturally  to  make  them 
idolise  the  man  who,  to  be  tbe  first 
among  the  French,  had  V^'^^ 
actions  that,  as  represented,  seeoied 
almost  to  border  on  the  miraeulpus. 
If  looked  upon  in  this  pointofview, 
and  as  a  road  towards  a  crown,  ^ 
which  every  thing  was  to  be  riske^ 
then  the  passage  of  the  St  Beniaid 
was  a  great  conception.  If  it  be  ex- 
amined as  A  strategical  monument, 
and  tried  by  the  fate  of  Genoa,tbc 
small  army  brought  into  tbe  field  » 
Maiengo,  and  by  the  situation  of 
affairs  at  one  o*dock  on  the  decwTe 
batUe-day,  then  it  is  little,  indeed. 


1846.] 


Elephant-Shooting  in  Ceylon, 


561 


ELEPHANT-SHOOTING  IN  CEYLON. 


Sut, — Ab  it  may  not  be  altogether 
uninteresting  to  ^*  gentlemen  of  Eng- 
land,  who  live  at  home  at  ease,"  to 
read  a  little  of  the  field-sports  of  the 
land  we  live  in,  I  am  instructed  to 
acquaint  you  that  here,  in  Ceylon, 
ire  flatter  ourselves  that,  amonj^ 
many  other  good  things,  we  are  m- 
dulged  with  the  very  best  elephant- 
shooting  in  the  world ;  and  that  we 
hold  it  meet,  with  your  good  leave 
(since  none  of  our  better  qualified 
predecessors  have  done  so),  to  place 
on  record  a  few  observations  upon 
the  sport,  illustrating  the  general 
remarks  we  make  by  a  diary  of  one 
of  the  very  best  of  our  excursions. 

Excepting  for  some  miles  inland 
from  the  line  of  coast  between  Chi- 
law  and  Tangalle,  and  in  the  imme- 
diate neighbourhood  of  very  thickly 
inhabited  localities,  elephants  are  to 
be  met  with  in  every  part  of  Ceylon. 
Not  always,  certainly,  in  the  same 
numbers  at  the  same  places,  but  you 
will  never  go  far  without  hearing  of 
them ;  and  there  are  extensive  tracts 
of  country  in  which  they  abound  at 
almost  all  seasons.  They  are  met 
with  singly,  more  commonly  in  herds 
of  from  three  to  twelve  or  twenty, 
and  sometimes  in  more  numerous 
herds,  which  are  spoken  of  as  amount- 
ing even  to  hundireds ;  and  they  are 
found  indifferently  on  all  descrip- 
tions of  ground — on  the  hills  and 
plains  —  m  the  open  country,  and 
equally  in  forest  or  in  bush  jungle. 

The  average  height  of  the  full- 
grown  Cevlon  elephant  is  upwards 
of  eight  feet.  Their  sight  is  very 
defective,  but  their  hearing  seems 
^ood,  and  their  sense  of  smell  par- 
ticularly acute.  It  is  always  advis- 
able to  get  to  leeward  of  them  if 
possible;  and  directly  you  hear  or 
approach  them,  even  on  the  stillest 
days,  you  will  see  Uie  natives  crum- 
bling the  gossamer  grass  and  drop- 
ping it  from  their  raised  hands,  or 
adopting  other  modes  of  ascertaining 
if  there  be  any  movement  in  the  air. 
They  vary  exceedingly  in  courage, 
from  the  beast  which  will  run  from 
any  alarm,  to  the  one  which  will  re- 
solutely advance  on  the  fire  of  a 
whole  party.  But  they  are  very 
piiicb  more  Gommonly  timid  than 


courageous:  of  course,  when  wound- 
ed, many  of  them  become  savase, 
and  as  troublesome  as  they  can  nuuce 
themselves,  though  it  b  remarked 
that  they  are  inconceivably  stupid  in 
dealing  with  unfortunate  gentlemen, 
and,  so  far  as  our  Ceylon  records  go, 
it  is  certain  that  (though  a  mere 
stamp  of  the  foot  would  be  death)  at 
least  three-fourths  of  those  who  fall 
into  the  clutches  of  an  elephant  es- 
cape with  a  mauliuff.  The  last  gen- 
tlemen sportsmen  kuled  by  elephants 
in  this  island  were  Mr.  Wallett  and 
{h^go  intervatio)  Major  Haddick, 
while  Messrs.  ArKenzie,  Holyoake, 
George,  Gallwey,  and  Major  Rogers 
have  been  severely  wounded  by 
them,  luckily  escaping  with  more  or 
less  damage.  Of  course,  a  very  great 
numberbf  men  are  saved  from  acci- 
dents by  their  brother  sportsmen. 
Elephants  are  generally  bolder  on 
open  ground  than  in  cover,  but,  if 
bold,  far  more  dangerous  in  cover 
than  in  open  ground.  In  the  first 
instance  tney  see  their  antagonist, 
and  he  looks  no  great  thin^  com- 
pared to  themselves.  Sometunes,  in 
open  ground,  they  appear  to  hesitate 
as  you  are  coming  up,  and  then  turn 
when  you  are  within  twenty  paces ; 
but  very  often,  if  you  are  not  fol- 
lowed by  a  po8»e  that  frightens 
them,  they  stand  or  huddle  together, 
and  when  you  are  very  close,  one  or 
two  of  them  come  on  to  meet  you. 
In  cover  they  most  commonly  hear 
you  coming  up,  and  at  the  sound, 
or  when  they  see  the  cover  stir,  they 
go  off;  or  if  you  contrive  to  come 
up  very  well  in  very  thick  junele, 
after  seeing  their  legs  at  four  or  five 
yafds  from  you,  you  may,  hj  creep- 
ing on  another  pace,  catch  their  small 
eyes  peering  down  to  make  you  out; 
but  before  your  ^n  is  up  to  your 
shoulder  they  will  be  on,  with  a 
crash  that  seems  to  be  levelling 
every  thing  around  you.  There  are, 
however,  exceptions  to  these  rules; 
and  they  furnish  most  of  the  critical 

Eredicamentsin  which  elephant-shots 
ave  been  placed,  as  may  be  readily 
conceived  when  it   * 
how  close  yon  ma^ 
that  the  jangle  w' 
with  its  thonui 


562 


EUpkant-ShoottHff  in  CeyUm. 


[May, 


i 


round,  is  trampled  down  like  stubble 
by  the  elephant  that  rushes  on  you. 
It  is,  in  truth,  a  very  uncertain  sport 
as  regards  danger;  but  in  open 
ground,  if  all  fails,  you  haye  free  and 
fair  use  of  your  legs,  and  a  man  in 
elephant-shooting  may  calculate  on 
haying  sometimes  to  run,  for  reasons 
quite  as  satisfactory  to  his  amour 
propre  as  Bardolpn*s  at  Gad's  or 
Clayerhouse*s  at  Loudon  Hill.  The 
most  favourable  ground  for  shooting 
is  yery  open  jungle,  where  you  can 
approach  without  being  heard  or 
seen,  and  make  way  through  it 
in  the  event  of  a  retreat.  Opi- 
nions differ  widely  as  to  ike  pact 
of  the  elephant;  but  I  find  sJl 
men  who  have  been  chased  unani- 
mously agree  that  they  run  fast,  and 
that  he  does  cleverly  who  gets  away 
from  them. 

The  practice  in  Ccrjrlon  is  to  ^re 
invariably  at  the  hoid,  the  favourite 
shots  being  above  the  trunk,  at  the 
temples,  the  hollow  over  the  eye,  and 
the  nollow  at  the  back  of  the  ear ;  in 
all  cases  bearing  in  mind  the  size  and 
position  of  the  brain,  and  levelling  so 
as  to  go  directly  to  it  through  these 
weaker  parts  of  the  skull.  In  the 
opinion  of  the  first  shot  in  Ceylon, 
fineen  paces  is  decidedly  the  best 
distance  to  fire.  It  gives  time  for  a 
second  shot ;  whereas,  when  you  let 
an  elephant  come  quite  close,  if  the 
first  shot  does  not  drop  him,  and  he 
rushes  on,  the  second  will  be  a  very 
hurried  and  most  likely  ineffectual 
one,  and  if  not  effective,  the  retreat 
will  commence  with  the  disadvan- 
tage of  a  ver^  short  start.  It  is, 
however,  oertam  that,  what  with  the 
closeness  of  cover  and  the  desire  in 
open  ground  to  be  sure  of  your 
bird,  most  first  shots  are  fired  at 
about  ten  paces,  and  occasionally 
closer.  Men  don*t  like  to  hear  their 
friends  say,  •*  It's  a  pity  you  didn't 
go  a  little  nearer  before  you  fired." 
A  shot  that  goes  true  to  the  brain 
drops  an  elephant  off  the  gun ;  but 
nothing  is  more  common  than  to  see 
them  take  a  dozen  shots  and  go 
away,  and  they  have  been  known  to 
take  many  more,  and  afterwards 
fairly  to  defeat  the  ^rty  opposed  to 
them.  There  is  a  wide  difference  of 
opinion  as  to  the  mogt  deadly  shot. 
1  think  the  temple  the  most  certain ; 
^ut  authority  m  Ceylon  says  the 

'Qter.    It  IS  the  prettiest  shot,  no 


doubt,  but  I  have  seen  it  very  often 
fail.  Behind  the  ear,  they  say,  is 
deadly ;  but  I  never  fired  it,  or  saw 
it  fired,  that  I  remember.  If  the  ball 
go  critieally  true  to  its  mark,  all 
shots  are  certain ;  but  the  bones  on 
either  side  of  the  hcmeyeomb  pas- 
sages to  the  brain  are  so  thick  that 
there  is  in  all  a  glorious  uncertain^, 
which  keeps  a  man  on  the  qu  me 
till  he  sees  his  elephant  doim,  and 
even  that  does  not  insure  resoits. 
Elephants,  alter  hebog  left  for  dead, 
and  their  tails  cut  off,  are  ofWn  seen 
up  again,  and,  like  "  the  OMOri^nal 
Coach  and  Horses  new  revived '  on 
the  Harrow  Boad,  flourishing  in  ac- 
tive business. 

There  vre  not  maxy  elephant-ahots 
who  have  not  been  polish  enongh  in 
their  day  to  go  tip  to  an  elephant 
with  a  single  and  only  barrel ;  but 
this  is  genen^y  before  they  haw 
seen  a  scrape.    I  should  ssv  a  man 
was  perfect  gunned  for  elephant- 
shooting  with  tliree  doubles,  canyu^ 
balls   fourteen    or   sixteen  to  the 
pound,  with  the  same  bore,  nipple, 
&c.     The   ball,    one-third  pewter, 
should  go  down  with  m<>^«"**iyf*f 
sure  over  a  chai^  and  a-hali  or 
powder,  and  the  caps  ought  to  « 
exactly.    I  hare  been  hwim  ttwe 
caps  out  of  four  barreb  when  before 
a  herd.    Many  clephant-sbots  affect 
heavy  guns.    I  think  them  utter 
nuisances :  their  weight  fi«8  you  w 
heats  you,  and  at  times  ytm  ^ 
yoursefr  before   an   elephant  witD 
scarce  power  to  lift  Ihem.   Inanon- 
ber  once  coming  hurriedly  on  »»  ««• 
phant  with   nothing   but  a  singK 
bush  between  us,  and  fi™^.^?f? 
from  my  heavy  Nock,  whidi,  uwlcw 
of  the  temple,  struck  the  earof  tnc 
animal,  when  she  turned  slap  on  m 
and  I  literally  was  not  able  to  gcj 
the   infernal   patteraro  «P  *?  "7 
shoulder  a  second  time  before  «i^«: 

most  had  hold  of  it.    I  fi™,  ^^1 
was  raising  it,  and  of  course  *d  flw 
no  harm.    I  had  to  brft.    In  «« 
seconds  I  was  'down— her  tnin 
twiddlmg about  my  l^s, and, botior 
a  friend  who  came  up  at  the  momcn^ 
and  floored  her  as  she  was  en^ 
knees  paying  every  possible  ^^' 
tion  to  me,  1  should  most  1««W^ 
have  been  expended.    I  hire  ^ 
found  myself  more  than  ^^^^ 
after  a  pursuit,  in  whidi  I  ^^^ 
ried  a  heavy  gun;  aad  as  ligW<^ 


1846.] 


Elephani'Skooting  in  Ceylon. 


663 


do  their  work,  I  know  no  advantage 
the  heavier  have,  nnless  it  be  that 
thev  may  possibly  stun  or  stupify,  or, 
perhaps,  now  and  then  kill  a  very 
big  elephant,  when  the  light  ones 
would  not.  But  this  is  a  bare  and 
rare  possibility;  while  the  inoon- 
yenience  and  nnisance  of  carrying 
the  heavies  is  incontestible  and  never- 
ceasing.  Although  a  single  elephant 
will  onen  take  all  you  can  ^ve  him, 
the  battery  I  recommend  is  chieflv 
desirable  in  dealing  with  a  herd,  both 
as  regards  the  number  you  may  kil], 
and  the  chance  of  fresh  elephants 
coming  on  you  after  you  have  dis- 
charged three  or  four  barrels,  espe- 
cially as  these  latter  are  usually  ill- 
disposed  and  resolute.  The  two 
steady  fellows  who  carry  your  spare 
guns  must  be  instructed  to  keep  very 
close,  and  by  no  means  to  allow  their 
zeal  to  bring  themselves  into  action. 
By  taking  a  good  map  of  Ceylon — 
(I  can  fancy  you  paraphrasing  Mr. 
Pot(ingen*8  exclamation  of  **  Ten 
brave  men!  but  where  are  they  to 
be  found  ?") — ^well,  then,  by  taking 
the  best  you  can  get,  and  drawing  a 
line  fitom  Pangr^;am  or  Bintenne  at 
the  great  bend  of  the  Mahavilla 
Ganga  (where  it  changes  its  east  and 
west  course  to  north  and  south),  di- 
rect eastward  to  the  coast,  you  wiH 
pass  over  the  ground  on  wnich  our 
party  met.  It  is  a  part  of  what  is 
called  the  Veddah-rat^  or  Veddah*s 
country,  of  the  province  of  Wellassy. 
There  are  a  few  small  villages  where 
it  borders  on  the  cultivate  parts  <tf 
Bintenn^,  Oova,  and  Wellassy,  but 
with  these  exceptions  it  is  uninha- 
bited, save  by  the  Veddahs  who  hunt 
oyer  it.  To  make  amends,  however, 
for  this  want  of  society,  elephants 
are  almost  always  numerous  there, 
deer  innumerable,  and  hc^,  buffa- 
loes, bears,  cheetas,  partridge,  pea- 
fowl, and  snipe,  in  very  reasonable 
abundance.  Pot  an  extent  of,  per- 
haps, 200  square  miles,  this  country 
is  neither  more  nor  less  in  appearance 
than  what  it  is  called— '« the  Park," 
or,  more  pro^ly,  **  Rogers*  Park," 
firom  the  unrivalled  sportsman  who 
first  discovered  its  capabilities.*  It 
contains  many  large  isolated  hills  of 
rock  and  forest,  but  the  lower  ground 


consists  of  long  undulations  perfectly 
open,  or  dotted  with  single  trees  and 
clumps,  with  stripes  of  forest  (chiefly 
in  the  hollows  where  the  waters  run) 
which  here  and  there  spread  over 
the  neighbouring  ground  to  some  ex- 
tent. In  fact,  great  part  of  it  re- 
sembles the  Sherwood  of  Ivanhoe, 
consisting  of  *^  woods  through  which 
there  are  many  open  glades  and 
some  paths,  but  such  as  seem  only 
formed  b^  the  numerous  herds  of 
cattle  which  graze  in  the  forest,  or 
by  the  animals  of  chase  and  the 
hunters  that  make  prey  of  them ; " 
while  the  more  open  parts  recalled 
to  our  minds  the  descriptions  we  had 
read  of  the  American  prairies.  In 
much  of  the  forest  there  is  no  under- 
growth ;  in  other  parts  a  good  deal. 
The  Patupalar  river,  and  one  or  two 
of  its  feeders,  intersect  the  country 
rather  inconveniently;  so  much  so, 
indeed,  that  a  gentleman  who  pre- 
ceded us  prophesied  that  our  sport 
on  this  occasion  would  amount  to 
little  more  than  taking  off  our 
clothes  to  cross  one  river,  and 
putting  them  on  again  to  go  decently 
to  the  next.  About  two  and  a- half 
miles  from  the  last  inhabited  spot, 
called  Dimbledenny,  is  the  bungalow 
—prettily  situated,  with  a  fine  lawn 
bordered  by  noble  trees  in  its  front — 
where  our  head-quarters  were  to  be 
established.  Two  very  precipitous 
and  striking  rocks,  of  about  900  feet 
in  height,  called  ''Rogers*  Pillars,** 
rise  behind  the  building,  and  serve 
as  admirable  landmarks. 

Our  ride  from  Kandy  was  a  great 
treat,  especially  the  descent  of  the 
Diaboboie  pass,  which  leads  down  to 
a  tract  of  oountiy  of  notoriously  bad 
character,  and  which,  at  a  turn  of  the 
road  about  a  mile  beyond  Gona- 
gamma,  presents  the  traveller  with  a 
most  striking  and  impressive  view. 
The  river,  whose  modulated  roar  has 
been  previously  heard,  is  aeen  by 
breaks  for  many  miles,  foaming  and 
struggling  along  its  rocky  and  de- 
scending bed  to  the  left,  covered  till 
late  in  the  day  by  wreaths  of  mist, 
through  which  are  seen  its  banks, 
torn  bare  to  the  primitive  rock,  high 
above  the  usual  watermark.  From 
t^ese  the  precipices  rise    abruptly 


*  This  noble  and  estim&ble  fellow  was,  last  year,  struck  dowu  and  killed  by  light 
aing  in  •Ceylon. 


564 


Elephant'Shooting  in  Ceylon* 


[Maj, 


full  2000  feet,  and  close  the  view  on 
that  side.  To  the  right  the  forest 
hills  ascend  somewhat  more  gra- 
dually, but  yet  wild  and  broken, 
while  on  in  front  lies  the  Mahavilla 
valley  between  them — still,  dank, 
and  noisome-looking,  shut  in  from 
the  wholesome  and  purifying  breeze, 
and  open  with  all  its  spread  of  vege- 
tation, swamp,  and  water,  to  the  fiery 
sun.  Not  a  hut,  or  a  curl  of  smoke, 
or  the  sign  of  any  thing  betoken- 
ing the  presence  of  man,  is  seen 
along  the  line;  while  a  few  aban- 
doned clearings  at  the  foot  of  the  pass 
shew  where  he  has  vainly  endea- 
voured permanently  to  invade  the 
confines  of  this  deadly  valley,  and 
either  died  or  fled.  If  you  could 
imagine  a  Kandian  priest  of  fifty  feet 
in  height,  with  a  voice  of  twenty- 
trumpet  power,  the  pass  itself  is  pre- 
cisely a  scene  in  which,  with  a  fitting 
regard  to  the  picturesque  and  the 
probable,  he  might  fire  away  his 
poetry  and  prophecy  to  great  advan- 
tage on  an  Englbh  detachment  wind- 
ing down  the  mountain,  after  the  ap- 
E roved  fashion  of  Gray's  celebrated 
ard.  A  very  difierent  landscape  is 
presented  by  the  path  which  leads 
from  Pangr^^am  to  Bibile,  passing 
throug^h  a  noble  forest,  the  openings 
of  which  give  views  of  the  He- 
waiUia  range  of  mountains  on  the 
right  The  exquisite  and  varied 
greens  which  clothed  their  sides  were, 
as  we  all  declared,  superior  to  any 
thing  we  had  ever  witnessed;  and 
what  with  them  and  the  waterfidls, 
the  prett;^  cottars,  and  wihares  or 
temples,  in  their  sheltered  nooks, 
with  graceful  bamboos  and  cocoa-nuts 
aroimd  them — the  classic  spots  of 
several  skirmishes  in  the  KLandian 
rebellion,  where  those  we  knew  had 
done  the  state  some  service  —  the 
charming  plain  of  Yeeragama,  and 
the  pea-fowl,  with  their  splendid 
plumage,  bearding  us  as  if  they  knew 
we  had  no  guns,  our  last  day^s 
ride  was  enlivened  by  almost  a  con- 
tinued file-fire  of  exclamations  of  de- 
light. It  was  near  dusk  in  the  even- 
ing when  we  reached  the  edge  of  the 
park,  and  our  guide,  after  leading  us 
a  couple  of  miles  into  it,  suddenly 
stopped,  declaring  himself  at  fault, 
and,  after  much  expostulation,  all 
that  we  could  extract  from  liim,  by 
fixing  him  on  a  knoll  and  desiring 
him  to  consider  well  the  scarce  per- 


ceptible outline  of  the  serenl  billi 
within  our  view,  was  that  he  bad 
brought   us  in  a  direction  directly 
opposite  to  that  of  our  destinatioD. 
we  accordingly  doubled  back,  ind 
night    set    in.     We  had  wandered 
about  an  honr  in  the  dark,  when,  on 
passing  the  ridge  of  a  small  hill,  we 
heard  the  long,  low,  roll  of  a  herd  of 
elephants,  and   a  sharp  *|  prut"  or 
two,  and  looking  in  the  direction  of 
the  sounds,  saw  a  thick  black  mas  tt 
some  distance  on  our  right    It  ww 
evidently  a  large  herd,  and  I  hare 
already  mentioned  that  we  had  do 
guns.    As  vre  crossed  near  to  them 
the  growling  became  much  louder, 
accompanied   by  a  sort  of  banging 
noise,  like   a   cooper  hammering  a 
cask,  which,  with  two  or  three  p«a- 
liarly  angry  trumpets,  so  scamjd  oor 
people  that  they  auite  forwot  them- 
selves, and  scudded  in  all  directiow. 
With  a  deal  of  diflicuJty  we  coJ- 
lected   them    by    shouting,  except 
two,  whom  our  eloquent  execratioM 
could  not  seduce  out  of  the  t«*^^ 
which  they  had  fled,  and  whee  they 
chose  to  pass  the  niffht,  so  that  wc 
pushed  on  without  them,  and  were 
very  shortly  brought  up  by  a  chami, 
of  which  we  could  not  see  the  Iwt- 
tom  but  where  we  could  hear  tnc 
water  flowing  fast,  and  which  we 


striving  „  _ 

wood  to  enable  us  to  examine  our 
difficulties,  when  a  native,  ^^^^^ 
by  our  shouting,  came  from  the^^ 
side,  and  told  us  he  had  left  tfte 
bungalow  that  afternoon,  and  inw 
though  we  could  cross  the  "  J^^ 
low  us,  the  next  one  we  should  come 
to  was  a  more  doubtful  matter,    w 
forded  the  first  stream  easily  cno^P" 
for  it  was  not  breast-high,  and,  siw 
passing  half  a  mile  of  plain,  wecaajc 
to  the  second  river,  and  were  sur- 
prised to  see  lots  of  people  «"*  lig»wj 
and  doubly  so  to  hear  a  w^^*'*"^ 
voice  or  two  shouting  and  ^JV""* 
at  their  loudest.    They  were  ©^ 
friends,  who  had  been  similarly  Be- 
nighted and  beset  with  elep^^JJJ;^ 
together  we  made  as  merry  a  e^^iS 
of  a  rattling  stream  of  100  V^^J" 
width,  and  of  rather  critical  depw. 
as  heart  could  desire.    Our  n«^ 
rouschools,  or  flambeaux,  gle^"^ 
and  along  the  water,  flashfflK  ?" 
either  bank  and  lighting  up  tb«  1<^ 


184&] 


Elephant'Shooting  in  Ceylon. 


665 


trees;  onr  horses  floundering  and 
sometimes  swimming ;  the  people— 
Kandians  and  Malays — with  loose, 
dishevelled  hair,  struggling  with  the 
stream,  and  screaming  to  us  and  to 
each  other ;  and  the  red,  rapid  cur- 
rent rushing  along  on  all  sides  of  us, 
with  the  final  scramble  up  the  bank, 
and  the  purl  of  one  or  two  horses 
back  agam  into  the  river,  were  all 
capital  in  their  way.  A  short  walk 
brought  us  to  the  bungalow,  where 
dry  clothes  and  a  good  dinner  fitted 
us  to  listen  to  each  other's  recitals. 
Our  friends  had  been  luckily  in  with 
some  elephants  during  the  daylight, 
and  had  altogether  bagged  seven — 
one  of  them  a  small  tusker.  The 
following  circumstance  which  oc-> 
curred  to  R — ^  the  first  shot  of  Cey- 
lon, may  illustrate  what  I  have  siud 
of  the  uncertainty  of  the  front  shot. 
They  were  beating  an  elephant  out 
of  some  thick  cover  at  liibile,  and 
R —  was  standing  on  a  narrow  path 
leading  through  it,  when  the  ele- 
phant put  his  head  out  of  the  jungle 
within  six  paces  of  him.  He  fired  a 
fronter.  The  elephant  came  on: 
he  fired  a  second,  at  four  paces. 
Slap!  the  elephant  was  upon  him, 
and  chased  hun,  at  the  top  of  his 
speed,  down  sixty  yards  of  tne  nath. 
It  is  not  every  man  who  would  nave 
told  that  tale,  for  the  pace  of  gentle- 
men differs,  perhaps,  more  than  that 
of  elephants,  and  lew  could  run  with 
R~.  In  talking  over  these  matters 
and  anticipating  our  next  day's  sport, 
we  got  but  too  rapidly  through  the 
night  of  our  arrival  at  the  Park. 

SUt December.^Soon  after  day- 
light the  riveU  of  R — ^'s  voice  was 
heard,  but,  what  with  the  unpack- 
ings  and  squibbings  inevitable  on  a 
first  mommg,  it  was  near  eight 
o'clock  before  we  had  assembled^ 
each  man  followed  by  his  three  or 
four  gun -carriers  and  tail-cutters. 
In  addition  to  these,  we  were  accom- 
panied by  the  Rat^-ral^,  or  native 
chief  of  the  district,  a  most  respect- 
able-looking old  headman  in  his 
native  costume,  but  who  now  figured 
in  a  |mir  of  bright  plaid  tights  and  a 
blue  jacket,  and  really  looked  very 
like  some  anomalous  animal  peculiiu* 
to  this  unfi:e^uented  region.  His 
followers  consisted  of  ten  or  fifteen 
people,  acquainted  with  the  country, 
as  elephant-trackers  and  beaters. 
Two  or  three  of  these  weie  very  in- 


telligent young  fellows,  who  seldom 
walked  awa}',  reducing  their  toggery 
to  its  smallest  compass  for  a  recou' 
naissance,  without  returning  to  lead 
us  up  to  elephants,  and  six  or  seven 
of  the  others  were  Veddahs — the 
wild  men  of  Ceylon.  They  were 
sad,  skinnv,  miserable,  downcast- 
looking  fellows,  of  very  low  stature, 
with  the  exception  of  one  tall  lathy 
young  man,  the  wild  and  distrustful 
expression  of  whose  eye,  caught 
through  his  long  locks,  was  far  more 
that  of  a  wild  anunal  than  of  a  human 
being.  A  very  few  inches  of  rag 
constituted  the  whole  of  their  dra- 
pery ;  their  hair,  in  long  matted 
stripes,  fell  in  firont  to  the  same 
length  as  behind,  covering  eyes, 
mouth,  and  chin.  Their  arms  were 
a  small  hatchet,  stuck  in  their  girdle- 
string,  and  a  bow  of  above  six  feet  in 
height,  with  two  long-bladed  arrows ; 
and  they  moved  along  in  single  file, 
looking  as  sad  and  keeping  as  silent 
as  if  to  laugh  or  to  speak  were  equidly 
against  their  practice.  It  is  right  to 
explain  here,  that  of  our  party  of 
five,  the  one,  M — ,  was  a  young  civi- 
lian, whose  defect  of  sight  put  shoot- 
ing out  of  the  question ;  and  the  other 
having  recently,  or  scarcely,  re- 
covert  from  a  severe  illness,  was  by 
no  means  qualified  for  the  active 
duties  of  this  service,  except  on  the 
modem  co-operative  and  movement 
principle  of  "  Go  it,  you  cripples ! " 
The  less  you  have  that  bags  m  your 
personal  equipment  for  elephant- 
shooting  the  better;  for  though  you 
are  very  likely  (wear  what  you  will) 
to  come  back  in  rags  and  tatters,  you 
have  more  chance  of  being  present- 
able by  wearing  close  clotmng.  The 
colour  of  your  dress  should  he  dark. 
Our  outer  garments  were  uniformly 
of  blue  nankeen ;  and  a  hunting-cap 
is  the  only  orthodox  head-covering. 
We  started  this  morning,  knowing 
there  were  elephants  in  our  path; 
and  in  about  half  an  hour  after  we 
had  forded  the  river  we  were  told 
that  we  were  near  them.  We  ac- 
cordingly dismounted,  and,  passing 
over  some  rocky  ground,  came  on 
four,  standing  under  trees  in  a  hollow 
about  100  yards  off,  flapping  their 
ears  and  brovmng.  We  stepped  out : 
it  soon  became  a  run,  and  the  ele- 
phants, seeing  our  numbers,  turned 
up  the  opposite  ascent,  but  before 
they  had  mounted  twenty  paces  of  it 


666 


Elephant-Shooting  in  Ceylon, 


1%. 


all  four  Here  down.  AVe  reloaded 
and  strolled  along  some  distance  up 
the  low  ridge,  enjoying  the  cool 
morning  breeze,  and  starting  a  noble 
herd  or  deer  in  our  way,  while  our 
Maireur^  were  out  in  uront,  and  in 
about  an  hour  one  of  them  returned 
and  shewed  three  other  elephants  at 
some  distance  below  us.  We  doubled 
round  a  little  for  the  advantage  of 
cover  and  to  get  to  leeward  of  them, 
but  on  reaching  the  snot  found  they 
were  off.  We  startea  on  their  tnck 
and  followed  at  a  good  pMse — I  dare 
say,  over  a  couple  of  miles  of  all 
sorts  of  ground,  and  at  last  were  at 
fault  in  some  mixed  cover,  when,  as 
we  were  discussing  what  was  best  to 
be  done,  the  three  elephants  broke 
out  of  the  junffle,  about  thirty  yarda 
behind  us,  and  three  of  us  met  them. 
One  beast,  more  forward  than  the 
others,  took  our  balls — all  fronters ; 
when  a  second  dashed  forward 
from  behind,  with  a  shrill  trumpet 
and  raised  trunk,  like  a  knight  shout- 
ing his  war*cry  and  ^^  to  the  rescue  {" 
and  it  was  a  chevy  among  the  un- 
loaded for  a  second  or  two.  But  the 
rest  came  up,  and  one  of  the  ele- 
phants was  floored  —  the  other  two 
escaping.  These  operations  had 
brought  us  to  eleven  o'clock,  and  we 
acyoumed  to  breakfast,  where  a  syl- 
van table  of  stakes,  covered  with  fern, 
and  seats  to  match,  had  been  put  up 
by  our  followers,  under  some  shady 
trees.  A  hearty  breakfast  was 
rapidly  despatched,  and  we  were 
luxunously  discussing  our  cigars 
when  news  of  a  herd  put  us  again  in 
motion.  They  were  in  cover,  and,  as 
it  appeared,  on  the  move,  so  that  it 
was  some  time  before  we  came  upon 
them.  When  we  did,  it  became 
again  a  race.  They  were,  however, 
not  to  be  headed  on  this  ground,  but 
as  they  were  scjueeaed  and  impeded 
by  some  closer  jungle,  we  closed  upon 
the  mob  of  ungainly  monsters,  and 
the  jeering  cries  of  "  Dab,  dah ! — eh, 
eh!*^  from  our  followers,  provoked 
one  to  turn,  and  he  dropped  before 
he  was  well  round.  The  next  one 
that  turned,  turned  for  action,  and 
took  one  ball  that  checked,  and  a 
second  that  floored  hira.  They  then 
broke  and  separated,  some  crashing 
one  way,  some  another;  and  after 
four  more  were  killed,  we  were  at 
a  stand-still.  After  having  talked 
for  R  quarter  of  an  hour,  we  were 


told  that  there  weie  some  «f  tbem 
still  quite  close  to  us,  when  we  di- 
vided, aa  it  was  uncertain  where  tbej 
would   break.     S—  and  G--  bd 
scarcely  taken  their  station  when  two 
elephants  dashed  out  of  the  juigle  at 
tbem   most  gallantly,  and  diqipcd 
together,  very  dose  to  their  aaU- 
^onists.     Only  two  of  this  h^  es- 
caped.    We  retraced  the  soeie  of 
action,  giving  each  foot  betst  tbe 
praise  he  had  merited,  and  bad  pro- 
gressed some  half  mile  beyond  it,ud 
taken  a  halting  position  under  sone 
fine  trees  to  blow  a  cloud  and  wait 
on  Providence,  when  a  herd  wmf^ 
ported  to  be  browsing  ^ost  on  the 
hill-side  above  us.    Hus  herd  m 
ten  in  number,  of  which  one  eseapat 
I  have  seldom  seen  anything  mettier 
of  its  kind  than  our  approach  npoa 
these  animals.     They  were  scattered 
along  the  top  of  a  risiqg  sweep  of 
long  grass*  under  fine  single  trea; 
each  huge   brute,  according  to  his 
own  sweet  wilt  eatmg  or  whk^ 
himself  with  the  gnws,  or  flapping 
his  ears,  and  ruminating  on  m^oj 
"  dreamt    of   in    his    philosopb/, 
when  a  "prut"  from  one  told  that 
we  were  seen.    At  first  the  elcph»^ 
only  looked  at  us  as  they  sUM  w J 
as  we  came  nearer,  one  or  *^^ 
them  walked  forward,  and  the  k» 
huddled  together.     We  then  nn  at 
them,  and  they  turned  for  the  cover 
some  fifty  yards  away.    Our  paitK 
divided— two  after  them,  ibree  to 
flank  and  meet  them;  for  ^J^^ 
was  a  mere  strip  of  trees  alonga  btwea 
water  -  chasm.      As    the  /allowing 
party  closed  on  them,  at  the  ^^^^ 
the  cover,  one  turned  handaooo^' 
and  S—  floored  him.    AU  ]^ 
on,  elephants  and  men,  to  ^^^^^J^* 
flanking   party  met   them.    Then? 
four  or  five  were  tumbled  one  o9& 
the  oih&c  into  the  ditch,  and  their 
roarinff  was  tremendous.    R—  V^ 
sued  the  lest,  and  while  the  others 
were   loading,  a   smgle  one  caoie 
steadily  down  the  track  the  J^ 
suers  had  just  come,  and  wasdro^ 
by  G — ,  certainly  within  two  yfw* 
of  the  muasle  of  his  fowlin|i*p>^ 
R—  accounted  for  those  he  fdlowed. 
While  we  were  down  below,  and  tbe 
Rate- rale  was  coming  to  join  ua^^^ 
elephant  first  floored  rose  up  *^ 
charged  him  ftiriously,  but  tbe  old 
gentleman  escaped  through  tbe  ti«^ 
and  so  did  tbe  elephant.    It  was  now 


1846.] 


Elepkani'Shooting  in  Ceylcn. 


667 


cyening,  and  with  their  twenty-two 
tails  (for  the  hrush  of  the  elephant, 
like  that  of  the  fox,  is  the  trophy  of 
his  conqueror),  our  party  rode  home, 
and  afier  fordine  the  river  drank 
that  first  glass  of  Madeira — thai  first 
glass!  — 

*'  To  soob  as  know  thee  not»  my  words 

were  weak ; 
To  tliose  who've  gulp'd  thee  down,  what 

language  could  they  speak  !" 

I  solemnly  declare  that  no  mortal 
man  but  he  who  drinks  it  aitei  a 
whole  day's  fag  within  the  tropics 
can  know  the  goods  the  gods  pro- 
vide us  in  "London  particular** — the 
best  kind  of  madeirnr-that  has  twice 
passed  the  line.  After  ihat  came 
dressing  and  dinner,  and  talk  for  an 
hour  or  two,  and  then  a  sleep,  as  if 
Morpheas  had  borrowed  "Kight*s 
leaden  sceptre  **  to  knock  one  sense- 
less the  moment  we  set  foot  in  his 
dominions.  I  ought  to  have  men- 
tioned that  it  was  our  practice  to  pay 
down  at  once  half-a- crown  to  any 
one  who  shewed  us  elephants,  and 
seven-and-sixpence  to  any  one  who 
took  us  up  to  a  full-grown  tusker. 

Ist  i/omoiry.— This  morning  was 
passed  in  deer-shooting,  which,  from 
the  necessity  of  keeping  your  people 
fed  and  in  good-humour,  is  one  of 
the  most  important  and  provoking 
duties  of  those  who  come  to  shoot 
elephants  in  the  Yeddah-rate.  The 
mode  pursued  in  this  sport  was  to 
post  us  at  seventy  or  a  hundred 
yards  apart,  each  to  stand  motionless 
in  front  of  a  tree,  in  some  open  glade 
bordered  by  a  stripe  of  forest,  while 
the  few  Veddahs  would  beat,  t.  e, 
walk  through  the  cover,  merely  tap- 
ping a  tree  with  their  hatchets,  or 
occasionally  giving  a  cry  so  as  to 
startle  the  deer  out  towards  us.  The 
sportsman  would  either  get  a  run- 
ning shot,  or  if,  as  was  very  com- 
monly the  case,  the  deer  stood  to 
listen  or  stopped  to  gaze  at  his  un- 
usual appearanoe,  a  standing  one.  It 
was  very  pretty,  no  doubt ;  the 
slightly  wooded  glades  were  like 
those  of  home.  The  morning  cli- 
mate was  almost  English ;  and  when 
the  antlered  deer  came  breaking  out, 
for  a  time  it  was  very  interesting : 
but  we  soon  voted  that  we  didn*t 
like  it.  The  waiting  was  tiresome, 
and  a  deer  going  along  at  speed  is 
not  very  easily  hit;  but  it  was  in- 
dispensable, and  we  were  at  it  till 


breakfast  •  time,  and  snoeeeded  in 
getting  three  deer.  After  breakfast, 
we  were  soon  put  upon  the  track  of 
some  elephants,  and  were  passing 
quietly  and  silently  onward  when  a 
snot  from  behind  brought  us  back  to 
where  R —  (who  was  bringing  up 
the  rear  of  the  party)  had  killed  an 
elephant,  which  the  rest  of  us  had 
nassed.  We  immediately  dispersed 
for  the  herd,  and  R —  came  upon  the 
only  one  we  found  (a  young  tusker) 
and  floored  him.  Whether  there 
was  a  herd  here  or  not  there  is  no 
saying,  for,  if  they  try  to  do  so,  they 
can  steal  away  as  gently  and  silently 
as  the  smallest  animals.  We  had 
now  news  of  two  small  herds,  and 
were  soon  mounted  and  in  the  direc- 
tion of  one  of  them,  when  a  most 
flattering  report  of  the  numbers  of  a 
herd  about  three  miles  off,  made  us 
change  our  route.  We  had  reached 
the  ^ound,  dismounted,  and  were 
standmg  in  an  open  space  within  the 
edge  of  the  cover,  waiting  for  certain 
intelligence,  when  unexpectedly  four 
elephants  came  up  from  behind  us. 
As  we  ran  to  meet  them  they  turned, 
and  three  were  killed,  the  other 
escaped.  While  we  were  reloading, 
news  of  the  herd  up  above  in  the  jun- 
gle and  pretty  heavy  rain  came  on  to- 
gether :  nowever,  those  loaded  pushed 
on,  and  a  lively  fire  commenced, 
which  only  ceased  when  the  rain 
made  it  impossible  to  load,  or  to  keep 
a  loaded  gun  dry.  Five  had  been 
kiUed.  One  of  them,  a  very  large 
beast,  took  an  infinity  of  kilbng.  I 
don*t  think  I  am  beyond  the  mark 
when  I  say,  that  fifteen  or  sixteen 
balls  must  have  been  fired  into  his 
head  before  one  from  G —  dropped 
him.  And  he  was  not  active,  so  as 
to  put  ])6ople  off  their  shooting ;  but 
he  was  in  a  hollow,  and  the  Imlls  all 
went  low,  down  towards  bis  jaws, 
instead  of  up  to  his  brain.  Though 
this  feUow  stood  so  stifiiy,  the  most 
dashing  elephant  in  this  field  was  a 
little  monster  of  that  age  when^e- 
phants  make  very  comical  but  rough 
playfellows.  He  charged,  ri^^ht  and 
left,  among  the  people,  screaming  and 
lashing  about  his  trunk  in  the  ridi- 
culous way  these  little  fellows  do, 
while  the  Veddahs  were  firing  their 
arrows  at  him,  and  those  who  dared 
running  up  and  drawing  them  out 
agam.  It  was  a  complete  farce  afte^ 
the  tragedy  that  had  been  enactec 


568 


Eiephant'Skooihg  in  Ceylon, 


[May, 


At  last  t1ie7  fairly  mobbed  bim, 
took  off  tbe  tip  of  bis  tail  as  tbeir 
tiopby,  and  away  be  galloped,  nnr- 
in^  as  Itutily  as  ever.  '^Vbile  tbe 
nun  was  going  on  G —  and  M —  bad 
beiud  an  depbant,  wbicb  appeared 
to  be  a  wonnded  one,  in  some  tbick 
eover — so  thick,  in  fiurt,  tbat  tboueh 
tbey  could  see  tbe  movement  of  tbe 
beast,  tbey  dared  not  go  in  witb  tbeir 
wet  guns.  As  soon  as  it  ceased  we 
fired  off  some  of  our  pieces  and  re- 
loaded, and,  thongb  it  was  near  dusk, 
took  post  about  a  patcb  of  jungle, 
wbile  a  few  natives,  with  S--  and 
G — ,  went  in  to  work  out  some  ele- 
phants that  were  said  to  be  there. 
Bat  they  did  not  come  out;  tbey 
were  found  in  cover  so  thick  tbi^ 
what  witb  it  and  the  dusk  they  were 
scarcely  distinguishable,  till,  letting 
the  sportsmen  come  within  a  very  few 
yards,  tbey  deliberately  dashed  at 
them.  They  were  killed — two  of 
them — and  there^s  an  end ;  but  with 
unsteady  shots,  timid  gun-carriers, 
snaps,  nasbes,  or  any  of  tbe  acci- 
dents that  affect  true  tiring,  these 
charges  in  sucb  close  cover  involve 
tbe  serious  possibilities  of  elephant- 
sbooting.  G — ,  who  is  by  no  means 
given  to  be  figurative,  declared  that 
tbe  beast  he  came  near,  in  the  indis- 
tinct and  motionless  immensity  of  his 
form,  and  the  headlong  desperation 
of  his  rush,  gave  him  more  the  idea 
of  an  infernal  monster  than  any  ani- 
mal, biped  or  quadruped,  with  which 
his  short  experience  of  this  world 
had  hitherto  brought  him  acquainted. 
It  was  late  when  wc  reached  home^ 
as  well  drenched  as  need  be,  to  the 
enjoyment  of  our  gla.«8  of  Madeira, 
dinner,  talk,  and  snooze. 

2d  Jtmuary. — We  commenced  as 
before  — deer-shooting ;  but  our  se- 
cond beat  was  interruotcd  by  intel- 
ligence that  a  herd  of  elephants  were 
on  the  edge  of  the  cover  that  the 
beaters  h^  been  in.  We  went 
round  and  came  up  to  them  very 
prettily,  almost  touching  the  '  rear 
ones  before  they  stirred.  The  usual 
sncerinff  cries  turned  two,  who 
dropped,  and  the  rest  took  the  cover, 
in  which  three  of  them  were  floored. 
Those  who  have  not  seen  it  can 
scarcely  believe  bow  instantaneously 
a  gooa  shot  drives  life  out  of  sucn 
masses  of  vitality.  One  that  turned 
and  characd  at  U —  was  dropped  by 
him,  and  literally  died  as  its  knees 


m 

\ 


hetdf  and  tbere  it  remaioed  on 
its  knees  witb  its  head .  stnigbt 
out,  five  or  six  yards  from  R— ,  u 
as  if  it  had  been  artificially  set  up  in 
tbat  position.  A  shout  outnde  har- 
ried three  of  us  away,  and  u  ve 
emeiged  from  the  cover  we  saw  G— 
following  at  about  thirty  yards,  sad 
"  dahing**  to  the  very  top  of  hs 
voice  three  elephants  who  wereleg- 

flng  off  at  tbeir  fastest,  in  Indiin 
le.  We  strove  to  cross  in  on  then, 
all  <*  dahing**  in  full  chorus,  but  it  to 
a  very  doubtful  thii^,  till  a  mort 
bitterly  sarcastic  "  Dab  I"  from  V-, 
such  as  no  elephant  of  spirit  oouU 
put  up  with,  provoked  the  resr  ok 
to  leave  the  line  and  dash  stni^t 
at  him,  when  with  a  single  shot  be 
dropped  him  like  a  master  of  the  art. 
Tbe  pursuit  continued,  and  slt(^ 
ther  nine  out  of  the  ten  compoang 
this  herd  were  killed.  AverysnaU 
one  was  caught,  and  tethered  with 
jungle-rope  or  creepers,  but  the  poor 
little  fellow  was  so  outrageooB  that 
he  roared  his  life  away,  and  was  left 
dead  within  half  a  mile  of  the  bun- 
galow.  We  moved  on  to  a  spot  <ffl 
the  Batticaloa  path  near  Dimble- 
denny,  where  both  breakfast  and 
elephants  were  reported  to  he  u 
waiting.  The  latter,  of  course,  i«- 
ceived  our  earliest  attentions;  ana 
coming  up  to  them  in  some  fine  hign 
cover,  with  an  opening  to  the  left, 
the  whole  six,  of  which  they  con- 
sisted, were  floored  within  fiflhr  janls 
of  the  spot  whereon  we  found  them. 
After  breakfast  we  proceeded  with 
our  sport ;  and  coming  on  a  hero  of 
five  in  an  open  plain  they  boltei  m 
we  neared  tncm,  and  two  out  of  the 
number  escaped,  for  the  gra*  *•* 
literally  higher  than  our  heads.  An- 
other herd  of  five  were  afterw<M 
encountered,  and  all  killed,  ea^  ^ 
he  turned  (four  of  them  by  R-j' 
who  had  rather  an  awkward  tumble 
near  one  of  them),  during  a  ^jy 
rapid  pursuit  through  cover.  The 
perfect  illustration  of  first-rate  shoot- 
ing exhibited  in  that  chase  by  R'' 
would  have  been  a  glorious  treat  to 
any  one,  except,  perhaps,  to  hisp|u^ 
ing  associate  M— ,  who  described 
him  following  the  herd  at  score,  and 
with  an  unerring  tact,  taking  cif» 
beast  as  he  turned  enough  to  gi>'^ 
his  temple,  or  if  tbat  moment  was 
lost,  letting  him  come  full  round, 
and  dropping  each  one  in  sucoessioo 


1846.] 


Elephant-lSkd&lbig  in  CeyUnu 


669 


by  a  (RDgle  shot,  rinng  firam  bn 
headloBff  tumble  cool  as  ever,  and 
only  faiSnff  to  hare  all  the  fire  be- 
cause the  last  two  turned  tocether ; 
and  as  Sir  Boyle  Boache  jndidously 
observed,  "a  nuui  can*t  be  like  a 
bird,  in  t«ro  places  at  once.**  A 
somewhat  similar  ooenrrence  took 
place  with  a  preyions  party  at  the 
park.  R — ^  accompanied  by  two 
others,  ascended  a  nigged  hiU,  on 
the  top  of  which  elephants  were  said 
to  be.  When  near  the  top  they 
rested  to  recover  wind,  to  give  every 
one  a  fair  chance.  They  took  a  fresh 
departure.  This  pace  quickened  and 
lengthened  os  they  approached  the 
very  top ;  each  was  at  his  best,  B — 
beading  them  a  little.  The  crest  was 
all  but  gained  bv  the  second  in  the 
race,  when  he  heard  banf!  \mntt\ 
erery  nerve  was  strained;  again, 
banjg!  bang!  burst  upon  their  ears, — 
their  very  souls  were  thrown  into 
their  efforts ;  another  second  and 
they  were  on  the  plateau;  but  in 
that  second  a  thira  double  report 
was  heard,  and  there  stood  B — ^  by 
the  last  of  the  herd  c^five  elephants 
that  had  fallen  to  his  six  shots,  dia- 
charged  while  they  were  clearing  the 
few  yards  he  had  put  between  uem. 
Heavy  rain  put  an  effectual  stop 
to  our  proceedings  at  an  early  hour 
this  afternoon,  and  drove  us  to  the 
enjoyment  of 


<t 


Home,  sweet  hone/' 


ivith  itsezhilarattng  aeoompaniinents. 
3d  January — ^was  a  day  of  inces* 
sant  rain,  during  which  not  a  soul 
could  stir  out.  The  evening*s  en* 
tertainment  was  a  Veddah  dance. 
It  is  odd,  that  though  man  in  a 
savage  state  seems  generally  an  aw« 
fully  grave  fellow,  yet  he  always 
daxMes.  I  never  saw  one  of  these 
Veddahs  laugh ;  and  th^  preserved 
their  gravity  as  determinatelv  as  ever 
throughout  their  dancing,  which  was 
unquestionably  as  sombre  a  piece  of 
hilarity  as  ever  Terpsichore  presided 
over.  They  jumpea  round  and  past 
each  other  with  their  feet  t<M»tner, 
and  their  arms  and  long  hair  lollop- 
ing about  (I  know  no  more  descrip- 
tive phrase),  repeating  in  a  sing-song 
tone  a  few  words — an  invocation  to 
some  devil  of  consideration  in  these 
parts,  but  without  a  smile,  a  cry,  or 
a  look  of  pleasure.  After  a  long 
yoL.  zxziu.  iro.  cxcviz. 


bout  at  thisramniqg, 
when  they  aU  fin!  on 


a  supposed  sort  of  tnaoe,  aad.  li^ 
with  their  rnuades  and  Uniba  qpvcr- 
ing,  till  they  were  picked  up  and 
reoommeneea  their  oanee,  rfapfang 
their  hands  in  addition  to  their  pre- 
vious perfonnanees.  At  another 
scream  they  all  were  truieed  again, 
to  be  liflea  up  for  the  purpose  of 
another  veiT  short  dance,  at  the  end 
of  which  they  threw  themsdves  at 
our  fbet.  It  was  very  sad  staff,  bat 
it  was  their  best ;  so  we  sent  to  Ka- 
tobowa  for  some  clothes  and  hand- 
kerchief for  them,  and  made  in- 
ouiries  lespectingtheir  mode  ofliving, 
&c,  by  which  we  aaeertained  that 
they  fived  much  apart  from  each 
other  in  rock-houses  or  caves,  some 
being  married;  and  that  they  led 
mndpally  on  deer^s  flesh  and  hooef • 
One  gentleman,  pre-eminent  in  vnfjor 
ness  and  education,  as  he  appeued 
to  be  almost  capable  of  making  him- 
self understood  by  the  Kandians^ 
was  pointed  out  as  "the  owner  of 
many  hills,**  which  seems  to  imply 
the  existence  of  notions  ofajMopeity 
in  the  land  amongst  them.  We  maw 
them  give  us  some  bow  practice  on 
one  or  two  occasions,  but  the3r8hofe 
badly,  and  I  imagine  they  get  very 
near  their  game  before  they  aim  at 
them. 

4tt  January,  —  Our  yesterday's 
idleness  rendoed  it  more  than  ever 
necessary  that  some  deer  should  be 
shot,  and  this  morning  was  given  up 
entirely  to  this  tantalising  duty. 
While  we  were  at  breakfast  by  a 
delicious  stream,  we  heard  the  roar* 
ing  of  elephants  not  far  off,  apd  after  it 
we  started  to  find  them.  There  were 
but  two.  V —  had  the  luck  to  come 
on  them,  and  floored  them  both— 
one  being  a  small  tusker.  Our 
friend  R— ,  who  had  been  previoudy 
indisposed,  was  now  so  unwell  thrt 
he  was  forced  to  return  to  the  bunga- 
low, and  with  his  departure  the  zeal 
of  our  followers  quite  evaporated. 
After  some  useless  endeavours  to  ex- 
cite them,  as  we  had  shot  deer 
enough,  we  determined  to  fp  home» 
have  a  ^pod  swim  in  the  nver,  and 
vote  this  a  dies  mm.  We  found, 
we  had  committed  a  great  mistake  in 
not  bringing  dogs  for  the  deer-hunt* 
ing.  R —  nad,  on  previous  occa- 
sions, killed  fourteen  and  fifteen  in 
morning.    At  certain  seasons  all^^ 

rr 


5ii 


Etephani'Shooivug  iit  Ceyton. 


[May. 


well  to  them,  atanding  in  the  open 
ground,  had  not  a  long  narrow 
pool  of  water  been  between  ns :  the 
noise  of  onr  splashing,  and  the  spread 
of  our  people  in  ronnding  this, 
alanned  the  elephants,  and  they 
started,  but  before  thev  had  reached 
a  ridge  forty  yards  ofl^  we  "dahed" 
them  into  a  turn,  and  all  five  were 
floored — four  lying  one  over  the 
other.  This  seemed  to  give  confi- 
dence to  the  Pfditalawa  gentrjr,  one 
of  whom  exclaimed  to  his  friends, 
"Did  you  see  that?"  We  loaded 
and  went  down  to  the  second  herd, 
who  were  not  more  than  two  hun- 
dred yards  off,  in  some  thick  but 
narrow  jnnffle.  Just  as  we  reached 
them  they  oroke,  and  we,  in  two 
parties,  came  up  with  them  at  a  little 
opening  of  about  twenty  feet  square, 
voiere  the  firing  commenced.  One 
gave  a  good  d^  of  trouble ;  after 
being  brousht  on  his  knees  and 
turned  by  M — ,  he  came  boldly  back 
into  the  mMke^  and  was  only  repulsed 
by  a  couple  of  facers  fh>m  M —  and 
G— :  but  he  was  scarcely  in  the  cover 
a  second  time,  when  out  he  came 
again,  and  G—  being  unloaded  and 
almost  touching  him,  bolted  back, 
and  fell  over  the  trunk  of  an  ele- 
phant that  had  been  floored.  A 
fresh  gun  was  at  this  moment  given 
to  M — ^  who  fired,  and  as  he  looked 
along  the  barrel,  saw  first  a  blue  cap 
jerk,  and  open,  and  then  the  ele- 
phant fall.  The  cap  was  G — ^*8,  who, 
m  recovering  himself  from  his 
stumble,  had  brought  it  right  on  the 
line  of  si^ht :  it  was  a  wicker  cap 
covered  with  blue  cloth,  and  fitting 
close  to  the  head  like  a  hunting  cap. 
At  least  four  inches  of  it  were  opened. 
It  was  certainly  an  awfully  close 
shave.  No  more  elephants  were  to 
be  heard  of^  so  we  devoted  the  even- 
ing to  deer-shooting,  which  was  put 
an  end  to  by  a  veiy  shocking  acci- 
dent. We  were  posted,  and  a  lar^^c 
herd  of  deer  as  well  as  a  ho^  having 
already  been  seen,  we  were  anticipating 
sport,  when  suddenly  the  single  taps 
and  cries  of  the  Yeddahs  were  inter- 
rui>ted  by  a  wild  and  mournful  howl, 
which  spoke  in  unquestionable  elo- 
quence of  some  sad  mischance.  S— 
and  M— ,  who  were  nearest  to  the 
cry,  ran  down,  and  to  their  horror 
found  a  Yeddah,  a  smart  young  fel- 
low, surrounded  by  his  people,  and 
sitting,  his  back  againat  a  tree,  with 


his  intestines  in  his  I19.  A  wild 
bufialo,  that  he  had  passed  ahnoat 
without  notice  in  the  oover,  had 
rushed  on  him  from  hehiiid,  knocked 
him  down,  and  gored  him  as  be  ftO, 
from  the  f^roin  upwards.  There 
never,  I  believe,  in  thb  world,  or  in 
all  the  fanciful  exaggerationa  of  poetic 
minds  seeking  to  illustrate  the  dignity 
of  our  nature^  could  be  a  finer  picture 
of  manly  fortitude  than  in  that  noble 
savage.  He  positively — Merer  — 
nether  once — during  the  many  hoars 
we  were  with  him,  shewed  by  a  move, 
a  wink,  or  the  contraction  of  a 
muscle,  that  he  felt  pain  from  ha 
wound,  or  fear  for  the  death  whidi 
seemed  too  sure  to  follow  it»  thoo^ 
the  perspiration  literally  pooling 
firom  his  chest  and  shoulaera  shewed 
how  much  he  suffered.  He  looked 
up  calmly  in  our  ftces — ^poor  feUow ! 
Ii  it  was  to  find  comfort  or  confidence 
there,  I  fear  he  found  not  much  of 
either.  I  do  not  believe  that  one  of  as 
could  alto^^ether  check  the  tears  that 
involuntarily  rose  to  see  the  manly 
fellow,  and  to  know  his  fate  inevita* 
ble.  We  did  all  we  could — ^made  a 
litter ;  carried  him  to  his  rock ;  built 
a  shed  over  him;  put  back  the  boweb 
and  sewed  up  the  wound ;  found  ont 
his  relations  Huckily  he  was  not 
married),  &c.  &c  But  the  end  of 
this  sad  story  is  that  the  poor  fellow 
died  the  d&y  after  we  left  thu 
neighbourhood,  to  our  great  £7ie^ 
though,  as  it  appeared,  not  at  all  to 
the  surprise  of  the  old  Mohandiram 
of  Neeighelly,  who  informed  us,  that 
if  he  had  known  we  were  going  to 
shoot  at  Falitalawa  he  should  de- 
cidedly have  prevented  it ;  the  place 
being  espedally  and  most  paittcn- 
larly  consigned  over  to  the  devfl: 
but  that  from  the  moment  he  had 
heard  that  the  Yeddahs  had  eaten  the 
pig  we  shot  (which  he  says  they  did), 
nothing  of  horror  that  n^ght  have 
occurrM  could  have  astonished  him 
in  the  least  The  Yeddah's  aeddent 
threw  a  gloom  over  us  all.  Our  list 
of  elephants  killed  had  turned  one 
hundi^  which  we  had  modestly 
aspired  to  as  our  maximum;  and  we 
felt  impressed  with  the  melancholy 
conviction  that,  do  what  we  would, 
the  people,  who  were  now  fix>tsore, 
rich,  home-sick,  and  perhaps  a  little 
frightened,  would  humbug  us,  and 
that  we  had  seen  the  eiud  of  our 
sport. 


1846.] 


.  Elephanl^ShooHng  in  Ceylon. 


573 


There  were  more  buffaloes  about 
Palitalawa  than  at  the  Park,  but 
they  seemed  in  general  so  inoffensive 
that  we  didn't  think  of  firing  at 
them.  We  had  walked  close  to  them 
and  lain  down  within  ten  yards  of 
them ;  in  fact,  treated  them  precisely 
as  we  have  done  domestic  cattle  while 
deer-shooting,  and  except  by  a  half* 
threatening  shake  of  the  head  occa- 
sionally, tney  scarcely  seemed  to 
notice  us.  Of  course  we  all  knew  that 
a  buffalo  provoked  was  often  an 
awkward  customer,  and  that  he 
always  takes  a  most  unaccountable 
deal  of  killing ;  but  I  declare  I  had 
imbibed  a  sortof  fHendly  feeling  for 
the  brutes,  who  struck  me  as  having 
somethinff  essentially  John  Bullish 
in  their  cnaracter.  To  let  alone  and 
to  be  let  alone  seemed  to  me  their 
rule,  which  they  enforced  by  a  surly, 
dogged  exterior,  and  now  and  then 
by  a  flourish  of  their  horns,  as  much 
as  to  sav,  ^  You'd  better  let  me  be  ;*' 
and  altnouKh  they  would  commonly 
get  away  if  they  could  with  or  with- 
out a  wound,  if  forced  to  fight  no 
wild  animal  fought  so  desperately. 
There  were  certainly  none  of  tne 
seller  graces  about  them,  but  I  have 
seen  it  somewhere  said  of  honest  John, 
that  ""it's  being  the  beast  he  is  that 
has  made  a  man  of  him  ;**  however,  I 
hereby  read  my  recantation,  for 
Heaven  bless  the  dear  old  fellow  Bull ! 
he  woiUd  scorn  to  do  so  dastardly  a 
blackguardism  as  that  we  have  re- 
counted of  Mr.  Buffalo. 

Sth  January. — We  went  back  to 
Bogers*'bunguaw,  resting  midway  at 
Dum^galU,  where  severs!  shots  were 
fired  at  a  wild  buf&lo  that  had  con- 
trived to  accommodate  himself 
amongst  a  herd  of  those  by  courtesy 
called  tame  ones;  but  he  was  too 
cunning  for  us,  keeping  in  the  very 
middle  of  the  good  company  he  had 
introduced  himself  to ;  and  when  at 
last  we  bullied  this  Don  Juan  of 
bufialoes  into  scamperin^ff— to  the 
shame  of  the  domesticated  cattle  of 
Ceylon  be  it  sud— away  went  all  the 
objects  of  his  unhallowed  passion 
around  him,  whisking  their  tails  and 
ftisking  their  hind-quarters  as  if  the 
soul  of  H^lolse  had  descended  upon 
the  whole  herd.  We  passed  through 
a  gloriously  wild  mass  of  rocks  near 
a  nver,  which  we  had  to  swim,  while 
on  the  trail  of  some  elephants,  and 
which  just  as  we  struck  off  they 


told  us  was  most  famous  for  its 
alligators ;  but  we  neither  saw 
them  nor  any  thing  else,  with  the 
exception  of  G— -,  who,  having  dis- 
mounted and  killed  a  deer,  hiul  the 
luck  to  fall  in  with  five  elephants,  two 
of  which  he  shot,  we  listening  to  his 
popping  as  we  took  our  Madeira  in 
the  bungalow. 

9^  January, — Next  day  we  bade 
farewell  to  the  Park.  As  we  rode 
through  it  to  breakfast  at  Dimble- 
denny,  whence  (beatiiu^  ineffectually 
en  route  for  an  horaSia,  or  rogue 
elephant,  at  the  pretty  and  populous 
Moormans'  village  of  Kotabbwa)  we 
reached  Diagon^,  where  we  halted  on 
the  10th  to  break  up.  This  was 
some  miles  out  of  the  Park ;  but  there 
were  elephants  about,  and  S —  and 
M —  went  after  one  of  bad  character, 
and  found  three  in  very  thick  cover ; 
one  of  which  was  dropped  after  a 
very  liberal  expenditure  of  ammuni- 
tion.  He  was  our  last,  and  so  fat 
a  brute  that  I  do  believe  several  of 
the  shots  which  did  not  kill  him 
would  have  done  so  but  for  his 
fleshy  defences.  Our  total  return  of 
killed  on  this  trip  was  as  follows : — 
26byR— ;  24by  G— ;  22byS— ; 
19  by  V — ;  9  by  M— ,  and  4  un- 
decided, making  a  total  of  104; 
64  of  them  being  shot  in  three 
days,  on  two  of  which  we  had  also  to 
^*  kill  us  venison.''  I  think  it  worthy 
of  mention,  as  not  derogating  from 
the  shootine,  but  illustrating  still 
more  pidpably  the  very  favourable 
nature  of  the  Park  ground,  that  our 
killed  in  that  neighbourhood  amount- 
ed to  near  five-sixths  of  the  elephants 
seen.  The  others  shot  on  the  day 
of  meeting  and  at  Diagon^,  were  shot 
in  thick  cover,  where  large  numbers 
are  neither  so  easily  reckoned  nor  dis- 
posed of. 

Next  morning  V —  and  M —  took 
a  sorrowful  leave  of  their  friends, 
one  of  whom,  an  officer  of  the  quarter- 
master-general's   department,     was 
going  to  work  his  way  over  to  Bat- 
ticaloa ;  and  the  other  lu^y  fellow, 
having  leave  to  the  end  of  ivu— ^ 
meant  to  accompany  hir 
this  letter  prove  at  all  v 
notice,  I  feel  it  would  be 
without  the  following  ei 
6— 's  letters  ^inting  out 
teresting  particul* — *  ^^^ 

"On  the  1^ 
heard  of  a  tut 


574 


ElepkanUShooting  in  CetfUm* 


(May. 


the  da^ :  had  a  beaitHfiil  shot  on  the 
side  of  %  steep  and  rocky  hill.  He 
fell  over,  rolling  twenty  or  thirty 
yards  down  the  ride,  making  a  tre* 
mendoos  eraah :  hia  tuaks  are  thick, 
but  not  veij  long.  In  retnming  I 
Ibli  in  with  rour  others,  which  I  ex* 
temunated.  At  Dimbledenny  » 
large  herd  of  elephants  had  broken 
into  the  chenaa  (cleared  lands),  and 
we  saw  their  ravages  in  every  direo- 
tfton.  S —  shot  a  fine  back  on  our 
wav,  to  the  delight  of  oar  hongcy 
IbllowerB.  Soothing  can  be  more  beau- 
tiftil  than  a  tide  in  this  ooantiy, 
while  the  pleasare  of  seeing  a  fine 
pair  of  antlera  lisuig  above  the  Ions 
grass,  and  partridges,  quail,  and 
snipe,  continaally  in  your  pfth, 
makes  die  joamey  always  exeitiitf . 
Jjite  in  the  evening  we  reached  the 
bnngalow,  whieh  looked  sad  and 
solitary  after  the  pleasant  party  which 
had  left  it. 

"^  On  the  irtfa,  in  riding  to  the  FM- 
tipakr,  saw  sevml  herd  of  deer,  but 
did  not  kill  any  till  evening,  when 
S —  knocked  over  a  fine  bncK.  We 
started  at  daylight  next  day,  and 
breakfasted  bv  the  baniu  of  a  beau- 
Ufttl  streamy  devoting  the  whole  day 
to  shooting.  I  only  came  upon  the 
tniek  of  two  dephants ;  one  I  killed 
the  first  shot.  I  fell  in  shortly  after 
with  tlie  other ;  he  charged  with  Ins 
trunk  curled  up,  and  hmd  so  his^, 
that  I  iiad  litae  chance  of  giving 
him  a  mortal  waond.  My  shot  turned 
him,  and  I  fidtowed  hnn  for  nearly 
two  hours,  sometimes  over  the  most 
rocky  j^pmind  and  through  the 
thidrast  luagle,  and  at  last  wasfsklv 
besit  and  omiiied  to  give  it  up.  It 
was  quite  wonSmil  to  seethe  quick* 
aem  of  the  Teddahs  in  ibllowing 
Um  tnul;  often  I  eould  not  distin- 
guish the  slightest  mark,  when  It 
was  amarentiy  plain  to  them.  We 
saw  «  few  deer  on  our  Ntum,  and 
qoantities  of  wild  buAdoes,  whieh 
nre  very  numerous  here.  Bode  to  the 
NuvaUar,  ten  miles,  on  the  follow* 
ing  mondng ;  the  finft  nart  through 
open  pbins,  the  remamder  forest. 
I^wr  two  or  tiiree  heads  of  dew  next 
day,  and  killed  a  foie  doe,  andoi^t 
to  lave  had  a  buck.  I  did  not  return 
borne  till  very  hue ;  tiMUttle  valley 
I  had  been  simoting  in  looked  so 
beauliftil.  A  lovely  moon  had  risen; 
On  one  side  was  a  range  of  wooded 
aad  at  their  foot  fine  dumps  oC 


tMes,  and  on  the  oOier  the  dark  line 
of  a  thick  jungle  extending  for  mikt. 
Three  or  four  Imnge  herds  of  deer 
crossedmy  path,  and  their  wild  baric, 
with  the  haroii  seream  of  the  pes* 
cock  on  every  ride,  made  it  venr  in* 
teresting.    It  was  too  dark  to  noot, 
of  whidi  the^  seemed  to  be  aware, 
as  I  frequently  came  within  twenty 
or  thirtv  yards  of  a  herd,  when  per- 
haps a  biMsk  wonld  walk  a  few  paees 
towards  me,  and  then  give  a  bark  si 
a  wamii^,  and  dash  away  with  the 
herd  after  him.  I  momitodmyhone 
at  last,  and  rode  to  onreneampment 
through  a  mUe  of  Ibreat.    We  rode 
to  Condawattane  (^fateen  mOes)  on 
the  21st,  through   a  thick  jni^. 
ThefirsttUng  that  greeted  our  view 
onarrivh^  was  three  dephants  wal- 
lowing in  the  nnid  (whieh  was  i^  to 
their  middle),  and  plneking  the  tone 
grass,  which  th^  careftidy  wadM 
before  they  ate  it.  Annmberoflsige 
white   paddv  Mrda    were   •b"'^ 
themselveB  by  jamfHSg  on  sad  off 
the  beasts,  both  parties  seemiqgTS^ 
pleased  with  their  oocupations.    As 
our  shouting  at  the  elephants  did  mC 

move  them,  we  took  my  *''*|*J]5^ 
and  began  to  era^  at  their  friends 
the  paddy  birds,  and  as  the  di^sooe 
was  good  two  hundred  vards,  seveni 
of  the  shots  stniek  the  el«P^*°J^ 
who  at  flMt  only  diook  their  h»« 
and  looked  erem ;  but  at  la^  they 
arose,  and  walked  very  leisurelf  oo* 
of  the  mod  tall  thev  reached  tbe 
firm  ground,  when  they  formed  s« 
nguhtr  a  Ime  as  could  be,  broke  »<o 
atrot,  and  when  within  tWfty  V^ 
^rew  up  tiwir  heads  and  tnwsi 
and  chaiged  up  to  us  noit  gaSss^' 
The  one  oppowtc  me  kept  hisbm 
so  Idgb,  that  it  was  pen^rS 
but  my  shot  tamed  hhn,  aod  hetnK 

ttiejuagle»  wheie  I  killed  hha.  C?!.* 
dawattuae  is  a  small  Moorish  t9N[^ 

sitaated  on  the  baaln  of  •  «^ 
manh,  through  whieh  bfanebes  m 

the  FMthnlw  and  Navaltar  raoi^ 
form  a  fame  hdie  fai  tfae  *^ 
About  a  mile  ftom  H  it  ^b^^^ 
Muunsh,  where  we  went  in thec^' 
big,  and  saw  a  herd  of  tbirt]r  ^. 
Bhaats  iraihig.  We  Wfled »i««r 
them.    Theie are quaatities of^ 

and  swarms   of  pea^ftiwt,  ^^^^ 
aalpe,  daek,  dte. ;  bat  we  had  ao  pow; 

dertowaste.  We  started etf^>J[^ 
moraiag,  after  a  rieeidem  aigB* Ji^J^ 

tiie  musquHoB,  the  beHofiiag^^ 


1M6.] 


Blephanl-Sioolhg  in  Cttfhn. 


lniflWoe«,ft»d  roaring  oTtbecleiihanti. 
S—  killed  ft  mull  tasker,  and  we 
abortl^  after  came  upon  a  Urge  herd, 
and  lulled  twelre.  One  fUlow  Tery 
neari7  eang^t  me,  and  I  was  not 
ina[e_tliaB.  a  feat  tmta  Mm  idien  T 
tamed  him.  We  moved  honevudi, 
and  nw  a  large  herd  of  twentj-Rre 
OR  the  border  of  the  nanh,  when 
we  beard  a  taeker  wat  at  the  other 
Old.  He  Ineldljr  fell  to  mj  rtut, 
and  I  had  the  ntMaetioD  of  Melng  a 
yety  preth'  pair  of  tnaka.  "HiiB  was 
mj  bert  aay,  baring  killed  elcTen. 
Our  walk  boige  was  delightful.  We 
had  a  beanttfiil  stoon,  and  at  the 
bai^  of  our  little  encampment  Friar's 
Hood,  False  Hood,  and  vaiioos  other 
mountains  were  tn  the  distanee.  AVe 
Mw  ereiy  deseriptkxi  of  game — twrse 
herds  of  deer,  peft-fbwl,  lie.  Ite 
only  disagreeaMe- belling  fellewa 
were  Ae  alligators,  whidt  we  saw 
^dbg  into  the  rivers  we  bad  to 
erea*,  but  the  people  seemed  very 
IHtie  afMd  of  them.    It  is  a  most 


foTtable  as  Uie  best  heiue  we  ever      worst 


which  wc  saw  gracing  by  the  i 

Sve  us  for  the  time  one  of  the  best 
irmbhee  we  have  had.  We  fol- 
lowed them  into  »  very  thick  thorny 
junaile,  where  Uiey  seemed  quite  ont 
of  ^ir  beat,  crowding  one  upon  the 
other,  aoms|imes  charging  ns,  and 
then  peihuM  ten  or  twelve  of  them 
rushing  on  with  a  trcmendons  crad . 
I  killel  four  without  moving  an 
inch,  two  cbarKsd,  and  the  otheni 
wahed  till  [  relaaded,  not  liking  to 
advance  over  tlidr  dead  brethren. 
We  were  oUiged  to  retreat  fw  want 
of  daylisht.  After  the  paddy  is 
reaped,  which  takes  place  about  June, 
the  pWn  ia  oowded  with  dephaata 
eating  the  bamt  roots,  and  we  were 
told  three  or  four  tntkers  were  fre- 
quently seen  in  the  day. 

"On  the  24tb  we  arrived  at  Bet- 
ticaloa  at  half' past  jeven  o'clock 
in  the  evening.  The  banks  of  the 
tai^e  lake,  bordered  with  trees,  are 
lat  and  uninteieitiu ;  but  we  sew 
swarms  of  Blligators  along  than,  and 
Ashing  seemed  to  be  carried  on  the 
whole  Umgth  of  tJK  laJce,  Groups 
of  people  surrounded  the  bwlut 
overhai^ng  the  banks,  with  bows 
and  arrowa,  diis  being  one  of  the 
ways  Aey  Ash ;  and  at  night  the 


575 

whole  banks  were  lighted  np  with 
ftshermen  holding  ehooli  in  one  band 
and  in  the  otber  a  basket,  whteh  they 
put  over  the  Ibfa  on  its  coming  to 
the  inrfaeer 

"  We  sailed  down  the  lake  (torn 
Batdeidaft  on  the  rngfat  of  the  S8tb, 
and  arrived  early  at  Uandoor,  where 
we  breakftsted  and  aeparated,  after 
passing  together  m  moat  wreeablo 
montb.  S—  moved  west  to  bis  wild 
ground,  and  I  sailed  souA  fbr  five 
miles  fiirther  towards  mine.  But  I 
did  not  see  an  etn)hant  till  1  had 
travelled  eighty  miles.  Tliere  were 
traAs  enougb,  bnt  tbe^  were  said 
to  be  all  in  the  deep  jungle,  feed- 
ing on  the  young  spronts.  Aiter 
tbt  harveat  they  are  reported  to 
Bwvm  along  the  whole  line.  At 
Coniary,  a  miserable  place,  the  na- 
tives begged  me  to  shoot  (wo  wild 
huffiUoes,  who  bad  jMoed  their  tame 
herds,  and  were  very  dai^erous.  I 
broke  the  Iqr  of  one,  who  escaped 
into  the  jnnRie,  and  shot  the  other 
clean  throueh  ^e  body ;  but,  batving 
a  tumble,  Be  did  not  appear  the 
worst  for  it.  RnlFaloea  and  pea-fowl 
abounded  on  the  way  to  Fattwille, 
and  near  Oivandemule.  I  saw  se- 
veral of  the  former,  and  fired  at  one 
mthout  effect,  though  the  hall  went 
into  his  chest.  I,  however,  killed  a 
fine  buck,  which  was  welcomed  with 
acdunation.  On  the  way  to  the  Ko- 
menaar,  on  the  Sd,  I  witnessed  a  co- 
mical scene,  wbirfi  proved  (erribly  de- 
trimental to  my  mtie  and  crockeiy. 
An  elephant  attacked  my  coolies  « 
few  yards  a-head  of  me,  putting  them 
all  to  flight,  and  really  seemed 
pueded  to  know  which  mu  worth 
moM,  mmiing  firrt  after  one  uidthea 
the  others ;  he  came  un  to  me  in 
nlluit  style,  and  T  UUed  him. 
Shortly  after  I  met  with  four  othtn, 
and  shot  them.  At  Pot«iri  evny 
thing  ^peered  burnt  nn,  bnt  there 
were  a  good  number  of  single  ele- 
pbants,  of  wfcieh  I  bagged  seven,  be- 
sides a  bnffido  and  a  deer.  I  also 
went  np  the  Mandagal  Eand^  fbr 
bewa,  but  saw  none.  He  country 
to  Yaale  vei^  flat,  with  small  open- 
ings in  tile  jungle.  8aw  five  ek- 
phMite  on  the  road,  and  killed  all. 
Met  two  in  (he  plain  at  Vadle,  tmd 
killed  one.  Yade  is  br  the  Mt  of 
the  river  Uaote,  a  hew 
Went  D«t  shooMi^  at  i 
twottod  killed  Aera  i  m 


«6 


^ttphanl'Skocting  in  Ceylon. 


[M.y. 


tity  of  elk.  Every  tfaioK  i*  burnt 
up,  but  it  muit  be  &  good  place  in 
wet  weather.  On  the  rand  to  Pfttoo- 
topane  I  thot  six  elephants." 

He  bad  no  more  ihootiog  till  be 
reached  a  place  called  Madooenwelle 
on  the  13th,  whence  be  writca:— 
*'  I^eftearly  for  Madooenwelle;  found 
a  ver^  civil  Modliar,  and  a  good 
house.  Heard  of  thiee  tuskers,  fell 
in  with  one,  and  killed  him ;  and  the 
next  day  with  the  second,  and  the 
day  after  with  the  third,  killing 
tinea,  with  three  othen.  There  i 
plen^  of  elephants,  t  ' 
aa  bad  at  posrible,- 
thoray." 

The  remainder  of  hta  route  was 
without  Bdventure  as  r^ards  sport, 
until  the  26th,  when,  while  break- 
ftaling  at  Nambapand  on  the  Ealoo 
river,  after  a  ride  of  twenty  miles, 
be  beard  tidings  of  a  laige  herd,  with 
a  tnsker  among  them.  He  accord- 
ingly went  out,  and  in  a  vety  thick 
jungle  of  the  clnmmr  bamboo  came 
near,  though  he  could  not  see  them. 
One  fellow  wa»  evidently  very  angry, 
growling  and  screaming  out  sharp 
shrill  trumpet!  every  now  and  then. 
On  passing mts  asnull  opening, G — 
heard,  and  almost  at  the  same  mo- 
ment  saw,  an  elephant,  dashing  at 
faim.  He  fired  his  two  barrets,  but 
a  clump  of  tbe  bamboos  making  the 
beast  take  a  diagonal  direction  at  the 
moment,  the  shot  was  a  slanting  one. 
Hie  gun-bearer  gallantly  put  a  &esh 
sun  into  his  hand,  but  m  taking  it 
Ee  slipped  and  fell,  and,  as  the  ele- 
phant was  then  light  above  him, 
fired  upwards  under  his  trank.  llie 
beast  dropped  over  G — ,who  ascribes 
bis  Bsfe^  to  bis  being  either  under 

*"' ' ^Ktweenhis  l^s.  He  says 

in  was  what  he  should 
D  were  to  iall  on 


lind  legs,  and  back  again, 
certain  is,  that  the  ele- 
bave  been  well  bothered, 
ray  leaving  G —  with  his 
y  smashM  to  pieces,  and 

J  much  bruised  in  the 
y,  and  with  several  ugly 
lis  fkce,  which  was  after- 
illv  swollen  and  dis- 
le,  nowever,  rode  on  near 
!s  that  day,  and  arrived 
next  monung  quite  ex- 
,  be  could  N^  to  account 


fbr  bii  amieftnuioe  at  the  door  of  a 
brother-officer  being  the  wiwd  '^  Ele- 

C'  tut,  elephant"  By  the  care  of 
medicu  friends,  be  was  set  np 
again  in  id)ont  a  fortnigbt,  and  u 
now  at  this  present  writing  with 
nwrely  a  eonple  of  little  acars  on  his 
nose  and  lip,  laboriously  endeftTOur- 
in^,  by  every  soplustiy  of  calcu- 
latton,  to  antedate  tbe  period  when 
be  may  be  again  at  woric.  Sbootiif 
singly  is  a  good  deal  praetised,  bat 
of  course  It  multiplies  tbe  nn&vow- 
able  chances  of  tne  sport  very  eosi- 
siderably.  Nor  does  a  lai^  par^ 
very  much  diminish  them,  aa  after 
the  elephants  break  it  is  every  one 
for  himself.  The  safest  mode  is  to 
shoot  by  twos,  who  agree  to  take 
alternate  shots ;  but  men  sepMste 
even  with  this  arrangement. 
And  now,  sir,  I  fear  we  have  given 

Ca  surfat  of  elephant-shooting ; 
it  was  our  wish  to  shew  tbe  tort 
of  sport  it  is,  and  to  aasnre  those 
brotber-officen  who  may  be  destined 
to  serve  here,  and  who  care  tor 
shooting,  that  to  ramble  over  tlus 
most  besutil\il  of  created  lands  with 
this  sport  as  an  object  is  a  good  to 
thank  Heaven  for,  which  ^gbtens 
beyond  conception  tbe  tiresome  mo- 
notony of  tropical  life.  I  do  not 
think  that  the  conscientious  could 
object  to  it  on  the  score  of  cruelty, 
for  the  elephants  destroy  a  very 
great  deal  of  cultivation,  and  no  in- 
coniridenibte  number  of  lives,  fiat 
there  are  other  objections  which  it 
is  easier  to  state  than  to  answer,  and 
which  I  do  not  deny  are  urged,  even 
here,  against  tbe  sport  by  some  who 
have,  as  well  as  by  many  who  have 
not,  enjoyed  it.  Take  tbem  in  the 
words  of  Moli^re : — 


Msi 

Et 

•  d-sller 

ISiDSi 

ui  coan 

tUsqnsr  ds  cm  Mt«  ft- 

«nn  raspMl  pom  Im  beta 
mas, 
Dt  iMBsas,  qui  l«s  vsalent 

C'a 

Mna  so 

1846.]       Past  and  Pnant  ConOUion  of  BriHsh  Poetry. 


677 


PAST  AVD  PRESENT   CONDITION    OF   BRITISH    POBTRT. 


*T»  sixty  years  since  a  thin  quarto 
vc^mne  appeared  in  London  with 
the  plain  and  unpretending  title  of 
An  Ode  to  Svpentiiioh^  and  $ome 
oAer  Poenu^  and  exactly  the  same 
numher  of  years  since  a  thin  octavo 
mpeared  at  Kilmarnock,  entitled, 
JPoenu^  ekiefltf  in  the  Scottish  Dialect, 
The  thin  quarto  was  the  production 
of  Samuel  Rogers,  a  young  gentle- 
man  of  education,  the  son  of  a  London 
banker ;  the  thin  octavo  the  produc- 
tion of  Bohert  Bums,  a  Scottbh 
ploughboy,  without  education,  and 
almost  without  a  penny  in  the  world. 
*Tis  fifty  years  since  Bums  was 
buried  in  the  kirkyard  of  St.  Mi- 
chael's : 

**  O  esrly  ripe,  to  tby  tbnndsut  itore, 
\Vbat  could  sdTMiciiig  age  have  added 
move! 

*While  the  poet  of  the  Ode  to  Super- 
Mtition  is  still  among  us,  fbll  of  years 
and  full  of  health,  and  as  much  in 
love  with  poetrv  as  ever.  ^*  It  is,  I 
coi^ess,**  savs  CJowley,  ^  hut  seldom 
seen  tiiat  tne  poet  dies  hefore  the 
roan;  for  when  once  we  ikll  in  love 
with  that  hewitching  art,  we  do  not 
use  to  court  it  as  a  mistress,  hut 
marry  it  as  a  wife,  and  take  it  for 
better  or  worse,  as  an  inseparable 
companion  of  our  whole  life.**  It 
was  so  with  Waller  when  he  was 
eighty -two,  and  is  so  with  Mr. 
Bogers  now  that  he  is  eighty -one. 
Long  may  it  he  so : — 

**  If  envioos  buokies  view  wi*  iorrow 
Tby  lengthen'd  days  on  tbtt  bleat  morrow. 
May  Deaolatioa'a  long-teetb'd  barrow. 

Nine  milea  an  boor. 
Rake  tbem^Iike  Sodom  and  Gomonab, 

la  bronstane  stoure." 

Waller  *' was  the  delight  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  and,  even  at  eighty, 
he  sud  the  liveliest  things  of  any 
amonffthem.**  How  trae  of  Sogers, 
at  eighty,  at  his  own,  or  at  any  other 
table  I 

The  poet  of  An  Ode  to  Sn^pereH^ 
tkm  has  ouUived  a  whole  generation 
of  poets,  poetasters,  and  poetitos; 
has  seen  the  rise  and  decline  of 
Bchoob,  Lake,  Cockney,  and  Sa- 
tanic—the changeful  caprices  of  taste 


—the  injurious  effects  of  a  coterie  of 
iHends  —  the  impartial  verdicts  of 
Time  and  athird  generation— another 
Temple  of  Fame— a  new  class  of  oc- 
cupants in  many  of  the  niches  of 
the  old — ^restorations,  depositions,  and 
removals,  and,  what  few  are  allowed 
to  see,  his  own  position  in  the  Temple 
pretty  well  determined,  not  so  high 
as  to  be  wondered  at,  nor  so  low  mtX 
he  can  escape  from  envy  and  even 
emulation.  Nor  is  this  all :  he  has 
lived  to  see  Poetry  at  its  last  gasp 
among  us;  the  godlike  race  oi  the 
last  generation  expiring  or  extinct, 
and  no  new-comers  in  thdr  stead; 
just  as  if  Nature  chose  to  lie  fidlow 
for  a  time,  and  verse  was  to  usurp 
the  place  of  poetry,  desire  for  skill, 
and  the  ambition  and  impudence  of 
daring  for  the  flight  and  the  rap- 
tures of  the  trae-Dom  poet. 

If  such  is  the  case,  that  Poetry  is 
pretty  well  extinct  among  us — ^wmch 
no  (me,  I  believe,  has  the  hardihood 
to  gainsay  —  a  retrospective  review 
of  what  our  great  men  accomplished 
in  the  long  and  important  reign  of 
King  Geoise  HI.  ^tne  era  that  has 
just  eone  oy)  will  not  be  deemed 
devoid  of  interest  at  this  time.  The 
subject  is  a  very  varied  one,  is  as 
yet  without  an  historian,  nor  has 
hitherto  received  that  attention  in 
critical  detail  so  pre-eminently  due 
to  a  period  productive  of  so  many 
poems  of  real  and  lastiuff  merit, — 
poems  as  varied,  I  may  and,  as  any 
era  in  our  literature  can  exhibit,  the 
celebrated  Elixabethan  period,  per- 
haps, but  barely  exoeptea. 

A  new  race  of  poets  came  in  with 
King  6eoi]p;e  IIL,  for  the  poeta  of 
the  precedmg  reigns  who  lived  to 
witness  the  accession  of  the  king 
either  survived  that  event  but  a  very 
few  years,  or  were  unwilling  to 
risk  their  repntationi*  in  any  new 
contest  for  distinctjon.  Young  was 
far  advanced  in  years,  and  content— 
and  wisely  so— with  the  ikme  of  his 
SaHree  and  his  Night  Tho^ghUi 
Gray  had  written  his  J!Z%y  and  his 
Met,  and  was  annotating  Liunsus 
withmthewallsofacoll^;  Shen- 
stone  found  full  oocimm»ii  for  the 
remainder  of  his 


578 


Pa$i  and  Present  CandiH&n  of  BriH$h  Poetry.        [May, 


the  Leaaowes  to  Buit  the  genius  of  the 
pkoe;  Johnson  was  put  above  nc- 
oeflsitv  and  the  booktetlen  by  a  pen- 
sion from  the  crown ;  Akenside  and 
Armstrong  were  pursuing  their  pro- 
fession of  physicians ;  Lyttelton  was 
bnsypntting  points  ana  periods  to 
his  lustonr;  Smollett,  in  seeking  a 
nrecarions  livelihood  from  prose ;  and 
Mallet  employed  in  defending  the 
administration  of  Lord  Bute,  and 
earning  the  wagai  of  a  penson  from 
Ae  mmister.  Three  atone  adhered 
in  anyway  to  verse :  Mason  was  em- 
ployed in  contemplating  his  BngltMh 
Ckardeu  ;  Glover»  m  browns  over  his 
poathnmons  AAenaid;  and  Home,  in 
writing  new  tragedies  to  edipse,  if  pos- 
sible, the  early  instte  of  his  Dau^at. 

There  was  room  for  a  new  noe  of 
poets.  Kor  was  it  loi^  befive  a  new 
set  of  candidates  fbr  distinction  came 
forward  to  suppl v  the  places  of  the 
old.  The  voke  oi  the  Mnse  was  first 
awakened  in  E^nhurgh  and  Aber- 
deen. I  can  find  no  earlier  publica- 
tion of  the  3rear  1 760  than  a  thin  oc- 
tavo of  seventy  P&S^  printed  at 
Edinburrii,  entitled,  FragmetiU  of 
Ancient  Poetry^  coUeeied  in  the  High^ 
lands  of  Seotlandj  and  trandated 
from  the  OaeUc  or  Evm  Ua^guage^ 
the  first  edkion  of  a  work  which  has 
had  its  influence  in  the  literature  of 
our  country,  the  fkr^fiuued  Ossian, 
the  favtrarite  poem  of  the  great  Napo- 
leon. **  Have  you  seen,**  says  Gray, 
**the  Erse  Fragments  since  they 
were  printed  ?  i  am  more  puaded 
than  ever  about  their  antiquity, 
thonffh  I  still  indine  (against  every 
bodj^s  opinion)  to  believe  them  old. 
Manjr,  like  Gtv|r,  were  alive  to  their 
beauties :  m^ptry  was  made  upon  in- 
qufary,  and  dissertation  led  to  disser- 
tation. It  WW  long,  however,  befiyre 
uie  poinis  in  ^spute  were  jettledt 
and  mt  authorship  brought  home  to 
the  pen  of  the  translator.  The  Frc^ 
merdi  have  had  a  beneficial  and  a  last-^ 
VB^  efiect  upon  finslish  literature. 
The  i^'andeor  of  Ossian  emboldeoed 
the  wm  of  the  youthful  Byron,  and 
the  nolm  daring  of  the  allusions  and 
illustrations  eountenanced  the  author 
of  The  Etme  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 
in  what  was  new  and  faazardouis  when 
Haylcy  hdd,  and  Darwin  was  about 
to  assume,  a  high  but  temporary  po- 
sition in  our  poetiy. 

The  Aberdeen  volimie  of  poems 
tod  translations  ifiro.  1761)  was  the 


first  publication  of  Beattie,  the  author 
of  The  Mhutrel.  So  lightly,  we  are 
told,  did  Beattie  think  of  this  collec- 
tion that  he  used  to  destroy  all  the 
conies  he  could  procure,  and  would 
only  suffcr  fbur  of  the  pieees — and. 
those  mudi  altered — to  stand  in  the 
same  volume  with  the  Minstrel. 
Beattie  acquhned  a  very  slender  repu- 
tation by  tnisfirstheir  ofhisinventioB ; 
nor  would  it  appear  to  have  been 
known  much  b^rond  the  walls  of  tfie 
Marischal  CoUe^,  before  the  Jlfdi- 
itrd  drew  attention  to  its  pam,  and 
excited  onrioeity  to  see  what  m  sae- 
oenAil  poet  on  this  oecasion  had 
vrritten  unsuccessftilly  before.  Id 
the  same  year  in  which  Beattie  ap- 
peared, a  new  candidate  came  Ihr- 
ward  to  startle,  astonish,  and  anooy. 
The  reputation  of  a  poet  of  hMer 
powers  than  Beattie  seemed  lik^  to 
exhibit  would  have  sunk  before  tiie 
fiune  of  the  new  aapinuit.  I  allude 
to  ChurehiU,  whose  first  publiea- 
tion,  The  Rosciadj  appeared  in  the 
March  of  1761,  and  without  the 
autbor*$  name.  This  was  a  lud^, 
and,  what  is  more,  a  clever  hit  l£e 
town,  a  little  republic  in  itseli^  went 
mad  about  the  poem ;  and  when  the 
author*s  name  was  prefixed  to  a  se- 
cond edition,  the  poet  was  w^comed 
by  the  public  as  no  new  poet  had 
ever  been  before.  Nor  was  his  se- 
cond publication — his  Apology — ia- 
ierior  to  his  first.  }h»  name  waa 
heard  in  every  circle  of  fashiont  s^ 
in  every  co£fee-hoaae  in  town.  Kor 
did  he  suffer  his  rejiutation  to  fiag. 
but  keot  the  puhUc  m  one  oontinual 
state  of  excitement  ibr  the  remainder 
of  his  life.  He  attacked  the  whole 
race  of  aetors  in  hk  EoMad;  the 
Critieal  Beviewen  <lhe  FdinhurA 
and  Qiaarierly  Beviewcnof  theds^^, 
in  his  Apology;  iSbm  wiMde  Scottiah 
nation,  in  fan  P'^pkegf  of  Famtm; 
Dr.  Johnson,  in  Tie  6/koet;  and  EU>- 
garthy  in  A  FofmUur  JSpietie,  Evenr 
person  of  distmetion  expected  that  rt 
was  to  be  his  turn  next ;  and  therp 
was  no  saying  where  his  satire  would 
not  have  reached,  for  he  was  boay 
with  a  caustic  dedication  4o  War-' 
burton  when,  on  the  4th  of  No^ 
vember,  1764,  he  died  ait  Boulone,  at 
the  too  early  age  ofthree-and-fliirty. 
Dr.  Toung  survived  htm  nearly  a 
year.  YHiatthe  predeoessorofl^pe 
in  satke  thonght  of  the  jiew  aattxwt, 
no  one  has  told  its. 


1846.]        Pa$t  and  Pre$ent  CondHkm  of  BriiUh  Poetry. 


679 


While  "*  the  noisy  Churehill**  en* 
grossed  to  himself  the  whole  atten* 
tion  of  the  public,  a  poem  appeared 
in  May  1762,  likely  to  outuve  the 
caustic  effusions  of  the  satirist,  he* 
cause,  with  equal  talent,  it  is  based 
on  less  fleeting  materials.  This  vras 
2^tf  Shipwreck^  a  Poem^  m  Three 
Cantos^  ova  SaUar;  better  known  as 
Falconer^  Shwwreck,  and  deservedly 
remembered  for  its  **  shnple  tale,**  its 
beautiful  transcripts  of  reality,  and 
as  adding  a  congenial  and  peculiarly 
British  subject  to  the  mat  body  of 
our  island  poetry.  The  popularity 
of  Churchill  kept  it  on  the  shelves  of 
the  booksellers  for  a  time,  hut  it 
soon  rose  into  a  reputation,  and  no- 
tiling  can  now  occur  to  keep  it 
down. 

When  Goldanuth  published  his 
first  poem  {Hie  Traveller)  in  the 
December  of  1764,  Churchill  had 
been deadaraontii,  and  there  was  room 
for  a  new  poet  to  supply  his  place. 
Nor  were  critics  wantii^  who  were 
aUe  and  willing  to  help  it  forward. 
"  Such  is  the  poem,**  says  Dr.  John- 
son, who  reviewed  H  in  the  CritkaL 
Beview^  '*  on  which  we  now  con- 
gratulate the  public,  as  on  a  produc- 
tion to  which,  since  the  death  of 
Pope,  it  will  not  be  easy  to  find  any 
thing  equal.'*  This  was  high  pnise, 
not  ooimdered  undeserved  at  the 
time,  nor  thought  so  now.  Such, 
indeed,  was  the  reputation  of  the 
TraveOer^  that  it  was  likely  to  have 
led  to  a  further  succession  of  poets 
in  tiie  school  of  Fopr,  but  for  the 
timely  interposition  of  a  collection  of 
poems  which  called  our  attention  off 
nom  the  study  of  a  single  school, 
and  directed  the  young  and  risinff 
poets  to  a  wider  ra^  for  study  ana 
imitation. 

This  collection  of  poems  was 
Percy's  HeByneg  of  Ancient  EnafUOi 
Jawfrjf,  Sat  or  tne  most  tastchil  cJ- 
TeetJons  cf  poems  in  any  language, 
and  one  of  tne  best  and  most  vndely 
known:  «  The  publication  of  whieh,'^ 
says  Sonthey,  ■*  must  form  an  epoch 
in  the  histcny  of  our  poetry  wnen- 
ever  it  is  written.**  The  first  edition 
appeared  in  1765,  a  year  remarkable 
in  more  ways  tiian  one.  Dr.  Young, 
tile  sole  survivor  of  tftie  poets  of  the 
last  generation,  died,  at  the  great  we 
of  eighty-fburi  on  the  Sth  of  April ; 
and  Mr.  Rogers,  the  stift  suryirh^ 
patriarch  of  the  past  generation  of 


poets,  was  bom  on  the  SOtii  of  July 
of  the  same  year. 

The  effect  of  the  ReUguee  was  more 
immediate  than  some  have  been 
willing  to  imagine.  The  Hermit  of 
Goldsmitii,  a  p^Ucation  of  the  fol- 
lowing year^  or^;inated  in  the  Be^ 
Uqnee;  and  the  3fmi«^tf /  of  BeaAtie,  a 
publication  of  the  year  1771,  in  tlie 
prelimhuuy  dtssertatkm  pneftzed  to 
thevolnaMB.  If  Ferejr  had  rendered 
no  other  service  to  lileratuie  than 
the  suggestion  of  the  MtrntreL,  \m 
name  would  deserve  rei^iect  ^  The 
Mhulrel,''  mm  Sontiiey,  ««wm  an 
inddcBlal  efleot  of  Percy's  rolumes. 
Their  immediate  eooseqfience  was  to 
a  swann  of '  legendary  tales,' 
in  their  stjde,  about  as  much 
to  the  gennine  ballad  as 
the  heroes  of  a  Frendi  tngedy  to 
the  historical  peraonam  whose  names 
they  bear,  or  a  set  orstafie-danees  to 
the  lads  and  lasses  of  a  village-green 
in  the  old  tones  of  the  maypoie.*' 
This  was  the  more  immediate  effect; 
the  lasting  result  of  the  Rdiqnee  was 
their  directing  the  rude  gropings  of 
genius  in  a  Soott,  a  Soutwy,  a  Oole- 
ri(ke,  and  a  Weidsworth. 

fieattie  reappeared  in  1766  witii 
a  volumeof  poems,  better  by  fiur  than 
wfaai  he  had  done  before,  but  still 
insuffioieiit  to  aoUeve  the  reputa- 
tion which  the  JtfKiulrelsubsequentiy 
aoanired  for  the  author  of  tu 
volume.  A  second  randidate  was 
Cunningham,  a  player,  still  miem« 
bered  for  his  Kate  of  Aberdeen^  a 
short  hoi  charming  puce  of  simple- 
hearted  poetry.  Poor  Cunningham 
made  no  sreat  wa^  with  his  vevM ; 
he  had  demcated  his  volume,  with  all 
the  amhitfan  of  an  actor,  to  no  Ioh 
a  pwisMisge  timi  Oarrick ;  hut  the 
head  of  tkt  pateulee  pUyers  re- 
oeiyed  the  amier's  poetry  with  in* 
difftKiKiee,aiiddid  not  on  tkisoce»- 
aon  repay-^wbich  he  eomaMNdy 
did-.hisenoominns''mkmd.*'  Bnt 
the  poeioftiie  year  1766  was  Anatey, 
with  his  New  BaA  Oviie. 

■ayi  Walp»le,  "  that  will  male  you  split 
your  cheeks  with  laughing.  It  is  called 
the  Ntw  Bath  Guide.  It  stole  into  the 
world,  and,  for  a  fortnigbt,  no  soul 
looked  into  it,  concluding  its  name  was 
its  true  name.  No  sueh  thing.  It  is  a 
act  of  letters  in  verse,  describing  the  life 
at  Bath,  and  inetdeotrily  etery  thing 
else ;  but  so  macli  wit,  so  mnch  bamour. 


I 


580 


Poit  and  Preuni  CanditUm  of  Brituh  Poetry.         [Maj» 


7 


fan,  aimI  poetry,  Mrer  met  together  be- 
fore. I  can  iay  it  by  heart,  end,  if  I  bad 
time,  would  write  it  you  down  -,  for  it  ia 
not  ret  reprinted,  and  not  one  to  be 
had/ 

Giay  oommeiided  it  to  Wharton,  and 
Smdlett  wrote  his  Humphrey  Clinker 
ftbe  hist  and  beet  of  lus  worka)  on 
Anetey'e  prineijde  in  his  Chdde. 

A  pnbucation  of  the  year  1767, 
called  the  BeauUet  ofEnMk  Poeey, 
ededed  bv  Oliver  GoldtnM,  de- 
senres  to  be  remarked.  The  selec- 
L  tion  seems  to  ha^e  been  made  as  a 
\  sort  of  antidote  to  Percy's  ReH/ptee. 
'*My  bookseller  having  informed 
me,  he  says,  "that  there  was  no 
coUeetion  of  English  poetry  among 
ns  of  any  estimation,  ...  I  there- 
fore offer  this,"  he  adds,  **  to  the  best 
oi  my  judgment,  as  the  best  collec- 
tion that  has  yet  appeared.  I  claim 
no  merit  in  the  choice,  as  it  was  ob- 
Tious,  for  in  all  languages  the  best 
productions  are  most  easily  found.** 
it  will  hardly  be  beliered  by  any 
one  who  hears  it  for  the  tint  time, 
that  a  poet  of  Goldsmith's  taste  in 
poetiy  could  have  made  a  selection 
from  our  poets  without  including  a 
iingle  poet  (Milton  excepted)  from 
the  noole  race  of  poets  who  pre- 
ceded the  Restoration.  Yet  such, 
however,  is  the  case ;  and  I  can  onlv 
account  for  the  principle  on  which 
tibe  selection  would  appear  to  have 
been  made,  that  it  was  meant  as  an 
antidote  to  Percy's  publication,  or 
that  Goldsmith  (and  this  is  not  un- 
likely) was  perfectly  unacquainted 
with  the  poets  of  a  period  previous 
to  Dryden  and  Pope. 

Michael  Bruce,  a  young  and 
promising  poet,  died  in  the  year  1767, 
at  the  too  early  age  of  twenty-one. 
Some  of  his  poems — and  they  were 
posthumously  published,  without  the 
lut  touches  of  the  author — ^possess 
unusual  beauties.  His  Lochleven  is 
called,  by  Coleridge,  '*a  poem  of 
great  merit;**  and  the  same  great 
critic  directs  attention  to  what  he 
calls  "  the  following  exquisite  pass- 
age, expressing  the  effects  of  a  fine 
dtay  on  the  human  heart  :**— 

'*  Fat  on  the  plain  and  mountain's  sunny 

aide. 
Large  droves  of  oxen,  and  the  fleecy 

flockt. 
Feed  undisturbed  ;  ond  £11  the  eoboing  air 
With  music  grateral  to  the  master's  ear. 


The  traveller  itopa,  and  gasea  rooad  and 

round 
0*er  all  the  acenea,  that  aniasete  hia  heart 
With  mirth  and  munc.    Et'ji  the  mra. 

dicant, 
Bowbent  with  age,  that  on  the  old  grej 

atone, 
Sole  aittinr,  suns  him  in  the  public  war, 
Feela  hia  heart  leap,  and  to  himaelf  he 

aings." 

Another  poet^  whose  song  eeased 
before  he  had  time  to  do  stul  better 
things,  was  poor  Falconer,  who 
perished  at  sea,  in  the  Aurora  frigate, 
in  the  year  1769.  He  had  sung  hk 
own  catastrophe  in  his  Sk^noredt 
ooJy  a  few  years  before. 

The  poem  of  the  year  1770  was 
The  Deserted  VSlage — in  some  re- 
spects a  superior  poem  to  7%e  Tra» 
veUer,  It  was  immediately  a  favou- 
rite, and  in  less  than  four  months 
had  run  through  five  editions.  Gray 
thought  Goldsmith  a  genuine  poet 
"  I  was  with  him,**  says  NichoUs, 
^  at  Malvern,  when  he  received  the 
Deeerled  ViUaate^  which  he  dedred 
me  to  read  to  nim;  he  listoaed  with 
fixed  attention,  and  soon  exclaimed, 
'  This  man  is  a  poet  I*  ** 

If  The  Deeerted  Village  was,  as  it 
certainly  is,  an  accession  to  our  poetiy, 
the  deaUi  of  Akenside  and  the  fiur  too 
premature  removal  of  Chatterton 
were  real  losses  in  the  very  same  year 
in  which  Groldsmith's  great  poem 
appeared.  Akenside  ha^  no  doubt, 
sang  his  son^,  but  Chatterton  was 
only  in  his  eighteenth  year.  What 
a  production  for  a  boy  was  the  ballad 
of  •'  Su:  Charles  Bawdin !  **  There 
is  nothing  nobler  of  the  kind  in  the 
whole  compass  of  our  poetry.  "Tasso 
alone,**  says  Campbell,  *'can  be 
compared  to  him  as  a  juv^iile  prodigy. 
No  English  poet  ever  equalled  him 
at  the  same  age.** 

The  Deserted  ViOage  of  the  year 
1770  was  followed  in  1771  by  the  first 
book  of  The  Mmsird^  a  poem  which 
has  given  more  delight  to  minds  of 
a  certain  class,  and  Uiat  class  a  high 
one,  than  any  other  poem  in  the  Ei^- 
lish  language.  Smce^eattie  composed 
the  poem  on  which  his  fame  relies, 
and  securely  too  for  an  hereafter, 
many  poems  of  a  far  loftier  and  even 
a  more  ordinal  character  have  been 
added  to  the  now  almost  overipown 
body  of  our  poetiy,  yet  Beattie  is  stUl 
the  poet  for  the  young;  and  still  in 
Edwin — ^that  happy  perBonification  of 


1 846.]        Past  and  Present  Condition  of  British  Poetry. 


58i 


the  poetic  tempenunent — ^roang  and 
enthusiastic  readers  delignt  and  re- 
cognise a  picture  of  themselres. 
Grajr  lived  to  commend  and  to  cor- 
rect it — with  the  taste  of  a  true  poet 
and  the  ffenerosity  of  an  unselfish 
one.  "Tnis  of  all  others,**  he  says, 
**  is  my  fkyourite  stanza :  it  is  true 
poetnr,itis  inspiration.**  The  stanza 
IS  vrell  known, — 

"  O,  how  canst  tbou  renounce," 

and  shares  with  a  stanza  in  the 
CasUe  of  Indolence  the  applause  of 
nations. 

Mason,  in  1771,  put  forth  a  new 
edition  of  his  Poems^  and  in  a  se- 
parate publication  the  same  year  the 
nrst  book  of  his  English  Garden. 
To  the  Poems  he  has  made  a  few 
additions,  but  nothing  so  beautiful  as 
his  enitaph  on  his  wife,  inscribed 
ujpon  ner  grave  in  Bristol  Cathedral. 
Tne  lines  are  well  known,  but  not 
so  the  circumstance  onlv  recently  pub- 
lished, that  the  last  four  lines  were 
written  by  Gray : — 

"  Tell  them,  though  'lis  an  awful  thiog  to 
die, 
(Twas  e'en  to  tbee)  yet  the  dread  path 
once  trod, 
Heav*n  lifts  its  ererlasting  portals  high, 
And  bids  'the  pure  in  heart  behold 
their  God."*^ 

We  learn  from  the  same  unques- 
tionable quarter  (the  Reminiscences 
of  the  Bev.  Norton  Nicholls\  that 
Gray  thought  very  little  of  what  he 
had  seen  of  the  English  Oarden. 
^*  He  mentioned  the  poem  of  the 
Garden  with  disapprobation,  and  said 
it  should  not  be  published  if  he 
could  prevent  it.**  There  are  lines 
and  passages,  however,  of  tme  poetry 
throughout  the  poem,  which  form  in 
themselves  an  agreeable  accession  to 
our  stock  of  favourite  ^assiffes.  How 
exquisite,  for  instance,  is  this  :— 

"  Many  a  glade  is  found 
The  haunt  of  wood-godi  only;  where^ 

if  art 
£'er   dared   to   tread,  'twas  with   un- 

sandalled  foot, 
Printleas,    as   if  the   place  were  holy 

ground." 

The  poem,  however,  made  but  a 
very  slender  impression  on  the  public 


mind,  nor  is  it  now  much  read,  save 
by  the  student  of  ourjpoetry,  to  whom 
it  affords  a  lesson  of  miportance. 

The  only  remembered  publication 
in  poetry  of  the  year  1773  was 
The  Heroic  EpisOe  to  Sir  WiOiam 
Chambers^ — a  caustic  attack,  replete 
with  wit,  humour,  and  invective,  on 
the  architect's  Chinese  eocentridties 
in  the  gardens  at  Kew.  It  was  long 
before  Bfason  was  suspected  of  the 
satire.  Tom  Warton  was  the  first  to 
attribute  it  to  his  pen ;  he  said  it  was 
Walpole's  hnchramed  up  by  Mason. 
But  Walpole,  from  a  letter  to  Mason 
only  reoentlv  published,  would  appear 
to  nave  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
**I  have  read  it,**  writes  Walpole, 
"  so  very  often,  that  I  have  got  it  by 
heart,  and  now  I  am  master  of  all  its 
beauties.  I  confess  I  like  it  infiniteljr 
better  than  I  did,  though  I  liked  it 
infinitely  before.  But  what  signifies 
what/ think  P  All  the  world  Uunks 
the  same.  No  soul  has,  I  have  heard, 
guessed  within  a  hundred  miles.  I 
catched  at  Anstey*s,  and  have,  I  be* 
lieve,  contributed  to  spread  the  no* 
tion.  It  has  smce  been  called  Temple 
LnttrelFs,  and,  to  my  infinite  honour, 
mine.  But  now  that  you  have  tapped 
this  mine  of  talent,  and  it  runs  so 
richly  and  easily,  for  Heaven's  and 
for  England's  sake,  do  not  let  it 
rest*' 

The  Heroic  Epistle  was  followed, 
in  1774,  by  the  Judah  Restored^  of 
Koberts, — "  a  work,"  says  Campbell^ 
^  of  no  common  merit."  Southey 
calls  Uie  author  a  poet  of  the  same 
respectable  class  as  the  author  of 
Leonidas  and  the  Athentdd,  and  adds 
in  a  note,  *^  Dr.  Roberts*s  Jndah 
Restored  was  one  of  the  first  books 
that  I  ever  possessed.  It  was  given 
me  by  a  lady  whom  I  must  ever 
ffratemlly  and  affectionately  remem- 
ber as  the  kindest  friend  of  my 
boyhood.  I  read  it  often  then,  and 
can  still  recur  to  it  with  satisfaction ; 
and  perhaps  I  owe  something  to  the 
plain  dignity  of  its  style,  which  is 
suited  to  the  subject,  and  ever^ 
where  bears  the  stamp  of  good  sense 
and  careful  erudition.  To  acknow* 
ledge  obligations  of  this  kind  is  both 
a  pleasure  and  duty."*  I  have 
Southey's  copy  of  the  Jndah  before 
me  at  this  moment ;  on  the  fiy-leaf 
is  inscribed,  in  the  neat  hand-writ?'^ 


•  Southey's  Cowper,  VoL  iii.  p.  3^i 


582 


Poit  and  Present  Condition  of  BriH$h  Poetry.         [May, 


\ 


of  the  poet,  **•  Bobert  Southey-— given 
me  by  Mrs.  Dolignon,  1784/*  The 
poet  of  Kehoma  was  bom  the  year 
in  which  the  Jwiah  appeared,  and 
was  only  ten  years  old  when  a  copy 
of  the  poem  was  given  to  him  by 
the  lady  he  remembers  so  affection* 
ately  as  **  the  kindest  friend  of  his 
bc^nood.**  This  one  book  may  have 
had  the  same  effect  on  Soathey  that 
Spen8er*s  works  had  upon  the  mind 
of  Cowley :  **  I  had  read  nim  all  over,*' 
he  says,  ^  before  I  was  twelve  years 
dd,  and  was  thus  made  a  poet  as 
immediately  as  a  child  is  nnde  an 
eunuch.** 

On  the  4th  of  April,  1774,  died 
Oliver  Groldsmith,  leaving  unfortu- 
nately unfinished  one  of  the  best  of 
his  lighter  pieces — his  well-known 
and  inimitable  RetalkUum.  It  was 
published  a  fortnight  after  his  death, 
and  became  inunediately  a  fiivourite. 
A  second  posthumouspublication  of 
the  same  poet  was  The  Haunch  of 
Venison^  a  clever  ejostle  to  Lord 
Clare,  full  of  characteristic  beauties 
peculiar  to  its  author.  Both  pieces 
owe  something  to  Anstey  and  his 
Ouide — the  su^eestion  certainly. 

In  1776  Mickle  put  forth  his  trans- 
lation  of  the  Ltmad — free,  flowery, 
and  periphraatical,  full  of  spirit,  and 
not  devoid  of  boiuties,  but  untrue 
to  the  mfgestic  simplicity  of  the 
great  Portuguese. 

While   Croldsmith  was  confining 
his  selection  from  our  poets  to  a 
period  too  narrow  to  embrace  many 
of  the  nobler  productions  of  the 
British  Muse,  Gray  was  annotating 
Lydgate,  and   the   younger    War- 
ton    collecting    materials    lor    his 
History  of  JSngUsh   Poetry.      Our 
literature  lies  under  other  obla- 
tions   to    the   younger  Warton, — 
great  as  that  obligation  is  for  his 
noble  but  unfinished  History.    He 
was  the  first  to  explain  and  direct 
'  attention  to  many  or  the  less  obvious 
beauties  of  The  Faerie  Queens^  and, 
in  co]\junction  with  Edwards,  the 
first  to  revive  the  sonnet  among  us, 
favourite  form  of  verse  with  our 
lizabethan  poets,  with  Shakspeare 
^d  M'ith  Milton,  but  entirely  aban- 
^^  by  the  poets  who  came  after 
J^^  The  first  volume  of  Warton's 
^^^ory  Yff^  published  in  1774;  his 
^Try^    containing    his    sonnets    in 
PUbr      "^^  effect  produced  by  their 
^^tion  was  more  immediate  than 


has  hitherto  been  tbooftht.  We  owe 
the  sonnets  of  Bampfylae  (4to.  1778) 
to  the  example  of  the  yoonger 
Warton.  Nor  is  the  pupil  unwomy 
of  the  master,  or  unwuling  to  own 
bis  obligation.  Some  of  the  Six- 
teen Somtets  of  Bampfylde  (for  such 
is  the  title  of  his  thm  nnpreteodiiiff 
quarto)  are  ^'  beautiiul  exoeedin^y, 
and  in  one  (the  tenth)  Warton  is 
addressed  in  a  way  which  he  could 
well  iq>preciate. 

The  ffood  effects  of  Percy*8  Be- 
Uques^  n  artott*B  volume  of  JButory^ 
and  Warton's  Poems^  reoetved  n  tem- 
porary check  in  the  year  1779,  by 
the  publicatiott  of  the  first  part  of 
Johnson's  well-known  Lioee  of  the 
Poetsy  containing  his  celebrated  cri- 
ticism on  the  Lvcidas  of  MDton,  and 
his  noble  parauel  between  Drydea 
and  Pope.  The  concluding  portion 
of  the  Lives^  eontaiuing  his  ftmons 
abuse  of  Gray,  appeared  two  yean 
later  (1781),  ana,  like  the  Ibrmer 
portion  of  uie  work,  was  read  with 
deserved  avidity.  The  effect  was 
catching.  The  school  of  Dryden  and 
Pope  revived.  Hayley  wrote  his 
Triumphs  of  Temper  m  the  vene 
recommended  by  Johnson;  Cxabbe 
composed  his  Lwrary  and  his  Vdage 
in  the  same  versification;  Cowperhs 
TaUe  TaBi^  and  even  Mason  (though 
the  last  person  in  the  world  to  admit 
it)  his  translation  of  Du  Freanoy,  in 
Johnson's  oidy  measure. 

But  the  mx  of  Dr.  Johnson  did 
not  reach  beyond  the  grave,  and 
when  Cowper  put  forth  hie  Tcuk  m 
the  spring  of  1785,  the  great  critic 
was  no  more.  Not  that  Uowper  was 
tikely  to  be  deterred  firom  blank 
verse  by  the  eriticisDis  of  Johnson, 
for  the  Tatk  was  commenced  in 
Johnson's  lifetime,  and  in  the  saine 
structure  of  versification.  That  John- 
son could  have  hurt  the  aaie  fbra 
time  by  a  savage  remark  at  the  taUe 
of  B^frnolds,  no  one  acquainted  with 
the  literature  of  the  period  will  for  a 
moment  doubt.  That  he  could  have 
kept  the  poem  from  what  it  now 
possesses  and  deserves, — ^a  universal 
admiration,  it  would  be-  equally  ab- 
surd to  suppose  for  a  single  mo- 
ment. 

When  Cowper  put  forth  his  Task 
there  was  nojpoet  of  any  great  ability 
or  distinguished  name  in  the  field. 
Ilayley  ambled  over  the  course,  to 
use  an  expression  of  Southey,  with- 


184&]        Past  and  Present  Condition  of  Britiik  Postry. 


6B3 


out  a  comnetitori  Bat  Havky  had 
done  hut  Dest,  poor  as  fnat  was, 
though  his  di^  was  hardly  by.  It 
was  Cowper  who  foroed  us  from  the 
fetten  wuich  Johnson  had  forsed  for 
future  poets,  and  Hayley  had  done 
his  best  to  rivet  and  retun.  Nor  was 
Cowper  without  some  assistance  at 
this  time.  Evans's  old  ballads  did 
something  to  extend  a  taste  for  the 
early  but  unlaiown  masters  of  our 
poetry.  Some  of  Mickle^s  imitations, 
m  the  same  collection,  were  read  by 
younger  minds  with  an  influence  of 
which  we  enjoy  the  fruits  to  this 
day.  Charlotte  Smith  put  forth  a 
volume  of  her  sonnets,  replete  with 
touching  sentiment,  eminently  charac- 
teristic of  the  softer  graces  of  the 
female  mind,  and  the  late  Sir  Egerton 
Brydges,  a  volume  of  poems,  con- 
taining one  noble  sonnet  (*'  Echo  and 
Silence  ")  which,  though  neglected  at 
the  time,  will  live  as  long  as  anv 
of  its  length  in  the   English 


le  /WaA  was  followed  bv  a  volume 
of  poems  from  a  provincial  press  full 
of  the  very  finest  poetiy,  and  one 
that  has  stood  its  test,  and  will  stand 
for  ever.  The  author  of  the  Task 
was  of  noble  extraction,  and  counted 
kin  with  hu'd-chancellors  and  earls. 
His  fellow-author  was  a  noor  Scottish 
peasant,  nameless  and  unknown  when 
nis  poems  were  put  forth,  but  known, 
and  deservedly  known,  wherever  the 
langasge  of  his  countiy  has  been 
heard.  This  poet  was  Robert  Bums. 
Cowper  and  Bums  were  far  too 
nobly  constituted  to  think  disoourag- 
ing^y  of  one  another.  **  Is  not  the 
TdurA,**  says  Bums,  *^a  glorious 
peon?'*  The  n^fpaa  of  the  Task^ 
bating  a  few  scraps  of  *^  Calvinistic 
trinity,  is  the  reugioa  of  God  and 
Nature ;  the  relinon  that  exalts  and 
ennobles  man.**  "IhavereadBums's 
poems,'*  says  Cowper,  **  and  have  read 
them  twice;  and  though  they  be 
written  in  a  language  that  is  new  to 
me,  and  many  of  them  on  subjects 
much  inferior  to  the  author's  ability, 
I  think  them  on  the  whole  a  very 
eztraordmary  production.  He  is,  I 
believe,  the  only  poet  these  kingdoms 
haveproducedintne  lower  rankoflife 
save  bhakspeare  (I  should  rather  say 
save  Rior),  who  need  not  be  indebted 
for  any  part  of  his  praise  to  a  cha- 
ritable consideration  of  his  origin,  and 
the  diandvautages  under  wmch  he 


has  laboured^  It  will  be  laty  if  he 
should  not  hevealter  divert  himsdf 
of  barbazism,  and  cont^t  himself 
with  writing  pure  English,  in  which 
he  appears  pmeetly  qualified  to  ex- 
cel. He  who  can  command  admira- 
tion dishonours  himself  if  he  aims 
no  hkher  than  to  raise  a  langh.** 
This,  let  it  be  remembered,  was  writ- 
ten at  the  time  when  the  poet*s  re- 
putation was  as  yet  unconfirmed, 
but  the  praise  is  ample,  and  such  as 
Bums  would  have  loved  to  have 
heard  from  Cowper's  Cps.  "Poor 
Bums  r  he  writes  in  another  letter, 
"  loses  much  of  his  deserved  praise 
in  this  country  through  our  ignorance 
of  his  language.  I  despair  of  meet- 
ing with  any  Englishman  who  iinll 
take  the  pains  that  I  have  taken  to 
understand  him.  Hiscandle  is  bright, 
but  shut  up  in  a  dark  lantern.  I 
lent  him  to  a  very  sensible  neighbour 
of  mint:  but  his  uncouth  dialect 
spoiled  all ;  and  before  he  had  hidf 
lead  him  through,  he  was  quite  ram' 
feezUdP  Hie  word  to  which  Cow- 
per alludes  occur*  in  the  ^  Epistle  to 
Lapraik;"  if  the  mcwuDg  wae  some- 
what difiiealt  at  the  time,  few  wfll 
need  to  be  tc^d  it  now.  The  study  of 
Bums  isvery  general  ia  Engla&d,  and 
in  Ireland  he  is  almost  as  much  un- 
derstood and  iq^reciated  asin  has  own 
cenntiy. 

Mr.  Rogers  appeared  as  a  poet  hi 
the  same  year  with  Bams.  But  his 
Ods  to  Snpergtitiim  was  little  read  at 
the  time,  and  his  fame  rests  now  on 
a  wide  and  a  seeure  foundation. 
Another  poet  of  the  same  year  was 
Heniy  Headle^,  a  younff  and  pro- 
mising writer,  unbned  with  a  iae  and 
cultivated  taste,  of  which  his  two 
volumes  of  selections  from  our  eariy 
poets,  published  in  the  following 
year,  is  still  an  enduring  testimony. 
If  Goldsmith  had  lived  to  have  seen 
these  selections  published,  culled  by 
a  boy  of  barely  twenty-one,  he 
surely  would  have  blushed  to  have 
look^  upon  his  own. 

There  were  other  candidates  for 
distinction  at  this  time,  imbued  with 
the  same  tastes  and  fostered  in  the 
same  quarter,  the  cloisters  of  Trinity 
College,  Oxford,  and  the  wards  of 
Windiester  School.  The  first  was 
Thomas  Russell,  prematurely  snatch- 
ed away  (1788)  m  his  twenty-sixtl* 
year,  leaving  a  few  sonnets  anc 
poeois  bdiind  him,  which  his  friendi 


584 


Past  and  Present  Condiiian  ofBritiih  Poetry,         [May, 


judged  worthy  of  knowing  hereafter. 
That  he  had  mtended  his  poems  for 
publication  was  somewhat  uncertain ; 
that  he  was  gifted  with  no  ordinary 
genius,  the  ma^^nificent  sonnet  sup- 
posed to  be  written  at  Lemnos  has 
put  beyond  the  pale  of  cavil  or  sus- 
picion. The  second  candidate  for 
distinction  was  William  Lisle  Bowles, 
whose  fourteen  sonnets  appeared  in 
1789,  while  he  was  yet  an  under- 
ffraduate  at  Oxford.  The  younger 
Warton  lived  long  enoiigh  to  foretell 
the  future  distinction  of  the  boy  his 
brother  had  brought  up;  Coleridge, 
to  thank  him  in  a  sonnet  for  poetic 
obligations : — 

"  My  b«art  has  thank'd  tbee,  Bowles,  for 

tliose  loft  shains, 
WhoM  sadneis  soothes  me  like  the  mur* 

aiaring 
Of  wild  bees  in  the  sunny  showers  of 


spring 


.»» 


and  Sottthey,  to  express  in  fonm 
his  mtitttde  for  sinular  obligationa. 
The  Vicar  of  Bremhill  (now  in  his 
eighty-fourth  vear)  has  reason  to  be 
proud  of  sucn  testimonies  in  his 
favour.  It  would  be  idle  assertion 
to  call  them  undeserved ;  his  sonnets 
are  very  beautiful,  full  of  soothing 
sadness,  and  a  pleasin([  love  and  re- 
verence for  nature,  anunate  and  in- 
animate. 

When  Bowles  was  seeing  his  sonnets 
through  the  press,  hisola  anta^nist, 
Lord  3yron,  was  a  child  in  his  mo- 
ther*s  or  his  nurse's  arms.  While 
they  were  yet  hardly  ^kveat  before 
the  public,  the  younger  Warton  was 
buned  in  the  chapel  of  his  college  at 
Oxford  amid  the  tears  of  many  who 
knew  the  frank,  confiding  dispostdoa 
of  his  nature. 

*'  For  though  not  sweeter  his  own  Homsr 


ft 

Yet  was  his  life  the  more  endearing 
song." 

Other  poems  of  consequence  fbl- 
lowed  at  intervals,  not  vety  remote. 
In  1791  Cowper  put  forth  nis  trans- 
lation of  the  lUaa  into  English  blank 
verse,  and  Darwin  his  Botanic  Cktr* 
den^  a  poem  in  two  parts,  written  in 
the  measure  of  Pope,  but  polished 
till  little  remained  save  glitter  and 
fine  words. 

The  only  poem  of  repute  of  the 
year  1792   that  has  reached   our 


time,  or  seems  likely  to  revive,  and 
acquire  an  hereafter,  is  Tke  Ptea* 
wres  qf  Memory,    Tha  is  a  poem 
which  Goldsmitn  would  have  read 
with  pleasure,  for  it  is  much  in  his 
manner.    ^  There  is  no  such  thiDc," 
says  Byron,  *^as  a  vulgar  line  in  Uie 
book.**    The    verrification    ia    voy 
finished,  but  not  in  Darwin^s  maniwT 
to  too  gpneat  a  nicetv,  while  there 
are  passages  here  and  there  wbicfa 
take  silent  possession  of  the  heart,  a 
sure  sign  orunusual  exoellenee. 

Worasworth's  first  poem.  Am 
Evening  Tfoft,  an  episue  in  oerte, 
addreswd  to  a  young  Lady  from  tke 
Laket  of  the  North  of  JSn^^and^  ap- 
peared  the  year  after  The  Piemrte 
of  Memory^  and  was  followed  the 
same  vear  by  a  volume  of  Descr^ 
tioe  Shetchee^  in  verse^  taken  dmrng  a 
Pedestrian  Tour  in  the  Italian  Oritont, 
SwisSy  and  Savoyard  Alps,  Ereiy] 
line  in  The  Evening  Walk  bears 
the  mark  of  a  keen  observer  for 
himself;  there  is  not  a  borrowed 
ima^  in  the  poem,  though  the  per- 
vading character  throughout  re- 
minds one  too  closely  perhaps  of  Tke 
Nocturnal  Reverie  of  the  Countess  of 
Winchelseoy  a  wonderful  poem,  to 
which  Wordsworth  was  the  first  to 
direct  attention.  Here  is  a  picture 
ftrom  Wordsworth's  first  volume, 
something  between  a  Hobbima  and 
a  Hondekoeter : — 

"  Sweet  are  the  aouads  that  miogle  froei 

afar, 
Heard  by  calm  lakes,  as  peepa  the  foU* 

log  star, 
Where  the  duck  dabbles  'mid  the  mstUflp 

sedge, 
And  feeding  pike  starts  from  the  waler's 

edge. 
Or  the  swan  stirs  the  reeds,  his  neck  sad 

biU 
Wetting,  that    drip    opon   the   waian 

atUl; 
And  heron,   u  resounds   the   traddaa 

shore, 
Shoots  upward,  darting  hit  tang  neck  U- 
fore" 

One  feels  that  our  poetry  i^  en- 
riched  by  a  nassage  of  this  descrip- 
tion,---that  the  poet  who  could  write 
in  this  way  was  likely  to  make  what 
Addison  calls  additions  toNature^wad 
this  ISfi.  Wordsworth  has  done  in  • 
pre-eminent  d^p-ee. 

Southey,  in  1795,  made  his  fint 
public  appearance  as  a  poet  In  a  thin 


1846.]        Past  and  Present  Condition  of  British  Poetry. 


585 


I 


duodecimo  volume,  printed  at  Bath, 
on  the  poor  pale  bme  paper  of  the 
period.  This  was  a  kind  of  Lara  and 
JaeqneUne  affair.  One-half  of  the 
volume  was  bv  Southey,  the  other 
half  by  LoveU,  the  j^ms  of  tiie 
former  being  distinguished  by  the 
signature  of  ^'  Bion,"  of  the  latter  by 
that  of  Moschus.**  The  poems  are 
not  very  manv  in  number,  nor  are 
they  very  good,  yet  the  little  volume 
18  not  without  its  interest  in  the  his- 
tory of  a  great  mind,  feeling  its  way 
to  8  proud  position  in  our  letters. 

Thejoint  publication  of  Southev  and 
Lovelf,  in  1795,  was  followed  tiie 
next  year  by  a  similar  kind  of  pub- 
lication, between  Coleridge  and  his 
school-fellow  Lamb.  The  name  of 
Coleridge  apftears  alone  upon  the 
title-page,  which  is  thus  inscribed, 
Poema  on  Various  Subjects^  bv  S. 
T.  Cokndge^  hie  of  Jews  Cou^e^ 
Cambriige.  Lamb*s  contributions 
are  distinguished  by  his  initials,  and 
the  volume  is  remarkable  in  more 
ways  than  one.  Colerid^  calls  his 
sonnets  EffueunUf — ^Efiumon  1 ;  £f- 
ftision  2.  Tnis  appellation  he  removed 
in  a  second  edition,  and  called  them, 
what  in  reality  they  were,  and  what, 
when  they  were  written,  he  intended 
they  should  be,  **  Sonnets,  attempted 
in  the  manner  of  Mr.  Bowles.**  Here 
is  his  sonnet  of  gratitude  to  the  vicar 
of  Bremhill,  a  mistaken  attack  on 
Rogers,  subsequently  withdrawn,  and 
the  following  bold  panegyric  upon 
Wordsworth :  "  Tne  expression 
green  radiance  is  borrowed,**  he 
writes,  '^jfrom  Mr.  Wordsworth,  a 
poet,  whose  versification  is  occasi- 
onally harsh  and  his  diction  too  fre- 
quently obscure,  but  whom  I  deem 
unrivalled  among  the  writers  of  the 
present  day  in  manly  sentiment,  novel 
imagery,  and  vivid  colouring.** 

"  Tis  eertainly  mystsriims  that  the  name 
Of  prophet  and  of  poet  is  the  saane." 

One  sees  the  prophetic  eye  of  taste  in 
the  printed  judgment  of  Coleridge  on 
this  occasion. 

Bums  is  said  to  have  foretold  the 
future  fiune  of  Sir  Walter  Scott : 
"This  boy  will  be  heard  of  yet.*' 
But  iheereat  poet  of  Scotland  was 
cold  in  his  grave  before  Scott  became 
a  candidate  for  literary  distinction. 
He  died  the  very  year  of  Scott*s  first 
publication.  The  Chaee^  and  WU» 
VOL.  xxxra.  vo,  cxcvn. 


Ham  and  Helen  ;  two  Ballade  from 
the  German  of  Ooitfried  Angustus 
Burger,  Edinburgh,  1796.  Men 
who  love  to  trace  the  hereditary 
descent  of  genius  foresee  a  mys- 
terious something  in  this  seeming 
transmigration.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
there  is  littie  of  Bums  in  Scott's 
early  publication,  little  of  his  own 
after-excellence,  and,  in  short,  very 
littie  to  admire. 

A  third  publication  of  the  year 
1796  was  the  Joan  of  Arc  of  Southey, 
the  production  of  a  boy  of  two-and- 
twenty,  and  the  first  of  a  series  of 
epics  remarkable  for  the  even  level 
of  their  flight,  and  the  wide  difference 
of  opinion  they  are  known  to  have 
occasioned.  Tne  new  epic,  however, 
had  its  own  littie  phalanx  of  admirers ; 
and  when  a  volume  of  smaller  poems 
from  the  same  pen  was  published  a 
short  time  after,  the  poet  of  Joan  of 
Arc  had  a  second  accessbn  of  ad- 
mirers. His  noble  InecripUonM  ac- 
quired him  not  a  few ;  and  all  who 
were  blind  to  the  nobler  portions  of 
his  epic  could  comprehend  tne  beauties 
of  a  story  in  verse  like  ^*  Mary  the 
Maid  of  the  Inn.** 

Our  poetry  was  infested  at  this 
time  witn  the  unpoetic  invectives  of 
Wolcot,  and  the  puerile  inanities  of 
the  Delia  Cruscan  school.  Verse  and 
poetry  were  too  commonly  confound- 
ed, ease  and  smoothness  were  mistaken 
for  higher  powers,  and  the  rough 
impudence  of  Wolcott  for  the  keen, 
caustic  irony  of  the  Muse  of  Satire. 
It  was  time  to  put  an  end  to  such 
pretensions  and  to  sing-song  pretti- 
nesses  with  nothing  in  the  world  to 
recommend  them.  The  opportunity 
was  great,  nor  was  there  a  poet  want- 
ing, or,  better  still,  one  linwiliine 
to  rid  our  literature  of  the  weeds  and 
vermin  that  infested  it.  Hie  poet 
who  came  forward  was  William  Gif- 
ford,  and  the  poem  he  produced,  his 
Batfiad  and  Mmmdd^ — a  clever,  well- 
constraeted  satire,  more  in  Churchill's 
annihilating  manner  than  the  keen, 
razor-edged  satire  of  Pope  or  Young. 
The  triumph  was  complete,  and  the 
Baviad  and  Maviad  is  still  read, 
though  the  works  it  satirises  have  been 
forgotten  long  ago. 

When  Wordsworth,  in  the  follow- 
ing year  (1798),  produced  his  two 
duodecimo  volumes  of  Lyrical  Bal* 
lade^  few  read,  liked,  or  understood 
them; 


Sa6 


PeH  and  Preuni  OmdUiau  i/ Briiiik  P^minf.        [Iftv; 


*'  Aid  iOBM  hinlnnlie^Mtt'dl^aad 
aaamhkmdmm'dKwiL" 

Every  diaft  of  yidieale  irM  turned 
■gftixut  him,  and  with  Buck  mooeM 
tEii  hte  ''•adienoe'*  was,  iodeed,  bnt 
"  few.*'  The  piinciple  on  which  fait 
poems  are  oomposed  wai  as  yet  sn- 
reeosnised;  and  if  the  will,  who 
ihottid  hare  known  mneh  better, 
were  blind  to  the  several  exedkwsiea 
of  his  verse,  he  had  little  to  look 
fiMT  fiom  the  bnik  of  nadeis.  It  was 
loiup,  very  long,  therefiwe,  before  he 
had  any  ascertained  and  adontted 
pOMtion  in  the  eatajbyie  of  Engliaii 
poets.    Every  description  ci  ciieom* 


to  go  MSJiist  him* 
Bogecs  put  SoKtk  faki  £pitiie  to  a 


FHemd  m  the  antomn  of  the 
year,  and  Gaamhett  his  Plmntnt  tf 
Ham  in  the  fouowiig  spring. 

The  efhctwas  aU  bnt  ■"■^■■^■Tifitwitt. 
Two  such  DoUe  exasaples  of  tiie 
school  and  poetry  of  Pope  revived  a 
pradilectfioa  finr  a  ibrm  of  noetry  in 
which  so  many  great  effiorts  nad  been 
achieved;  and  the  Lyrical  BaOadt 
of  Wordsworth  were  overiodced  in 
the  fnBh  triumph  of  a  fbrmer  ft- 
TOiuita,  and  the  first  jMroductieii  of 
a  new  and  snocessfid  writer. 

A  third  poblication  o£  the  i^ear 
1708  was  an  odawo  vcdome,  since 
very  much  enbiged,  and  entided, 
Plt^  cm  A$  Pmtiom.  This  was 
Josana  BsilBe's  first  pablication,  and 
is  likelr  to  see  an  hereaAer,  not  so 
much  from  the  exaggerated  praises 
of  Scott  and  Seothey,  for  these  can 
tffMt  bnt  little  where  the  snhstanee 
ilsdf  is  poor,  but  fimm  the  intrinsio 
azceUenee  of  the  work  itsctt;  and  the 
Ihctthat  it  is  by  fkr  ths  noblest  off* 
spring  of  tho  female  mted  this  eoan* 
try  has  to  exhibit,  and  worth  five 
hundred  such  Soared  Dramtm  as 
Hanneh  llore  infiietsd  an  the  pnbiie 
ibr  a  long  snceesnon  of  years,  now 
happily  at  an  end. 

ne  hMt  centmy  dosed  with  Camp. 
bdl*s  Pkamm  cf  iUpe^  and  <£e 
new  one  <mened  with  Bloomfield's 
Farmer'a  Bojfj  and  MoereTs  first 
worlc,  his  translation  of  Anaeretm, 
CSowper  and  tiie  elder  Waiton  were 
removed  in  1800  bv  desdi  flram  wit«* 
neadng  the  ihll  effects  of  the  exam- 
ple th^  had  set  us,  ibr  the  agree- 
able E99aif  Oft  Pop9  had  its  lafivienoe 
eertahdy  in  hsstemng  the  changes 
completed  by  the  Task.  Beattie  wai 


Lewis,  with  his 
of  Wooder, 


and  bin 

tiie 


y«t  withoiBt  ita  Ml 
eomplement  of  tenants,  but  candi- 
dates esme  ferward  bctee  Iob^  to 
fill  the  vaeant  places.  Hogg  poh- 
lidMd,  m  1801,  a  Httle  ToGune  of 
SeoUiA  Paotoroi  Boema,  Semgo,  f^ 
wrmeo  m  lie  Dkioci  if  Ae  Amtk; 
Ldgh  Hnnt,  tiw  oaae  year,  •  ceilee- 
tion  of  poems  entitled  Jmmmlki; 
Bloorafidld,  in  1802,  his  Jhvwf  Toki, 
BaUadi,  mid  Bot^;  Sir  Waller 
Beott,  his  CHeofiohs  and  Stm  ofSL 
MoHi  taate  lin  polished  talea  Ibsn 
iiappjr  imitafinins  of  the  «ail;^  haBai, 
bnt  tndy  wondeifiil 
eonncnon  with  Ins 


Leydcttfin  1808,  his  SaoMAMMm^ 
ttM;  Amsu  ;  Kirke  White,  Us  O^ 
Qrooe;  Campbell,  las  ZectW  and 
Ilnhgwkodm  ;  and  Sonthey,  a 
Cfie,  his  TOafefto,  in  m 
measure  of  his  own  invenlng. 

On  ^e  lath  of  April,  IfiOfi, 
Dr.  Darwin,  and  on  the  fisBowing 
14th  <tf  Angnst  L.  £.  L. 
In  1808  died  UotM,  whose 
like  trsnsktion  of  Tmso 


ferred  by  Johnson  to  the  fAanda^ 
and  snhetantial  beauties  of  nirfioc. 
In  the  asme  year  Lord  Stmnglbid 
mit  forward  his  tiawslatiam  fl«m 
Camoens,  and  thus  was  Dsrwin  per* 
petnated  in  the  fgamo^  and  fawcn^ 
and  odonrs  of  L.  £.  L.,  and  Hoole 
in  the  polished  refincmenta  eC  dw 
noble  weonnt 

The  eritie  vras  a  wise  one  wfae^ 
itenhe  reviewed  the  MPhmlrettwof 
ike  SeoUkk  Border,  kt^b^jmelim. 
asesDc  of  i 
the  mstrriais  of 
lib  better 
school**  fer  a  part  of  ScottTs  pifia»i 
lar  genius  could  have  well  been 
fiNmd  ^an  the  eontse 
hehadfbrnied 
the  materials  of  the  ilfmilrete  toge^ 
ther.  His  nAaA  was  Chorongfily  Im- 
prqgnsited  willi  theepirit  of  Uie  pmt, 
as  much  as  it  would  m  all  posrouitjf 
have  been  had  he  Kved  in  tiw  times 
he  describes  so  truly.  His  powers 
of  observation  were  seen  and  eem- 
tfadsing,'  his  love  ef  boeim  and  na- 
ture an  fncreasiM;  Idnd  ofappetSte; 
and  he  was  only  m  want  of  a  metre 
to  swt  the  stofks  he  had  floating 
before  hhn,  when  a  friend  itdM  to 


1846«1        ^o^  ^d  Pr€$eni 


hkn  f^om  tncBwry  some  of  the  strik* 
ing  passages  of  Coleridge^s  Chrut" 
abelt  then  tuapablished,  and  then  as 
now,  unfortunately  a  fragment.  The 
rhythmical  run  of  the  verse  was 
cafsliiDg ;  and  a  story  oyer  wineh  he 
hod  long  brooded  was  eomroenoed 
imzftediately,  in  the  wild  metre  of  the 
poem  thus  <^portiinely  brought  be* 
neolfa  his  notiee. 

The  metro  firand,  the  work  y$eiX 
on  at  about  the  rate  he  tells  us,  of  a 
caiilo  per  week ;  and  was  fiuaUy  pub* 
Ikhed  in  January  1805,  in  aouarto 
▼olnme,  price  twenty-five  shiUinffB  f 
Few  will  require  to  be  told  that 
Soott*B  first  poem  was  I'ht  Lay  of 
the  Last  Mbutrely  that  the  saceess  of 
ibe  work  exceeded  the  fondest  day* 
dreams  of  its  author,  and  at  once  die* 
cided  that  literature  should  form  the 
main  business  of  his  life.  *^  The  fii- 
▼our  which  it  at  onoe  attained,"  says 
Tjockhart,  "had  not  beeaequaUed  in 
the  case  of  any  one  poem  of  consider- 
able leogth  during 4it  least  two  ge<* 
nemtSoBB :  it  certamly  had  not  been 
approached  in  the  case  of anynarrative 
poem  since  thedaysofDiyden.**  The 
work,  brought  out  on  the  usual  terms 
of  division  of  profits  between  tlue  au- 
tiior  and  publishers,  was  not  long 
after  purchased  by  them  for  500/.  to 
whicb  Messrs.  Jjongman  and  Co. 
afterwards  added  100/.  in  their  own 
unsolicited  kindness,  in  consequence 
of  the  uBoommon  snoeess  m  the 
work. 

The  year  introduced  by  ne  Lay^ 
closed  with  Madoe  and  The  StMath, 
Mmkkff  a  new  epic  by  Sonthc^ ;  The 
Sabbath,  a  didactic  poem  by  Jamea 
Gfahame — the  aeptdehral  Orakame 
of  the  satue  of  Lord  Byron.  Madoc 
found  few  admirers  at  the  time,  nor 
has  it  many  now,  or  the  number  it 
deserves  to  have ;  and  The  SabbM 
of  Grahame,  though  full  of  fine 
thoughts,  and  well  sustained  through* 
out,  made  but  little  way  with  pcwta, 
or  with  the  public  : 

"  Why,    aotbors,    all    this  scnwl  and 
scribbling  sore  1 
To  lose  the  present,  gain  the  future 

^         age. 

Praised  to  be  when  you  can  hear  no 

more, 
Aad  much  enrieb*d  with  Fnme  when  use. 

less  worldly  store." 

But  Jhfadoe  and  Ifte  SfMaOt  are 
owe  of  bmg  hieluded  in  the  bulk 


tf  BriHik  Pd^tff.  887 


of  our  Britirii  poetir,  whenever  that 
large  body  is  re-edited  by  a  poet  of 
true  judgment  and  discretion,  and 
not  W  another  Alexander  ChahnenL 

"  The  corruption  of  a  poet  is  th^ 
genemtion  of  a  critic*'  This,  how- 
ever, like  loamr  other  popi^r  say* 
ings,  admits  ofsome  excq^tions ;  for 
the  writers  who  ori^nated  the  Edin* 
burgh  Review^  Jeffrey,  Brougham, 
Mackintosh,  Sydney  Smith,  Hallam, 
and  Homer,  belonged  either  to  the 
Law  or  the  Churcn,  and  put  for* 
ward  no  pretoudons  of  their  own 
to  a  grain  of  ground  upon  Ear* 
nassus.  Thejr  sat  in  judgment, 
however,  on  the  production  of  the 
new  race  of  poets  with  a  stem  and 
fiiii)idding  countenance.  ^'  Hard 
words  and  hanging,"  was  the  doom 
of  all  new  candidates  for  the  laurel ; 
so  that  Hogg's  tr«nalati(m  of  their 
motto,  ^^  Judex  damnatur  absolvitur 

iUia,"— «  ni  be  d d  if  vou  escape," 

was  trae,  at  least,  to  tne  spirit  in 
which  the  journal  was  conducted. 
Young  men  of  the  present  genera* 
tion  can  form  from  the  known  cha* 
racter  of  the  Review  for  the  last 
eight<-and-twenty  years  but  a  very 
slender  idea  of  its  influence  for  tho 
first  fifteen  years  of  its  existence* 
Nor  is  tills  loss  of  influence  to  be  at* 
tributed  to  any  falling  off  in  the 
quality  and  vaiue  of  its  articles,  for 
tne  Emtburrh  Beview,  that  can  shew 
a  pi^r  by  Ifocaulay,  or  an  article  lik0 
the  '*  Churchill,*'  from  the  pen  of  Mr« 
Forster,  may  rank  in  real  worth 
and  importance  with  the  best  num* 
her  of  tne  Review  in  the  most  pahny 
days  of  its  existence.  We  are  to  at* 
tnbote  a  decay  of  influence  to  an* 
other  cause,  to  an  abuse  of  its  own 
power,  the  reversal  of  many  of  ita 
own  decrees  in  its  own  pages ;  and 
the  simple  dieamstanee,  tmit  merit 
will  buoy  up  at  last  ior  malice  and 
wit,  though  they  may  cause  an  in-^ 
calculable  deal  of  mischief  for  a  time 
— it  can  be  but  for  a  time.  Diyden's 
ooatempt  for  Shiriey  has  not  pre- 
vented what  was  due  to  him,  the 
publication  of  a  collected  edition  of 
nis  work ;  and  all  the  wit  that  waa 
Act  against  Wither  has  &iled  in 
keeping  him  from  the  place  he  de« 
serves  to  hold  in  the  eatalogue  of 
Brkish  poets. 

When  the  Edinburgh  Review  was 
in  the  fuU  firrt  swing  of  its  fDwer 
and  patronage,  James,  Moatgomerv 


588 


Poit  and  PriUnt  CandiHan  of  BriHsh  Poetry.        [May, 


paUkbed  bis  Wanderer  m  Swdz" 
erkmd;  Csry,  the  first  part  of  his 
Wl-8ii8taiiied  transktion  of  Dante ; 
Hogg,  his  Mounlam  Bard;  Crabbe, 
after  a  silenoe  of  twenty  ^eara,  The 
Parkh  Begiiter;  Tannahill,  a  vo- 
Inme  of  bongs ;  Moore,  bis  IM£e 
P&emi ;  Scott,  his  Marmum;  and 
BjT<mf}ttBHiouriofI(OeneM,  Crabbe 
alone  was  a  favourite  with  the  Be^ 
view ;  Montgomery  met  with  a  se» 
yere  handling ;  the  review  of  Litde 
oocasumed  a  hostile  meeting  at  Chalk 
IVurm ;  the  critique  on  MamUon^ 
the  Quarterly  Beview ;  and  the  bitter 
and  uncalled-for  notice  of  the  Hour* 
of  Idleness,  the  swingeing  satire, 
rough  and  vigorous,  of  EngUsh 
Bards  and  Scotch  Bemewers.  ^'The 
poetiy  of  this  young  lord,"  says  the 
Beview,  **  belongs  to  the  class  which 
neither  gods  nor  men  are  said  to  per- 
mit; and  our  counsel  is,**  it  adds, 
^  that  he  do  forthwith  abandon 
poetry,  and  turn  his  talents  which 
are  considerable,  and  his  opportuni- 
ties which  are  great,  to  netter  ac- 
count.** 

The  BdMuTfh  Bemew  may  be 
forgiven  all  its  mjnrious  and  unjust 
decrees  in  criticism,  for  the  entertain- 
ing addition  it  made  to  our  literature 
in  the  satire  of  Lord  Byron.  Not 
that  the  satire  itself  is  a  very  noble 
specimen  of  Byron^s  Muse,  or  of  the 
school  of  poet^  of  which  it  forms  a 
part;  but  it  is  a  fine,  fearless  piece 
of  writing,  vdth  a  strain  of  noble  in- 
vective at  times  amidst  its  more 
prosaic  passages  and  its  mere  calling 
of  names.  The  iZevisto,  moreover,  had 
this  good  effect,  it  roused  a  Muse  of 
fire  Mfore  its  time,  but  not  before  its 
strength  was  at  its  height,  and,  in  all 
probability,  added  to  the  bulk  and 
value  of  the  poems  he  has  left  us ; 
for  there  is  little  reason  to  suppose 
that  Byron*s  life  would,  under  any 
circumstances,  have  extended  much, 
if  at  all,  beprond  the  six-and-thirty 
years  to  which  it  ran. 

Birds  cease  to  sing  when  kites  are 
in  the  sky,  but  red  poets,  though 
depressed  by  criticisms  for  a  time, 
xevive  with  wonted  vigour,  and  try  a 
new  flight  in  the  poetic  heaven* 
Bvron  understood  this  thoroughly 
when  he  sang, — 

"  Yet  then  will  itill  be  bards :  though 
ftme  is  emoke, 
Iti  fumes  are  frttikiiioeiise  to  banaii 
tbonght ; 


And  the  iinqiiiel   feelings  which    first 
woke 
Song  in  the  world,  will  seek  what  then 
they  sougbL" 

CampbeU,  thepetof  the  Bevkwera, 
put  forward  his  Crertrmde  of  Wfo- 
mtsg  in  1809 ;  Crabbe,  another 
fitvourite,  his  Baroegk^  in  1810; 
Scott,  The  La^  ^  the  Xok; 
and  Southey,  his  noblest  poem  by 
far,  his  Curse  of  Kehama^  in  tlie 
same  year.  Our  accessions  were  eonn- 
derable,  so  were  our  losses.  Anstey 
was  removed  from  among  us  in  1805, 
forty  years  after  the  publication  of 
The  New  BM  Chdde ;  Charlotte 
Smith  and  Kirke  White  in  1806; 
Home  in  1808,  sixty  years  after  the 
tragedv  of  Douglas,  and  an  ode  ad- 
drttsed  to  him  by  Collins,  bad  se- 
cured his  fiime ;  Miss  Seward,  whose 
feeble  lucubrations  I  have  onutted  to 
detail,  was  removed  in  1809 ;  Tanna- 
hill,  in  1810 ;  Graham  and  Leyden, 
in  1811 ;  and  in  the  same  year  the 
venerable  Bishop  Percy,  whose  Be- 
Uques  of  EngUsh  Poetry  had  wrought 
the  changes  of  which  he  lived  to  see 
so  many  noble  and  permanent  effects. 

Tales  m  Verse,  The  World  before 
the  Flood,  The  Isle  of  Fabms,  and 
some  of  the  lighter  poems  of  the 
year  1812,  suffered  an  eclipse  in  the 
great  quarto  publication  oithat  year, 
the  two  first  cantos  of  ChUde  Harold. 
Murrav  gave  600/.  for  the  copyright ; 
the  sale  was  instantaneous,  and  **! 
awoke  one  morning,**  as  the  auth<H' 
records,  *'  and  found  myself  fiunons.** 
The  success  of  the  poem  was  com- 
plete, and  people  anplied  to  the  new 
poet  what  Waller  had  said  of  Den- 
nam,  **that  he  broke  out  like  the 
Irish  Bebellion,  threescore  thousand 
strong,  when  nobody  was  aware  or  at 
the  least  suspected  it.** 

The  memorable  quarto  of  the 
month  of  March  CChilde  Harold) 
was  followed  in  October  by  one  of 
the  wittiest  little  volumes  in  the 
English  lauffuaffe.  The  Befeded 
Addresses  of  die  Messrs.  Smith.  The 
Pipe  of  Tobacco,  by  Isaac  Haw- 
kins Browne,  clever  as  it  is,  must 
sink  before  Uie  little  brochure  of  the 
successful  brothers.  Philips,  in  his 
SplewUd  ShilUng,  is  not  more  happv 
in  his  mock  imitation  of  Milton^ 
manner  than  the  Messrs.  Smith  of 
Lord  Bjrron's  in  the  stansas  called 
''CuiBonoP**  The  Crabbe^  the  Scott, 


1 846.]        Pasi  and  Present  Condition  of  British  Poetry.  &S9 


the  Southey,  the  Wordsworth,  are 
all  good, — ^indeed,  there  is  not  a  bad 
parody  in  the  volmne;  the  Crabbe, 
in  a  word,  is  better  than  Crabbe, — 

"  Something  had  happened  wrongr  about 

a  bin , 
Which  was  not  dnwn  with  true  mereaa* 

tile  skill ; 
So  to  amend  it  I  was  told  to  go. 
And  seek  the  firm  of  Clutterbuck  and 

Co." 

Surel}^  **  Emanuel  Jennings,**  com- 
pared with  the  above,  rises,  as  the 
messrs.  Smith  remark,  to  sublimity 
itself. 

The  last  publication  of  the  year 
1812  was  the  Bokeby  of  Scott,— less 
successful  than  any  of  his  former 
efforts,  and  with  less  of  the  blaze  of 
true  genius  about  it  Copies  were 
scarce  at  first, — 

'*  Fray  have  you  got  RoMtyJ  for  I  hare 

got  mine. 
The   mail  •coach   edition,    prodigioualy 

fine;" 

and  when  copies  were  got,  disap- 
pointment almost  as  sp^mly  ensued, 
t'ine  passages  ihrougnout  the  poem 
unquestionably  there  are.  But  the 
venification  was  the  same  with  his 
other  poems,  and  what  Curl  called 
'*  the  knack**  was  caught  by  a  herd 
of  tasteless  imitators. 


«c 


^*  I  well  remember/'  writes  Lockhart, 
being  in  those  days  a  young  atudent  at 
Oxford,  how  the  bookaellera'  ehopa  there 
were  beleaguered  for  the  earliest  copies, 
and  how  he  that  had  been  so  fortunate  as 
to  secure  one  wss  followed  to  his  cham- 
ber by  a  tribe  of  friends,  all  as  eager  to 
hear  it  read  as  oyer  horse-jockeys  were 
to  see  the  conclusion  of  a  match  at  New- 
market; and,  indeed,  not  a  few  of  those 
eothusiastie  academics  had  bets  depend* 
ing  on  the  issue  of  the  struggle,  which 
they  considered  the  elder  rarourile  as 
making  to  keep  his  own  ground  against 
the  fiery  riralry  of  ChiUk  Harold:* 

Byron  had  novelty  on  his  side, 
and  Scott  had  to  encounter  the  satiety 
of  the  public  ear.  Other  circum- 
stances, moreover,  were  against  him. 
Moore  had  given  a  humorous  fling  at 
the  poem  iii  his  Twopenny  Post'Bag ; 
and  the  Messrs.  Smith,  in  "  A  Tsde 
of  Drury  Lane,**  in  The  Befecied 
Addresses^  a  ludicrous  turn  to  the 
manner  and  matter  of  his  former 
poems.  He  felt  what  Byron  calls 
bis  "reign**  was  oyer,  and  turning 


from  poetry  to  jprose,  left  the  field  of 
verse  to  a  fomudable  rival,  and  cm« 
plojfed  his  pen  in  the  composition  of 
a  bjghter  style  of  literature,— one  in 
which  he  achieved  a  second  repu- 
tation, and  one  in  which  he  is  still 
without  a  rival. 

The  public  at  large  have  never 
cared  much  about  poems  written  in 
Spen8er*s  stanzas,  and  Byron  was 
wise  when  he  postponed  the  com- 
pletion of  his  poem  in  that  measure 
to  a  later  period.  Scott  had  awakened 
a  taste  for  incident  and  story.  Of 
mere  description  the  public  had  had 
enough  alieady ;  and  of  legendary 
tales  in  verse  more  than  enough. 
People  were  tired,  moreover,  of  bor- 
der raids  and  Highland  scenery; 
they  longed  for  novelty  and  for  an- 
other dime,  and  they  got  their  wish. 
There  was  no  suspense:  the  poet 
kept  pace  with  the  public;  and  The 
Oiaour  and  The  Bride  of  Abydoe 
were  still  in  the  infimcy  of  their  mme, 
when  The  Corsair^  Lara^  and  The 
Siege  of  Corinth^  appeared  to  await 
the  judgment  of  tne  public.  The 
poet  was  not  unmindful  of  the  fiite 
of  others.  He  knew,  moreover,  the 
capricious  turns  of  the  public  ^taste, 
and  how  necessary  it  was,  to  maintain 
his  ground,  that  he  should  frequently 
renew  his  title  to  the  rank  assigned 
him.  Afraid  that  people  were  be- 
ginning to  get  tired  of  Turkish 
tales,  ne  added  a  third  canto  to 
ChSde  Harold ;  and  when  the  fourth 
and  last  canto  of  that  noble  poem 
was  publidied,  he  produced  a  novelty 
at  the  same  tune,  a  Venetian  storv 
(^Seppo)  in Whistlecraft  verse — ^itseu 
a  novelty.  Churchill*s  four  years 
were  not  better  sustained  than  By- 
ron's twelve.  From  tales  in  tripping 
verse  he  turned  to  dramas;  and  when 
Mailed  and  Cavty  and  Sardane^* 
bis  and  Werner^  had  done  their  work, 
Don  Juan  was  taken  up  as  a  new 
string  to  his  bow.  This,  nis  last,  and 
in  some  respects  his  ablest,  work  waa 
left  unfinisned  at  his  death.  What 
new  style  he  would  have  attempted* 
or  what  success  was  likely  to  attend 
a  fifth  new  manner,  I  need  not  stay  to 
conjecture.  His  career  was  brilliant 
but  short,  and  though  he  excelled  in 
every  style  he  attempted,  there  ia 
every  reason  to  suppose  that  he  had 
done  his  best 

While  Bmn  blazed  the  comet  of 
a  season,  Snelley  and  Keats  appeared 


5»0 


past  and  PrtwU  CondUian  of 


Poeiry.        [M«7, 


vod  pined  awsy,  leaving  lonie  ndbk 
memomlfl  f^  their  genius  behind 
them:  The  Adonau^  The  Hypmim^ 
Tht  Cloudy  the  SowMt  an  Chmmum'9 
HomBT.  But  Shelley  is  toQ  ODscure, 
and  Keata  too  mythological, — not  the 
obscurity  of  thoughts  too  great  for 
words,  or  a  myuologiod  taste  de- 
rived from  a  repletion  of  learning, 
but  the  obscurity  of  haste  and  the 
mythological  abundanee  of  one  who 
was  not  a  scholar.  Other  poems  of 
repute  and  consequence  awearedii) 
the  same  short  seascm.  Not  a  year 
went  by  without  producing  more 
than  one  volume  of  a  qmuity  we 
never  see  now. 

In  1813,  Hogg  appeared  with  The 
Qfieem'i  Wake^  containing  **  Bonny 
Kilmeny;**  Allan  Cunningham,  with 
a  volume  of  songs,  some  of  surpassing 
beauty ;  Moore,  with  his  Twopemiy 
I\}st'jBag;  Coleridfle  with  a  tragedy 
{Remorse);  and  Scott,  in  disguise, 
with  The  Bridol  of  Triermain,  In 
1814,  Wordsworth  enriched  our 
poetry  with  his  much-decried  Ex* 
cureian ;  Moore,  with  his  Iriah  Me" 
lodies ;  Southey,  with  his  Roderick  ; 
and  kogers,  with  his  Jtuiqiidme* 
Scott,  in  the  following  year,  gave  us 
The  Lord  of  ike  Isles  and  The  Field 
of  Waterloo;  and  Lei^h  Hunt,  "  a 
real  good  and  very  original  poem,** 
his  nimiiti,  Wilson,  already  known 
by  his  Isle  of  Palms,  gained  anoUier 
wreatht  in  1816,  by  his  Cituof  (he 
Plagw,  LaOah  RooMk,  and  The  iSk- 
hjfUms  Leaves  of  Coleridge,  containing 
"^  The  Rime  of  the  Andent  Ma- 
riner," will  make  the  year  1817  a  me- 
morable year  in  the  annals  of  poetry 
whenever  they  are  written.  Keats* 
Endymion  was  a  publicationof  the  year 
1818;  ShelWs  Cend,  Crabbe's  TaUo 
of  the  Hall,  Rogers*  Hunum  Life,  and 
Wordsworth's  Peter  BeU  and  The 
Waggomr,  bekmg  to  1819;  Keats' 


Lamk^  IsabeOa,  The  Moe  ^  SL 
Aspnu,  and  olbar  poems,  to  1820; 
Shelley's  Queem  Mob  v^Adamui 
South^s  Vitim  of  J^dgmni,  and 
Byron*s  parody  of  the  poem,  to  the 
year  1831 ;  Rogers*  ItaLuA Seott*s 
HoiMon  ma,  to  1822 ;  The  Lovee  0/ 
(he  Angels  of  Moore,  to  1823 ;  Ctonp- 
belFs  TheodarieUi  1824,and  Southey*s 
TaU  qf  Paraguay,  to  182^.  Song 
after  this  beffan  to  cease  among  us ; 
Byron,  and  Shelley,  and  Keats,  were 
dead;  Saott  and  Soothe^  siknt; 
Cokndge  dreaming  r 


i« 


Food  to  begin,  bat  still  to 
loathe  i* 


Campbell  past  his  prime;  Rocers 
and  Moore  unwilling,  nibtx  tmn 
unable;  Wilson  busy  with  the 
Noeies  Ambrosiaiue ;  Wordsworth 
confined 

**  Within    the   sonii«t*fl  waDtr  plot  of 
ground  ;** 

Hogg  cultivating  sheep  on  Yarrow, 
and  Allan  Cunmngham  superintend- 
ing the  marble  progeny  of  Chantrey. 
Song,  truly,  had  gone  out  among  us. 
No  one  seems  to  write  finom  the 
inborn  force  of  his  onvn  genius,  from 
Nature,  and  his  own  full  thoughts  :— 

'*  New  each  oowt  hobby^bon*  wall  wnce 

in  rhyme ; 
Both    learn  d   and  unleam'd,  all  write 

plars. 
It  waa  not  so  of  old  :  men  took  up  trades 
That  knew  the  crafts  they  had  been  bred 

in  right ; 
An  honest  bilhoe-sinith  would  make  good 

blades. 
The  cobler  kept  him  to  his  awl ;  but  now 
He'U  be  a  poet^  scarce    can    goide  a 

plough.'* — Ban  Jonsok. 

But  the  present  condition  of  our 
poetry  will  afford  material  far  an* 
other  paper. 


IMft]  Th€  Fight  with  ike  J)fM$m^  m 


THE  FIGHT  WITH  TH£  DRAeOK* 
imOM  THV  GSUUB  or  SCBIUOO. 

Why  mils,  wliy  wsvv-like  mvetp*  atiWi 
Through  ilnet  Mid  tt«rl»  tW  raridof  wioiig  ? 
Is  Rhodes  on  fire  ?    From  every  side 
Bolls  storming  m  the  kimaii  ftiae^ 
And  mounted  on  lik  oomser  proud 
A  knidit  I  see  aiwfe  Uk  erowi ; 
And  uter  lttift-->wlKt  wwidroas  iMtl--^ 
Is  dragged  ft  aaoMtcr  tluroBgh  the  ■fenet 
A  drason  it  amean  to  i%H 

Witn  ciocoai]e*a  wido-gapnig  jaws 
And  novr  the  dragOB,  now  the 

The  peBfle*s  gaxe  aitoemate  diaws^ 

And  loud  a  tbo«aaiid  Toioes  rise^ 

"  ColQ^  see  the  hell- wona— here  tt  hca  !— 

That  with  the  flock  devoured  the  swain ; 
The  hero  this,  who  hath  it  slain! 
Full  many,  ere  he  ririt*d  his  lii^, 
Went  fbrth  to  dare  the  deadly  strife; 
But  none  returned  to  teB  the  fteht,*'' 
All  honour  to  the  gallsnt  kidgBt  f  ** 
Thus  to  the  doister,  moving  on. 

Proceeds  the  crowd,  where  hasty  ^1 
The  knlMitly  order  of  St.  John 

AssemDles  in  the  counnl-halL 

Before  the  noUe  master  there 
The  yoeth  appears,  with  modest  air; 
±nt  vrntctwun  wousands  shonnng  roucl 
Press  in,  and  nail  and  gallery  crowd ; 
And  thus  he  takes  the  word :  ''Thjson. 
The  d«fy  of  fr  kaiglit  halh  done  I 
The  dra^oD,  that  hud  waste  the  laod, 
Liea  dam  hefon  thee  by  this  hand ; 
Free  to  the  wandMer  now  our  ways» 

From  mead  to  nead  the  iloefce  may  sirey ; 
And  joyous  to  the  shrine  of  grace^ 

The  pilgmis  elimb  the  roeky  way  P* 

But  stem  the  master  ^es  the  voutb^^ 
*^  A  hero*s  part  thou  *si  wrougnt,  ill  seplht 
Bold  deeds  the  knight  with  henow  fiowDi 
A  daring  spirit  thou  hast  shewn ; 
But  which  the  first  of  duties,  si^. 
Of  his  who  fi^te  ftr  Chriit^s  oiear  sway, 
And  with  the  Gross  adems  his  maii  ^** 
He  spcaksy  and  all  around  grow  pele* 
But  graceM  thus  the  youth  refpnes, 

\^^st  bending  low  with  crimsoning  fkce  2 
'' Obedience  is  the  test  that  tries^ 

And  shewi  him  worthy  of  the  grace** 


^  And  this  ftsl  duly,  son,*  lelurns 
The  master,  **  thjr  nnh  spirit  spurns ; 
The  combat  by  the  law  oenied, 
With  wayward  conrage  thou  hast  triedi 


592  the  Fight  wiih  the  DragoH.  [May* 

"  Forbear  to  judge,  till  heard  the  whole,** 
Rejoins  the  youth,  with  steady  soul, 
'*  For,  both  m  spirit  and  in  will. 
The  hiw  Fve  labour*d  to  fulfil. 
Not  ra^y  trusting  all  to  might, 

I  went  to  seek  tne  monster^  1]& ; 
By  artifice  and  cunning  sleight, 

I  sought  to  conquer  ui  the  sUife. 

Already  of  their  bold  emi^nse 
Had  fallen  five — the  sacnfioe. 
Gems  of  the  fiuth,  our  order's  i>ride ! 
By  you,  the  fight  was  then  denied. 
But  gnawing  at  my  heart  there  lay 
Impatient  wish  to  dare  the  fray ; 
Yes,  e*en  in  dreams  of  silent  night, 
I  panting  fought  the  long'd-for  fight; 
And  when  the  morning  glimmering  came. 

And  tidings  of  new  misery  brought, 
Wild  sorrow  seized  upon  my  frame. 

And  into  deed  matured  my  thought. 

And  thus  I  to  myself  b^^ : 
'  Wliat  graces  youth,  what  honours  man, 
What  deeds  achieved  those  heroes  bold, 
Of  whom  in  song  so  much  is  told. 
Whom  to  the  ewls"  illustrious  height 
Blind  heathendom  did  elevate  ? 
To  hard  adventures  forth  they  sped. 
And  freed  the  world  from  monsters  dread ; 
With  rasing  lions  dauntless  fought. 

With  fiercer  minotaurs  contended. 
To  hapless  victims  freedom  brought. 

Nor  moum*d  the  blood  for  right  expended. 

And  but  against  the  Fftynim  horde 
Must  Christian  warrior  draw  the  sword  ? 
Sent  as  the  champion  of  the  world. 
His  spear  but  'gainst  false  ffods  be  hurl'd  ? 
From  every  dan^jer,  eveiy  narm, 
Deliver  should  his  stalwart  arm. 
Yet  wisdom  must  his  courage  guide. 
And  artifice  with  strength  be  tried.* 
Thus  oft  I  spoke,  and,  bent  to  scan 

The  monster's  track,  went  forth  alone ; 
Then  whisper'd  me  my  soul  the  plan. 

And  victory  I  felt  my  own. 

And  came  to  you, and  spake :  'This  isle 
Grant  me  to  leave  for  home  awhile : 
That  fiivour  from  your  grace  obtained, 
My  destin'd  port  soon  sue  I  j^ain'd ; 
And  scarce  I  reach'd  my  native  strand, 
Ere  by  a  cunning  artist  s  hand. 
True  to  the  features  well  survey*d, 
A  mimic  dragon  had  1  made. 
On  stunted  feet  aloft  was  placed 

The  len^y  body's  pondat>u8  load; 
A  scaly  shirt  of  mail  encased 

The  back,  and  dread  defence  bestow'di 


1 846,]  Tke  Fight  with  the  Dragon.  593 

Long  8tieteh*d  the  neck,  and  opening  fell. 
Sight  ghastly  as  the  gate  of  hell. 
As  if  in  act  to  snatch  their  prey, 
Their  width  did  the  grim  laws  display. 
From  oat  the  dark  ab^  beneath 
Threaten'd  the  sting«like  rows  of  teeth; 
The  tongue  a  pointed  falchion  seem*d. 
Dire  lightnings  firom  the  small  eyes  gleam*d ; 
And  into  serpent  fold  on  fold 

The  back  enormous  taperins  ran. 
Around  itself  all  dreadly  rolled, 

To  crush  at  once  both  steed  and  man  I 

Close  imitating  all  the  rest, 
In  ffrisly  grcnr  the  shape  I  drest  ;^> 
Half  snake,  naif  lizaro,  seem*d  it  now, 
And  dragon  bred  of  poison*d  slouffh. 
And  when  the  image  finish*d  stood. 
Two  dogs  I  chose  ot  dauntless  mood. 
Strong  limb*d,  and  fleeter  than  tibe  breeze, 
And  trained  the  savace  bull  to  seise. 
These  ure*d  to  fury  fierce,  I  set 

Upon  tne  dragon  as  their  prey. 
With  pointed  fangs  the  beast  to  fret, 

Ana  taught  my  bidding  to  obey. 

And  where  the  belly  soft  and  white 

Lay  naked  to  their  calling  bite, 

I  made  them  seize  tne  fiend,  and  there 

The  flesh  with  sharp  teeth  hacking  tear. 

Then  arm*d  as  if  for  warlike  deed. 

Bestrode  m3rself  my  gallant  steed, 

Of  noblest  race  in  Arab  land, 

And  when  to  flame  his  ra^  Td  fium*d, 

Plunging  my  spurs  into  his  side, 

ITpon  the  dragon  fierce  I  sprung, 
Ana  as  to  pierce  it  through  I  tried, 

With  st^y  aim  my  javelin  flung. 

And  though  at  first  my  courser  scar'd, 

Foam*d,  champ*d  his  bit,  and  shuddering  rettr*d,— 

And  whining  nowl'd  my  hounds  a&aid, — 

Till  use  had  made  them  bold  I  staid. 

And  thus  their  training  I  pursued 

Till  thrice  her  light  the  moon  renewed, 

Then  each  his  piut  exactly  taught. 

Them  hither  in  swift  bark  I  brought. 

Three  times  the  sun  has  lit  the  wave 

Since  here  I  cam^  and  scant  the  rest 
That  to  my  weary  lunbs  I  gave. 

Ere  to  their  mighty  task  addrest*^ 

For  moved  my  soul  within  me  rose 
At  story  of  the  land's  new  woes ; 
Tom  limb  firom  limb  had  late  been  found 
The  shepherds  to  the  marshes  bound. 
Thus  prompt  resolving  on  my  part, 
I  took  but  counsel  of  my  heart. 
And  to  my  train  of  loyal  sauires 
With  haste  imparting  my  aesires, 
Forth  with  my  noble  dogs  and  steed. 

By  secret  ways,  which  well  I  knew, 
Where  none  misht  look  upon  my  deed, 

To  meet  th^  foe  I  fearless  drewi 


On  rock  that  mchc  to  fosp  tke  ikj. 
Built  by  the  damttlMi  natter's  bndi, 
WidftprcMfMet  •'«  tke  Ui  commaiA. 
But  small  that  ^ape),  pom  aad  meatti 
Yet  tbwe  antatde  ■■  aeca >— 
The  Uotker  wi^  the  ibAM  Lar^ 
B7  tka  tkne  «Mtsn)  kiiip  aioi'd  t 
Tntice  thirt7  alepa  Hnit  Bilnin  elinb, 

Ere  at  the  bo^  ibrine  be  banda, 
Bat  diEcy  leaah'd  tke  kugbt  labliMi 

New  itraB^  bia  SanMr*!  ffwce  km 
Within  the  rock,  thus  cfaapd  omm'd, 
"Wide  yawtn  a  gloom;  care  mfamd. 
Damp  with  the  Bear  awampr  seaiaas  ttmt 
Imperrioas  to  da/a  dwering  beam ; 
Here  made  the  snake  hia  den,  and  lay 
His  vietimB  wattmg  night  and  day. 
Thna  keld  he,  Uke  beS's  dragon  tfaer^ 
Strict  watdi  beside  the  home  of  pn^wr  I 
And  come  the  pilgrim  to  the  spot. 

And  tnrn'd  into  the  dangeroiia  way, 
Broke  from  his  ambnrii  i«  the  grot 

The  foo,  mi  faon  Urn  theaee  Ui  prey. 
The  rugged  rock  I  climb'd,  ere  yet 
In  aidnons  Mht  the  fiend  I  met, 
And  knelt  bmre  the  Jesni-ehild, 
And  shrived  my  bosom  sin-deitrd. 
Then  girded  at  the  itor  high 
My  limbs  in  riittenng  panoply. 
And  lance  in  iiand,  to  seek  toe  fbe. 
Descended  to  the_riun  below. 
And  that  the  peril  of  the  deed 

All  mine  might  b^  there  bade  to  wait 
My  sqniree,  and  i^>ringiB^  on  iny  aleed. 

To  God  m  frmytr  cving»'d  my  fitte. 
Scarce  mdi'd  tb«  swampy  nmrahea'  bosBd 
To  fa^  began  my  gallant  noonda, 
And  panting  stood  my  trambUw  steed, 
Nor  wooU  BDotker  step  pmeaea: 
For  coil'd  togetbar,  baU-lika,  Jay 
The  ipidv  make  beside  the  way, 
Sunnmg  inmoclf  on  tke  waim  grooad. 
Quick  anrog  en  hia  eadb  actin  ksnnd. 
But  with  Ike  jackal's  bow),  ^nt'kearttd, 

"WHk  arrowy  swiltmss  timiag  flew, 
When  wide  bia  njuw  jaws  be  parted, 

And  foitk  a  bUst  ^poisea  blew. 
But  soon  -willi  conng*  fhab  iamnd. 
The  foe  they  niaed  ta  Any  And ; 
And  irinlit  on  him  in  rage  tbay  bung, 
A^inst  hii  loim  B^  apcar  I  fiosg ; 
Bnt  weak  aa  wiUowmjdiag  thii^ 
It  bounded  fnm  tbt  anhr  Ma,— 
And  eie  a  saeend  I  coald  eaaf, 
My  trembling  conmer  sUed  aghast 
Balbre  the  iqitik's  haaSsk  eye. 

And  cnnent  tf  his  poinK'd  breath. 
And  terrified  wenld  backward  fly,— 

And  D0«  fat  mt  acni'd  aalj  amth  t 


1^4t.]  The  Fight  wiik  tki  Driigon.  4M 

Then  nimbly  l^apio^  to  ih€  grouad* 
Quick  flew  my  keen-edged  swofd  aroiuA 
But  on  that  adamantine  mail 
My  sturdy  sttt^ee  ought  naught  avail; 
And  by  his  tail  infuriate  lash'd 
Down  to  the  earth  already  dadli*d» 
I  lay,  and  wide  his  ghastly  maw 
Witn  grim  teeth  studded  gaping  saw  I 
Wheuylo!  my  dogs  to  flwie  enraged» 

Upon  his  ittked  belly  mruiup» 
And  biting  keen  such  |[Ooa  fight  wagedi 

Howlmg  he  stood,  with  torture  wiwo^. 

And  ere  he  fh>m  his  galling  foea 
Gould  £ree  him,  from  the  groimd  I  ro8e> 
Espied  the  nnproteeted  part, 
And  drove  my  sword  through  lungs  and  heart  I 
Plunged  to  the  hilt  the  weapon  stood. 
Black  spirting  flbwM  the  streaming  blood : 
The  monster  fell,  and,  as  he  sunk. 
Buried  me  *neath  his  ponderous  trunk. 
And  thus  awhile  in  death*like  awoond 

I  lay,  and  when  my  life  again 
Came  rack,  mv  squires  were  standing  roondi 

And  in  his  blood  the  fiend  ky  slaiaP 

The  loud  applause,  till  now  snnprest, 
Burst  Aree  mm  ererr  heare/s  oreast^ 
As  thus  the  knight  tne  adventure  told ; 
And  broke  by  vaulted  roof  tenfold 
Feels  6nrth,  re-echcnng  wide  around 
The  mingled  voices'  deaTning  sound  I 
Vehement  e*en  the  brethren  claim 
For  him  the  hero's  erown  of  fiune ; 
And  gratefully  the  people  now 

WOl  bear  him  forth  m  triumph  proud : 
But  stem  the  master  knits  h»  brow, 

Commanding  silence  to  the  crowd. 

Aiul  speaks:  '' The  dragon  that  this  land 
Laid  waste  thou'st  slain  withvaliint  hand ; 
A  god  unto  the  /wopfe  thou 
Art  grown,  but  to  the  order  now 
Thou  com'st  a  foe  I  for  worm  more  dread 
Than  thou  hast  slain  thy  heart  has  bred,— 
The  breast^mpdboning  snake,  whose  sting 
Poth  discord  uid  destruction  bring  I 
The  stobboni  B|^rit  this,  which  dsxea 

'Gainst  discipline  revolt  to  raises 
The  saered  band  of  order  tears, 

And  wide  the  world  in  nitn  lays. 

Here  courage  show  the  Faynim  race, 
Obedience  is  the  Christian's  grace ; 
For  where  the  Lord  of  earth  and  skiis 
Once  wander'd  in  a  servant's  guisei 
The  fathers  on  that  hallow'd  ground 
Our  order  fran«d»  for  ever  bound 
The  hardest  dutv  tn  fiilfil— 
.   TheeonqncetofthevobelwiUI 


596 


ArnoUts  Lectures  on  Modern  History* 


[May. 


But  moved  thy  heart  by  glory  Tain. 

For  ever  then  my  presence  flee, — 
The  SaYioar*8  yoke  must  he  sostain, 

Who  soldier  of  His  cross  will  be!** 

Load  from  the  throng  a  murmur  breaks, 
A  mighty  storm  the  building  shakes ; 
The  brethren  suppUcate  for  grace ; 
The  silent  youth,  with  earth-bent  fkce. 
Calmly  disrobes,  and  kissing  ere 
He  goes  the  master^s  hand  seyere, 
Departs.    But,  lo !  the  master's  eye 
Pursues ;  and,  hark !  his  loving  cry. 
Recalls :  ^  Embrace  me  now,  my  son ! 

A  harder  conquest  thou  hast  gain*d ; 
Take  back  this  cross,  the  guerdon  won, 

By  victory  over  sdf  obtain*d !  ** 


ARNOLDS  LECTURES  ON  MODERN  HISTORY/ 


The  late  Dr.  Arnold  took  public  fa- 
vour bv  storm.  Between  the  in- 
fancy of  his  popularity  and  its  full 
efflorescence  there  was  no  interme- 
diate staoe,  and  he  seemed  to  step 
at  once  from  privacy,  if  not  obscu- 
rity, to  the  highest  point  of  literary 
celebrity.  This  is  not  a  common 
case,  but  it  mav  be  explained.  Dr. 
Arnold  was  a  highly  endowed  man, 
and  the  times  in  which  he  lived  were 
favourable  to  the  devdopement  of 
his  peculiar  powers,  and  to  the  dis- 

gensation  of  tne  knowledge  which  he 
ad  acquired.  He  was  able,  earnest, 
and  Ewous,  and  devoted  himself 
with  stem  diligence  to  the  duties  of 
his  personal  and  public  offices.  As 
a  matter  of  course,  success  followed 
his  exertions.  This  is  the  reward  of 
sincerity ;  and  he  reaped  it  in  a  full, 
ifnotinaprodifl;almea0ure.  His  fame 
as  a  mere  scholar  and  as  a  classical 
critic  he  must  divide  with  others  who 
have  achieved  much  less  notoriety, 
and  who  were  infinitely  beneath  him 
in  general  intelligence ;  but  what 
really  distinguished  him,  and  what 
attracted  towards  his  writings  the 
regards  of  his  countrjrmen,  were  his 
love  of  truth,  the  fearlessness  with 
which  he  prosecuted  any  inquiry 
upon  which  lie  entered,  his  open  dis- 
regard of  consequences,  the  rashness 
of  his  logic,  and  his  somewhat 
haughty  contempt  for  the  sacredness 


of  established  opinJons.     Tbeae  are 
all  striking  qualities,  and  it  was  not 
his  custom  to  let  them  mme  ibr 
want  of  exercise ;  but  the  Tapjd  evo- 
lution of  society  during    ^'"^ 
probably   stimulated  his    ambitiai^ 
and  certainly  gave  a  more  definite 
aim  to  his  controversial  excnrnons 
than  thejr  could  have  obtained  in 
quieter  times.     Such  a  man  could 
never  have  been  a  literary  adven- 
turer.    The  severity  and  ftitfafhlnesB 
of  his  nature  forbad  it,  and  when  he 
emerged   from   his   retirement    he 
came  forth  armed  at  all  pointsi  pre- 
pared to  vindicate  his  claiins  to  the 
respect,  if  not  to  challenge  the  con- 
fidence, of  his  contemporaries. 

The  infirmities  of  this  remarkable 
person  had,  perhaps,  a  similar  oi^gni 
with  his  virtues.  His  love  of  truth 
was  intense,  nor  shall  we  for  one 
moment  doubt  that  he  pursued  hk 
search  after  it  with  as  much  hones^ 
of  purpose  as  zeal;  buthefoigottbat 
it  assumes  various  shades — ^in  other 
words,  that  its  oomnlexion  and  cha- 
racter will  necessarily  depend  on  the 
temjxr  of  the  mind  which  pereeivei 
it  Individual  convictions  are  much 
affected  by  individual  idiosjmcTMieB^ 
not  to  speak  of  the  minor  but  not 
less  real  influences  of  birth,  edoct- 
tion,  and  social  position  and  ooo' 
verse,  which  it  would  be  unwise  to 
overlook  in  a  summary  of  causatioo. 


*  Introductory  Lectures  oo  Modem  History,  delifered  in  Lent  184f ,  with  tlifl 
laugural  Lecture  delivered  in  December  1841.  By  Thos.  Arnold,  D.D.,  RcviasPro- 
isor  of  Modem  History  in  the  Uoiversity  of  Oxford,  and  Head-matter  of  Rogbf 
hool.    Third  Edition.    London,  B.  Fellowos,  Ludgate  Street,  1846. 


1846  J 


AmoU*s  Lectures  on  Modern  HUiory^ 


697 


We  do  not  here  aUude  to  those 
sUght  and  transient  emotions  which 
ehb  and  flow  with  the  coirents  of 
the  hour  and  dav,  and  scarcely  leave 
a  ripple  upon  the  surface  ox  exist- 
ence; but  to  the  deeper  and  more 
durable  impressions  which,  however 
acquired,  take  root  and  fhictify, 
which  no  training  can  altogether 
eradicate,  and  whidi  in  time  Moome 
thoroughly  inoontorated  with  the 
whole  being  of  the  man.  It  is  by 
the  greater  or  less  prominency  of 
these  indescribable  qualities  that  we 
distinguish  one  man  from  another; 
it  is  Dj^  their  insensible  operation 
upon  lus  own  actions  that  ne  dis- 
tingnishes  himself  fh>m  his  fellows; 
ana  it  is  in  their  aggr^tion  that 
ike  force  of  his  nature  visibly  re- 
sides. Such  considerations,  however, 
Dr.  Arnold  habitually  neglected. 
His  code  of  moral  and  inte&ectual 
law  was  eminently  unaccommodat- 
ing, and  fkiled  consequently  to  com- 
mand that  universal  obedience  which 
he  required  for  it;  and  jMSsibly  to 
this,  more  than  to  any  single  dr- 
Gumstanoe  that  could  be  named,  may 
bk  numerous  disappointments  and 
the  petty  vexations  that  followed 
them  be  attributed.  His  own  na- 
ture was  eneigetic,  but  with  him  it 
was  the  tvpe  of  all  other  natures; 
nor  ooula  he,  apparently,  under- 
stand why  this  snould  not  be  so. 
He  had  more  passion  than  feeling, 
and  whatever  he  did  or  thought  was 
marked  by  keenness  rather  tnan  by 
tenderness.  Of  imagination,  pro- 
perly so  called,  he  had  none ;  while 
of  neutrality  unon  any  subject  what* 
ever  he  woula  seem  to  have  been 
incapable.  The  result  is,  an  absence 
of  philosophical  repose  where  that 
repose  is  most  needed.  He  was  too 
ardent,  perhaps  too  honest,  to  be  in- 
different about  any  thing  which  en- 
oaged  his  attention;  but  out  of  this 
fiery  property  there  necessarily 
sprang  an  aguish  impatience,  which 
it  is  painfhl  to  witnm,  and  a  want 
of  discrimination  which  it  is  not  easy 
otherwise  to  account  for  on  the  part 
of  so  able  a  writer.  It  had  also  the 
effect  of  confining  while  it  concen- 
trated his  sympathies ;  but  in  direct 
proportion  as  it  did  this  it  likewise 
contracted  the  range  of  his  analo- 


gies, and  impressed  upon  his  most 
ambitious  efforts  at  philosophical 
analysis  an  unsatisfactory  air ;  and, 
d  farHoHy  on  his  philosophical,  and 
even  his  historical,  conclusions  an 
amb^ous,  because  a  narrow  charac- 
ter. Dr.  Arnold,  with  all  his  gifti, 
was  pre-eminently  a  parochial  sage. 
While  sazing  on  the  universe  rad 
contemplating  its  past  and  present 
progress,  he  seems  to  have  been 
spefi-bound  by  the  local  influences 
which  surrounded  him.  His  school 
was  a  miniature  world,  whence  he 
drew  his  pictures  of  human  passions 
and  affections,  and  he  the  king,  who 
presided  with  despotic  authori^  over 
the  unruly  microcosm ;  and  when  he 
went  abroad  into  life,  or  attempted 
to  delineate  the  great  world  without, 
we  at  once  recognise  the  hastiness 
and  the  intolerance  of  one  who  was 
a  stranger  to  CQutradiction,  and  whose 
confidence  in  himself  was  the  result 
of  a  consciousness  of  his  superiority 
to  those  around  him  rather  tiian  of 
a  fair  oomDarison  of  himself  with  his 
equals.  This  peculiarity  is  remark- 
ably^ conspicuous  in  some  of  his  pro- 
fessional writings.  We  have  no  evi- 
denoe,  for  example,  that  he  had 
studied  ecclesiastical  history  vrith 
more  than  ordinary  attention,  and 
none  whatever  that  he  excelled  in 
his  knowledge  of  ecclesiastical  polity, 
and  yet  his  doffniatism  upon  boUi 
these  subjects  is  literally  overwhelm- 
ing. His  scheme  of  a  comprehen- 
sive union  of  Christians  may  be 
considered  complimentary  to  his  li- 
berality, but  at  the  expense  of  his 
judgment;  while  his  theory  of 
prMwthood*  and  his  hatred  of  cleri- 
cal organisation  clearly  demonstrate 
his  incapacity  to  deal  with  questions 
of  so  comprenensive  a  character.  The 
l^Umacy  of  the  episcopate  was  an- 
other stumbling-Dlock  which  im- 
peded his  path  and  disturbed  his  se- 
renity throughout  life,  but  which  he 
at  last  overleaped  at  a  bound,  as  an 
insufferable  hinderance  to  the  evolu- 
tions of  a  firee  spirit.  Indeed,  the 
scorn  with  which  he  treats  the  re- 
ceived hypothesis  of  prelatical  de- 
scent is  absolutely  withering,  and  in 
a  Churchman  fiur  from  becoming. 
No  ffreater  horror  could  have  been 
manifested  had  he  been  combating 


*  S«e  Fragm§nt  on  ths  Churek.     London,  1845.    A  posthnmoos  and  ? 
ordinary  frsgmenti  which  bis  widow  has  been  advised  to  publish  sinoe  his 


AtwM$  Le^mrti  mi  Modem  Bdimy. 


\y^> 


the  pcaee  «f  the  werid  and  the  well- 
Mag  cf  the  htuBin  nee^  instead  of 
m  opMen  winch,  m  the  preBent  age 
Ht  MMt,  la  pnKtIcally  mnooent,  and 
whM,  ibr  ai^t  lie  knew  to  the 
eoHtraart^ Hilght  be  hlatoricany  oor- 
iwt*  But  Oft  audi  pointe  he  was 
not  an  anthority,  and  Doth  the  bent 
of  hia  mind  and  hia  impatience  of 
oontool,  to  81^  nothing  of  hia  eon- 
temnt  Ibr  aeholaatic  antiqnity,  dia- 
anamed  him  in  a  remarkabte  manner 
i&r  eatimatinr  the  value  of  the  teati- 
raony  on  whieh  aach  condusiona 
veat.  When  we  are  tM  that  ^  the 
eaRntial  idea  of  a  prleat  is  thia,  that 
he  is  a  person  made  neccscaiy  to  our 
intereonrae  with  God  ;**  that  «*  this 
unreaaonable,  immoral,  unaeriptural 
neeeaaity  is  the  easeneeof  piieathood  ;'* 
thalt  "^nrieathood  ia  properly  media* 
tion,  tMcing  this  laat  word  in  ita  ety« 
melo^eal,  rather  than  its  eommon 
meamng;**  that  **thia  intermediate 
being*'  (the  nriest)  **  stands  to  man 
in  the  place  of  God  ;***  that  a  priest- 
hood auppoaed  to  be  of  divine  ap- 
pohitment  ia  a  hc^Ieas  evil,  ^^re-* 
quiring  nothing  less  than  a  new 
rerelation  to  remove  it  ;**  f  ^^^^  "  <^ 
order  of  men  set  apart  to  teach  their 
brethren  is  no  essential  and  eternal 
part  of  the  plan  of  Christianity  ;**} 
and  that  **  the  church  of  Christ  is 
not  to  be  subjected  to  the  authorita- 
tive teachingof  anyof  its  members  ;"§ 
we  are  apt  to  suspect  that  there 
must  have  been  something  verv  pe- 
culiar in  the  mental  atmcture  of  that 
man,  who,  himself  a  priest  and  the 
ordained  minister  of  a  ehurdi,  one  of 
the  ftmdanental  conditions  of  which 
it  is  that  there  shonld  exist,  not  a 
priesAood  onhr,  but  a  tripartite  divi- 
rion  of  that  pnesthood,  couM  delibe- 
rately utter  and  ea  deliberately 
promulgate  sneh  estraordinary  sen- 
timents as  these.  Because  the  Oxford 
school  exalted  the  priestly  office  too 
nrach.  Dr.  Arnold  would  utterly  de- 
base k;  tlds,  however,  is  not  to 
aisue,  but  to  declaim.  The  abuse 
or  an  institution  at  any  particular 
time,  or  in  any  partieuhu*  place,  is  no 
proof  of  its  usekssness  in  all  time  or 
aft  an^  time,  and  it  is  needless  to  add 
that  It  makes  nothing  fbr  or  against 
the  saeredness  of  its  of%in ;  but  in 


the  prcMnt  ease  bis  reason  was  ftkff 
mastered  by  the  vehewenee  of  ins 
indignation  against  an  obnoKkmsdaaB 
of  rdigioniBlB,  and  lining  appsrendy 
no  escape  from  the  tronbleaono  in- 
ferences which  his  opponents  de* 
duced  from  the  history  of  the  priaai* 
tive  church, — ^inferences,  by4fae  way, 
whidi  were  as  much  a  veali^  to 
him  as  to  them — ^he  boldly  atnm  at 
the  root  of  tlie  whole  edifice,  and 
solved  the  dUBcnlty  hy  denouncing 
the  priestly  order  itself  as  a  violent 
and  cruel  invasion  of  human  riaiit, 
and  as  a  tiling  whidi  should  be  dis- 
carded as  ''immoral  and  unacriptn- 
nd!**  It  is  not  easjr,  we  confees,  to 
account  satisfeetorify  for  sndi  ex- 
cessive waywardness;  but  we  shaD 
make  the  attempt,  even  at  the  ride 
of  bring  unsuoecflsftd. 

It  would  appear  to  us,  then,  that 
the  source  or  these  in  vgularitics  in 
so  annable  and  excellent  a  man  wai 
essentidly  phyriologicd.  Dr.  Ar- 
nold's temperament  was  ardent,  and, 
as  we  have  already  stated,  his  aed 
in  all  things,  great  or  small,  waa  ine* 

Eressible.  To  use  a  homely  j^irase, 
e  could  take  nothing  eaaly ;  and  Ae 
result  of  this  extreme  aiudety  to 
realise  his  own  convictions  waa  an 
intense  manifestation  ^MMdmaUtm. 
He  was  neither  of  I^aul,  nor  Apofloi^ 
nor  Cephas,  in  religion;  nor  of 
Socrates  or  Plato  in  morals ;  nor  ef 
Bacon  or  Descartes  in  modem  litera* 
ture ;  nor  of  Fitt  or  Fox,  RusrU  er 
Peel,  in  politics;  but  of  Thomas 
Arnold,  and  of  Ttiomas  Arnold  alone 
It  was  his  business  to  think  ftr  lum« 
self,  and  he  dkl  so;  but  he  seemed 
to  forget  that  others  had  an  equd 
right  to  the  liberty  of  private  jw^* 
ment,  and  would  probably  uae  it; 
and  that  to  differ  from  him  was 
neither  a  reUgious,  a  peiilieal.  Bar 
a  moral  heresy.  Nothing,  indeed, 
strikes  us  as  more  rsmarkaMe  In  his 
history  than  the  fact  that  hia  oim 
very  circumscribed  sphere  of  obaef* 
vation,  and  hn  sepantion  firam  tiie 
praetical  business  of  life,  never  sug- 
gested a  single  doubt  as  to  his  com- 
petent to  grep^  with  matters  cf 
acknowledged  doBeulty  In  the  mord 
and  physical  government  of  the  wuffM. 
Hesitation  was  not  one  of  his  defects ; 
on  the  contrary,  his  praetiee  was  IS 


Fragmsot  on  the  Chardi,  pp.  15,  16. 
I  Ibid.  t04. 


t  IbM.fll. 
f  llrid.  fit. 


ArMJiTif  Lectures  €n  Modern  Bi 


599 


mrii  in  mnikm  im,  and  to  dnpenK 
lus  efBOMoat  with  no  metssred  li«od 
totheTiglrtnidtotliekft*  All  the 
pveviom  rules  and  aajdiiif  of  social 
coi<cnee  be  fltretcbed  upon  a  Yta^ 
cnutean  bed  of  bis  own  Ibnnaitioii, 
and  dMpMdtbein  down  to  its  dimen- 
stoiis*  llie  proeess  was  •ommary 
and  genenUy  neat,  bat  it  was  ar- 
bitrarv  and  often  eipricioas,  and  it 
eausad  the  ibree  oi  oiitomstanees, 
Ibr  good  or  Ibr  evfl,  in  a  great  mea^ 
swTe  to  escape  bim.  In  no  writer  of 
modem  tisses  of  tbe  same  distinction 
do  we  veraeHAber  of  so  little  allowance 
being  made  for  tbeir  operation ;  per- 
haps because  their  recognition  would 
hare  been  iaconvenient  to  a  very 
daring  theorist,  bat  more  probably 
because  th^  influence  was  inade- 
€pi9Ukj  apprehended.  They  ob- 
structed bis  progress,  and  he  turned 
aside  from  tncm  with  scorn.  In  like 
manner  he  delisted  in  abstractions, 
and  was  sometimes  happy  in  their 
application ;  but  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  he  possessed  tne  subtlety  or 
the  ecHnprehensiyeness  of  mind  neces- 
sary for  a  successful  metaphysician ; 
ana  it  is  quite  certain  that  if  he  did,  he 
carefbUy  concealed  them.  The  com- 
mon apology  for  these  extrayagancies 
is,  his  limited  experience  of  mukind ; 
ninr  shall  we  deny  that  the  almost 
monastic  aeckision  of  Bagby  may 
\wrt  tended  to  corroborate  mstead 
of  to  soften  those  strong  impressions 
winch  he  adopted  so  r^idily  and  re- 
tained so  tenadonsly :  but  the  fault 
would  appear  to  us  to  have  lain 
deeper,  since  it  cannot  be  disputed  that 
many  men  with  as  little  knowledj^e  of 
li&  have  taken  jaster  views  of  the 
(tfgamsation  and  objects  oC  human 
soSety.  J>t,  Amotd  was,  in  fiiet, 
temperameiitaUy  an  absolutist,  and 
rnitaer  the  aosidents  of  his  educatkin 
nor  bja  poMon  contributed  to  abate 
the  rali^  infirmity  of  his  mind. 
Samuel  Johnson,  for  instance,  was  a 

Ct  dogmatist,  or,  as  some  will  have 
great  bigot,—- such  is  the  modern 
phrase,  nor  are  we  concerned  at  pre- 
sent with  its  justness ;  but  Johnson, 
though  traroling  over  much  the 
same  ground,  swept  roond  a  wider 
dide  than  his  suecesaor,  and,  with 
eqval  confidenoe  in  his  own  powers, 
kept  nnidi  nearer  to  tiie  surface  of 
things.  It  is  only  in  Boswell  that 
his  egoism  appears ;  and  but  for  the 
revelations  ofthftt  ?xtraord»ary  book 


and  Hie  whispers  bf  tradlBon,  th^ 
men  of  our  generation  wouM  have 
Imown  little  or  nolhinff  cf  his  lead- 
ing mtiperties.  In  wnat  he  wrote 
fbr  the  world  the  yigonr  and  Ihe 
extent  of  his  powers  are  alone  eon« 
spieuons,  lor  we  do  not  reckon  his 
mannerism  a  mental  defect ;  it  was 
a  mere  blemish,  or,  at  the  most,  an 
error  in  taste.  The  man  himseff  is 
never  obtruded  on  your  notice ;  vA 
though  he  may  treat  you  to  a  little 
of  his  own  wisdom,  he  does  not  think 
it  necessary  to  deroise  the  wMom  of 
tbe  rest  of  mankina :  but  Dr.  Arnold, 
like  Savage  Landor,  constantly  oc* 
cupies  the  foreground  of  his  own 
canvass — his  personal^  is  never  ab- 
sent from  your  mindf  eye  ibr  one 
moment ;  and  after  having  read  and 
pondered,  and  read  aemn,  Stematciy 
delighted  and  bewildered,  the  con« 
viction  is  irresistible,  that  the  imli- 
vidualism  of  the  accompBshed  writer 
is  much  more  prominent  than  his 
philosophy.  In  our  judgment,  then, 
neither  Winchester  nor  Oxford  are 
answerable  for  the  peculiarities  dis- 
cernible in  Dr.  Arnold,  but  Nature 
herself.  She  formed  the  man  and 
made  him  what  he  was, — not  the 
cloister  or  the  school,  the  Academe 
or  the  Porch;  a  man  whom  a  ^-^ 
fieulty  could  not  disms^  nor  a  para- 
dox startle ;  a  man  of  high  moral 
resolution  and  of  strong  passions, 
who  was  impatient  of  control  aud 
resented  contradiction;  a  man  wh0 
thought,  feH,  and  acted^  energetically 
at  all  times  and  in  all  circumstances  % 
a  man  of  lai|;e  benev(4ence,  but  who 
had  resolven  that  the  world  should 
be  virtuous  only  after  a  frshion  of 
his  own;  a  truthful  but  a  severe 
man,  fiom  whom  the  weaknesses  of 
humanity  received  little  mercy ;  a  re^ 
ipectaUe  man,  undoubtedly,  and  % 
good  man,  but  one  whose  creed  and 
precepts  were  unnecessarily  harsh ; 
and,  Wfond  all  controversy,  a  mail 
the  expansion  of  whose  mind  was 
eramped  by  the  early  adoption  of  a 
system  of  political  ethics,  which  in 
after-life  narrowed  the  field  of  his 
usefblness,  and  has  cast  over  the 
most  ambitious  of  his  performances 
tbe  shadow  of  a  spee^  decay.  But 
it  is  tane  to  turn  to  tne  rolume  be- 
fore us. 

The  lectures  of  which  it  consii 
eight  in  number,  were  delivered 
Oxford  in  tbe  years  1841-42,  in  t 


LM.J, 


:2«s 


■  "-^ 


»     -      "s       -     « 


1 846.] 


AmokTi  LeciuHs  cm  Modern  History^ 


601 


have  oever  known  my  other  state  tliaii 
ooe   of  abundance   and   luxury,   begin 
seriously  to  coDoeiTe  of  famine.    But  the 
shops   were    emptied,    and    the    stora. 
houses  began  to  be  drawn  upon ;  and  no 
fresh  supply  or  hope  of  supply  appeared. 
Winter  passed    away,    and   spring  re- 
turned, so  early  and  so  beautiful  on  that 
g-arden-like  coast,  sheltered  as  it  is  from 
the  north  winds  by  its  belt  of  mountains, 
and    open    to    the   full    range    of  the 
sootbem    sun.      Spring  returned,    and 
clothed  the  hill-sides  with  its  fresh  ver- 
dure.   But  that  verdure  was  no  longer 
the      mere    delight    of     the     careless 
eye   of  luxury,  refreshing  the  citixens 
with   its    liveliness  and  softness  when 
they  rode  or  walked  up  thither  from  the 
citj  to  enjoy  the  surpassing  beauty  of 
the  prospect.    The  green  hill-sides  were 
now  Tisited  for  a  very  different  object : 
ladies  of  the  highest  rank  might  be  seen 
catting  op  every  plant  which  it  was  pos- 
sible to  turn  to  food,  and  bearing  home 
the  common  weeds  of  our  road-sides  as  a 
most  precious  treasure.    The  French  ge. 
neral  pitied  the  distress  of  the  people, 
but  the  lives  and  strength  of  his  garrison 
seemed  to  him  more  important  than  the 
lives  of  the  Genoese ;  and  such  provi- 
sions as  remained  were  reserved  in  the 
first  place  for  the  French  army.    Scarcity 
became  utter  want,  and  want  became  fii- 
mine.     In  the  most  gorgeous  palaces  of 
that  gforgeous  city,  no  less  than  in  the 
humblest  tenements  of  its  humblest  poor, 
death    was  busy;    not  the  momentary 
death    of  battle   or  massacre,  nor  the 
speedy  death  of  pestilence,  but  the  lin- 
gering and  most  miserable  death  of  fa. 
mine.     Infimts  died  before  their  parents' 
eyes ;  husbands  and  wires  lay  oown  to 
expire  together.    A  man  whom  1  saw  at 
Genoa  in  18:^5,  told  me  that  his  father 
and  two  of  his  brothers  had  been  starved 
to  death  in  this  fatal  siege.    So  it  went 
on,  till,  in  the  month  of  June,  when  Na. 
poleon  had  already  descended  from  the 
Alps  into  the  plions  of  Lombardy,  the 
niisery  became  onendnnible,  and  Massena 
surrendered.     But  before   he    did    so, 
20,000  innocent  persons,  old  and  young, 
women  and  children,  had  died  by  the 
most  horrible  of  deaths  which  humanity 
can  endure."* 

Dr.  Arnold  then  coiisiden  ahortly, 
and  very  generally,  with  whom  "  the 
guilt  of  most  atrocious  murder** 
lay,  whether  on  both  sides  equally, 
or  on  one  side  only ;  and  concludes 
his  review  of  the  "tn^y,"  by 
tnumphantly  exclaiming,  "if  any 
man  can  defend  the  lawfulness,  m 


the  abstract,  of  the  starvation  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Genoa,  I  will  engage 
also,  to  establish  the  lawfulness  of 
the  massacres  of  Septemher.**t 

We  are  not  surpriaed  that  this 
IMssage  should  have  excited  admira- 
tion. As  a  picture  it  is  complete, 
and  those  who  read  here  or  else* 
where  of  the  sufferings  of  the  miser- 
able inhabitants  of  Genoa  during  the 
blockade,  which  lasted  forty -one 
days,  will  unite  with  us,  as  thejr 
would  have  united  with  Dr.  Arnold, 
in  considering  war  in  all  its  aspects 
as  one  of  the  most  dreadful  scourses 
which  ever  desokted  the  earth :  3ie 
analogy,  however,  with  which  it 
doses,  appears  to  us  to  he  both  false 
and  daiurerous;  and  for  these  rea- 
sons we  snail  request  the  attention  of 
the  reader  for  a  few  minutes,  while 
we  endeavour  to  estimate  its  value. 

The  defence  of  the  *'  kwAilness  in 
the  abstract,'*  of  starving  the  inha- 
hitants  of  the  city  of  Genoa,  or  any 
other  city,  is  scarcely  within   the 
limits  of  any  discussion  growing  oat 
of  the  history  of  that  melancholy 
transaction,  and  was  a  denumd  which 
Dr.  Arnold  had  no  right  to  makoi 
either  as  a  casuist  or  as  a  critic  on 
maritime  law :  while  it  must  be  pain- 
fully obvious  to  all  that  Lord  Keith's 
share  in  that  memorable  incident  is 
unfavourably  contrasted  with  that  of 
the  revolutionaiy  general  who  held 
Genoa  for  the  French  Republic.  His 
office,  nevertheless,  was  as  purely  mi- 
nisterial as  the  office   of  Massena* 
They  both  did  what  their  respective 
governments   ordered   them  to  do^ 
and  in  their  drcnmstanoes  they  could 
do  nothing  else ;  but  the  point  to  be 
observed  is  this,  that  the  object  of 
the  allies  was  to  force  Massena  out 
of  Genoa,  not  to  starve  the  Genoese; 
and  that,  consequently,  if  the  Ge- 
noese were  starved  beoiuse  Massena 
would  not  abandon  their  city,  the 
weight  of  that  grave  offence  should 
lie  upon  him  and  those  whom  he 
served,  and  not  u|K)n  the  British  ad- 
miral  or  the  British   flovemment« 
who  had  no  alternative  oetween  the 
institution  of  a  blockade  with  all  its 
attendant  horrors,  and  the  abandon- 
ment of  that  line  of  political  acti<>» 
upon  which  they  had  entered 
arresting  the  progress  of  the  Fr 
arms  in  Italy.     Morally  spea 


*  Lectures  on  Uistoryi  pp.  168,  et  seqq. 
OL.  XXXIU.  KO.  GXCVU. 


t  p.  l?t. 


602 


ArnaltTt  Ltetunt  on  Mtdtn  Hi$tary» 


[Mat. 


lilt  ^'  lawftdncM**  ofahmghteriDg  men 
ift  battle  may  be  donbted;  end  no 
one  ever  yet  read  the  lustorj  of  an 
assault  without  feelmff  his  blood  rua 
oold  at  ^e  recital  or  the  otroeities 
whieh  acoompaiiied  it;  bat  the  ei- 
viliaa  who  defines  the  rules  of  war, 
or  the  iwlitician  who  imtifies  its  ae- 
oessity,  is  not  to  be  held  asdestitate  of 
hmnun^  beeanse  he  ea&not  abate  its 
cmeltieB;  for  the  assomption  that  it 
will  and  nuist  be  attended  with  cruel- 
ties  is  one  of  the  conditions  of  his 
aigament,  which  by  the  nature  of 
tiie  case  he  is  compelled  to  adopts 
and  whiehi  let  us  hope,  he  adojpU 
with  relnetanoe*  That  every  thing 
fllwuld  be  done  which  humanity  catt 
Bugnest  to  soften  its  severities,  we 
reamly  gnmt,  and  if  it  be  true,  as 
has  been  said,  that  the  Austrian  com- 
mander before  Genoa  refused  a  pas- 
sage across  the  lines  to  the  women 
9M  children,  that  was  an  act  of  bur* 
barity  which  history  should  record 
and  stigmatise :  but  even  such  a  per- 
mission would  in  the  winter  season, 
and  in  northern  latitudes,  only  aggra- 
vate the  prevailing  wretchecmess,  by 
driving  into  the  open  country  a 
crowd  of  houseless  and  defenceless 
fugitives,  who  would  thus  merely 
exchange  one  kind  of  death  for  an- 
other. Look  at  it,  then,  in  what 
light  you  will,  suffering  uid  sorrow 
must  attend  war.  It  is  not,  and 
never  has  been  the  herald  of  hajypi- 
ness,  but  the  servant  of  desolation : 
but  dreadful  thing  as  it  is,  and  in- 
evitable as  it  woiud  seem  to  be  so 
lon^  as  man  is  constituted  as  he  is, 
it  still  has  its  lavre — ^in  civHised  coun- 
tries, at  least — and  we  must  protest 
as  energetically  as  we  can  against 
the  extraordinary  doctrine  here  an- 
nounced bv  Dr.  Ahk^  that  its  in-* 
cidental  calamities  may  be  KMa?^cfii 
by  the  frightful  atrocities  committed 
^n  Paris  m  1792,  and  known  as  the 
^  September  massacres."  If  this  be 
nore  than  an  antithetical  ornament, 
ve  must  ^onounce  it  to  be  one  of 
he  most  singular  illustrations  upon 
record  of  aoonfiisioa  of  moral  ideas; 
for  while  legitimate  war  forbids 
murder,  massacre  is  murder-— more 
than  that,  it  is  murder  in  cold  blood, 
without  an  aim  or  an  object  but  the 
brutal  lust  of  destruction  and  the 
fiendish  love  of  slaughter ;  and  such 
Was  the  character  of  the  "'  September 
massacres,''  which  Dr.  Arnold  thought 


himsdfjustified  in  settiag  off 
the  mfirarings  of  the  QeDoee. 
massacres  lasted  for  three  days,  du- 
ring which  short  time  the  wretdies 
who  officiated  at  these  orgies  sacri- 
ficed from  6000  to  12,000  vietes 
(for  the  number  is  uncertain),  of  all 
ages  and  ranks,  and  of  both  sexes, 
including  the  Princess  de  Lamballe ; 
and  it  must  be  remembered  that 
these  enonnities  were  not  nerpetnlcd 
by  enemies  on  their  foes,  wnioi  would 
have  been  bad  enough,  but  hy  devils 
in  human  shape  on  their  own  bap- 
less  countrvmen  and  kindred;  tut 
no  plea  of  necessi^,  good,  bad,  or 
indiubrent,  could  bie  ui^ed  in  de- 
fence of  these  atrodtiea,  ezoept  the 
foul  passions  of  their  execrable  au- 
thors, and  that  after  the  lapse  of 
half  a  century  they  stand  out  in  bold 
relief  as  (me  of  the  most  diamal  tra^ 
oedies  which  stain  the  page  of  mo- 
dem history.  That  they  should  be 
likened  to  any  of  the  ordinaiy  cssu- 
alties  of  war  by  a  man  of  Dr.  Ar- 
nold*s  reputation,  is  tmlv  wonderful ; 
but  if  our  estimate  of  his  character 
be  correct,  perhaps  this  anomaly  may 
be  explained.  The  story  which  he 
heard  at  Genoa  in  182o  made  a 
strong  impression  upon  his  imagin- 
ation, ana  like  most  of  his  impres- 
sions it  was  as  durable  as  it  wss 
strong.  NothiuR  could  be  more 
natural  than  that  while  in  the 
city  itself  he  should  inquire  about 
the  siege,  and  to  a  mind  constituted 
and  pre-occnpied  as  his  was,  the 
transition  from  gratified  curiosity  to 
anger  was  easy.  From  that  hour  we 
may  reasonably  suppose  that  the 
siege  of  Genoa  would  occupv  a  con- 
siderable place  in  his  recouectioos. 
It  was  an  mcident  well  suited  to  his 
tastes,  and  he  has  made  an  episode 
out  of  it,  which  would  have  been 
perfect  but  for  its  excessive  narrow- 
ness; and  which,  as  it  at  present 
stands,  is  cruelly  unjust  to  the  actors 
in  that  melancholy  enterprise,  as 
well  as  illogical  in  its  philosophical 
conduflionSf  if  ^r^rd  b«i  had  to  tiic 
recognised  principlea  of  warfare  in 
ancient  ana  modem  times.  The 
truth,  we  apprehend  to  be,  that  Dr. 
Arnold  had  an  inexact  eonception  of 
nationality,  if,  indeed,  that  phrase 
conveyed  to  his  mmd  any  definite 
idea  whatever.  Upon  no  other  hy- 
pothesis can  we  account  for  the  stress 
which  he  lays  upon  what  would  ap- 


1846.] 


Am^kTs  Lectures  wn  Modepn  Mietary, 


603 


pmr  to  be  indiTidiial  in  eontradk" 
tinelioii  to  iaipeiial  interesta,  or  for 
his  amdety  to  measure  the  lifter  by 
a  stuidaca  wliidi  fklli  izifinitely  dKnt 
of  their  true  proportions.  These  lec- 
tures, beautrnd  and  instruetive  as 
the^  oAsn  are,  when  critkaHy  ex« 
ammed,  aboand  in  proofs  of  this  pe- 
culiarity. There  were  not,  periiaps, 
twenty  men  in  Britam  who  felt  as 
acntefy  en  all  8nl]jects  as  he  himself 
didt  or  who  conld  invest  the  passhig 
occnrrenoes  of  the  daj^,  or  the  events 
o(f  remote  times,  wrth  the  charm 
which  he  threw  around  both:  but 
he  wrote  as  if  he  thought  otherwise, 
and  he  reasoned  as  ff  he  belieyed 
that  every  man  might  beeome  **a 
law  unto  hiaMdf;*  fbr  it  was  fiur 
from  his  purpoee  to  inculcate  any 
sneh  demoralisinflr  ereed.  Hiss^tem 
of  isolaticm  has  nere  its  just  issue. 
It  confines  his  vision  as  a  philosophi- 
cal critic,  as  in  other  instances  it  con- 
fines his  sympathies  as  a  man :  and 
the  result  is,  a  contracted  tapprecM* 
tioA  of  the  force  of  thc«e  great  inftn- 
enoes  which  act  on  the  common  fa- 
mi^  oinations,  whkb  are  in  all  proba- 
bility apart  of  the  scheme  of  creation, 
and  which  have  been  in  coospienous 
operatien  rince  Ihe  dawn  of  nistory 
downwards*  The  consideration  of 
these,  Dr.  Amdd,  as  we  venture  to 
tbiidE,  neglected;  and  if  his  book  be 
taken  as  a  whole,  and  be  carefoUjr 
exaanned,  it  w^  be  found  to  be,  if 
we  mistake  not,  an  ingeniouadefimee  of 
individual  iadependenejr,  and  a  softly 
worded  apology  for  the  **  rights  of 
man."  What  is  it,  we  slKmld  be 
glad  to  know,  whidi  he  spares  that 
Dears  the  name  or  impress  of  power? 
The  word,  except  in  some  sense  pro- 
per to  himseli^  was  as  offensive  as  the 
thing  which  it  represented ;  and 
whether  the  question  be  of  ecde- 
fiiasticBl  sttbordinationy  df  magisterial 
authority,  of  natural  law,  or  even  of 
mond  obedienee,  there  is  at  least  a 
taeii  reservation  of  the  privileges  of 
the  indzridnal  which  it  is  impossible 
to  overlook.  Compare  him  in  this 
respect  with  Burke,  and  his  most 
araent  admirers  could  desire  no  higher 
analogy.  In  the  one  you  find  the 
msQeeiy  and  intenity  of  society 
strenuonsly  enfiacera,  and  our  **  glo* 
riooB  constitution"  set  teth  as  an 
object  of  ftlmott  idolatrous  vene- 
ration ;  in  the  other  von  wfll  duno^w 
nothing  of  the  kind,  but  you  may 


learn  that  sodety  is,  upon  the  whole, 
rather  an  oppression  tnan  a  benefit ; 
that  in  various  ways  it  has  abridged 
your  liberties,  fon^  your  will,  and 
restricted  your  sphere  of  enjoyment ; 
and  tiiat  this  or  any  other  constitu- 
tion— ^unless,  perhaps,  some  unreal 
fiMrm  of  democracy — ^is  as  remarkable 
for  its  defects  as  its  excellencies. 
Dr.  Arnold  was  of  the  statutory 
sdmol,  and  had  unlimited  confidence 
in  the  beneficial  effects  of  le^lation, 
and  little  in  the  undisturbed  play  of 
the  social  affections ;  and  whatever  of 
vke  or  folly  may  disfigure  the  world, 
would  seem  to  oe  less  a  consequence 
oi  the  propensity  d  man  to  err  than 
of  the  n^lect  of  his  rulers  to  keep 
him  right.  The  effects  of  this  plaint- 
ive hamt  are  very  remarkable.  All 
his  pictures  want  relief.  There  is 
no  sunshine,  no  ehiaro  oscuro^  no 
l%ht  and  shade,  to  diversify  the 
landscape  and  to  soften  its  angulari- 
ties; but  all  is  darkness  and  gloom, 
until  the  mind,  saddened  by  the  per- 
petual contemplation  of  an  unavail- 
ing contest  between  feebleness  and 
strength,  and  humility  and  tyrannv, 
turns  in  dismay  from  a  spectacle 
which  is  all  the  more  terrible  for  the 
severe  fidelity  with  which  its  several 
lineaments  are  displayed.  We  live 
in  an  age  in  which  there  is  an  un- 
natural i^ipetite  for  the  bare  anato- 
mies of  life.  The  skin,  the  muscles, 
the  hemes,  are  each  in  their  turn  ex- 
posed to  public  view.  Every  social 
wound  is  probed  till  it  bleeds  and 
festers,  ana  he  is  the  most  profound 
philosopher  who  is  the  most  dex- 
terous operator ;  but  this  disposition 
to  luxuriate  over  human  suffering 
and  sordidness  has  tiie  worst  possible 
effect  upon  the  national  mind  and 
taste.  The  humanity  which  it  in- 
culcates is  melo-dramatic  and  false, 
and  may  be  indulged  to  anv  extent  at 
the  smallest  expense  to  the  indivi- 
dual ;  but  there  is  nothing  practical 
and  nothing  useful  about  it.  Dr. 
Arnold's  nature  was  too  noble  and 
too  pure  to  allow  of  his  personally 
{NOticipatin^  in  this  degraiding  pas- 
time ;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
there  is  a  querulous  and  an  unhealthy 
tone  about  his  miscellaneous  writings, 
which  may  tend  to  foster  the  growth 
of  a  disease  which  a  wise  man  would 
repress,  and  tiiat  they  may  afford  food 
to  those  who^  without  one  particle  of 
his  ability  or  his  benevolence,  would 


604 


AmokCt  Lechures  on  Modem  Hitlarf. 


[May, 


f 


have  no  objections  to  feed  a  paanon 
which  they  consider  respectable  mere** 
ly  because  it  b  prevalent.  His 
otherwise  admirable  sketches  will 
not  teach  contentment,  nor  will  they 
inspire  the  uncritical  reader  with  re- 
spect for  the  past  or  the  present,  for 
tne  author  himself  felt  none:  but 
8urel.y  there  are  some  bright  spots 
even  in  human  history;  surely  there 
have  been  times  when  man  was  happy 
and  deserved  to  be  so ;  surely  there 
is  a  tolerably  equal  admixture  of 
good  and  evil  in  the  world;  and 
surely  it  is  the  duty  of  the  moralist 
and  the  historian  not  to  neglect  these, 
were  it  only  for  example's  sake.  Dr. 
Arnold  would  seem  to  have  thought 
differently.  Hb  theory  of  ima^nary 
perfection  precluded  tne  possibility 
of  a  compromise,  and  what  was  not 
positively  good  he  was  obliged  to 
condemn  as  positively  bad.  He  had 
viewed  society  so  long  in  one  li^ht 
that  the  power  of  contrast  failed  hmi, 
hence  his  characters  are  either  heroes 
or  devils.  For  mere  humanity,  such 
as  God  has  made  it,  there  was  no 
place  in  his  svstem;  and  between 
the  paradisaical  stat«  of  being  on 
whicn  his  fancy  loved  to  dwell,  and 
the  **  desolation  of  woe,"  there  was 
no  middle  spot  on  which  man  could 
rest,  and  Ailfil  some  of  the  purposes 
of  his  being.  In  his  anxiety  to  be 
just,  he  became  stem  and  exclusive ; 
and  in  his  dread  of  being  lenient  to 
▼ice,  he  foreot  the  existence,  the 
authoritv,  and  the  elasticitv  of  vir- 
tue. There  might,  nevertheless,  be 
**balm  in  Gilead,**  though  he  had 
not  the  skill  to  extract  it;  and  the 

gi*adual  regeneration  of  the  race  may 
c  among  the  designs  of  Providence, 
though  the  evidences  of  that  arrange- 
ment escaped  his  penetration. 

We  have  also  remarked  it  as  a 
peculiarity  of  these  lectures,  that 
amid  much  interesting  discussion  on 
what  we  must  call  a  body  of  miscel- 
laneous subjects,  the  theory  of  race, 
or  generic  differences,  is  nowhere 
noticed;"^  and  that  no  attempt  is 
made  to  discriminate  between  the 
effects  of  temperament  and  the  in- 
fluence of  institutions.  A  slight 
acquaintance  with  history,  however, 
is  sufficient  to  shew  that  the  former 
reaches  deep  into  the  philosophy  of 


nationality,  and  caUs  lor  Uk 
cautkm  in  the  appGcatkn  of  dogutie 
principles  in  tne  dncMation  of  its 
properties.  The  eneigy  of  the  Saxon 
character,  fx  hwtanfe,  is  wbnt  M. 
Gniaot  would  call  a  faei;  in  other 
woords,  it  is  a  natual  not  an  aeqirired 
quality,  to  which  many  of  the  most 
memorable  inddents  of  medieval 
and  modem  history  may  be  lefeiied. 
The  Saxon  noe  is  now  the  rafing 
race,  and  to  its  energy  it  owes^  first, 
its  liberty;  secondly,  its  progress  in 
science,  literature,  and  eommeroe; 
and,  thirdly,  its  extensive  dominion. 
It  covers  a  large  portion  of  the  sur- 
face of  the  globe,  and  in  time  it  will 
cover  more;  and  the  questioii  whidi 
is  suggested  l^  the  contemnUtion  of 
these  phenomena  is,  to  wnat  cause 
can  they  with  most  propriety  he 
ascribed  r  It  is  not  Acts  of  nriia- 
ment,  nor  the  existence  ofparliampnt 
itself,  nor  her  tripartite  ocmstitntioD, 
which  have  made  Britain  what  she  is 
and  long  has  been,  the  foremost 
power  in  the  world;  but  it  is  the 
Saxon  character  whidi  has  made  all 
these,  for,  in  truth,  they  ne  but 
emanations  from  its  spirit,  fiirms  of 
its  living  soul,  and  expressions  of  its 
sovereign  will.  It  had  no  ordinal 
advantages  over  other  races  empt 
those  wnich  its  energy  impartea; 
and  it  is  certainly  not  beneath  the 
di{;nity  of  historjr,  or  of  histoiical 
cnticism,  to  inquire  how  that  pro- 
perty has  affected  its  destiny  during 
the  progress  of  a  thousand  years. 
Take  the  Irish,  again.  They  are  not 
Saxon,  and  neither  are  the  French. 
The  sprinkling  of  northern  Uood 
which  both  contain  has  not  been  able 
to  modify  the  force  of  primary  cha- 
racter; and  by  that  character,  not  by 
Teutonic  tastes  and  passions,  do  the^ 
continue  to  be  distinguished  to  this 
day.  Do  what  you  will — endow 
Maynooth,  build  lay  coll^pes  in  Ire- 
land^ or  plant  a  mockery  of  the 
British  senate  in  Paris ;  you  cannot 
efface  the  ingrained  marks  of  race, 
nor  prevent  Uiem  firom  re-acting  on 
the  habits,  manners,  tastes,  and  even 
the  pastimes  of  the  people  who  pos- 
sess them.  The  same  observation 
applies  to  other  nations.  Their  ^ 
neric  peculiarities  must  be  studied 
and  remembered  if  we  would  earn- 


*  There  ar«  two  slight  sUusiona  to  this  subject  at  pp.  t6  and  168,  but  they  an 
allusions  sod  no  more. 


184&] 


AtnoHi  Ledturn  on  Modem  Huimf. 


605 


prebend  eiiher  fhem  or  their  bis* 
tofies,  or  form  a  rational  estimate  of 
their  yioes  or  their  virtues.  Old 
records  and  monkish  chronicles,  of 
which  Dr.  Arnold  was  so  fond,  we 
are  far  from  undervaluing  as  sub- 
BidJary  testimonies;  nor  would  we 
speak  slightingly  of  the  importance 
of  ancient  statutes,  which  must  ne- 
cessarily reflect  the  spirit  of  the  times 
and  the  legislative  temper  of  the 
age  to  which  they  belong :  but  they 
cannot  supply  the  place  of  those  un- 
written records  which  the  Almighty 
has  traced  on  the  brows  and  phmted 
in  the  hearts  ofthe  creatures  whom  He 
has  made,  and  which  not  only  outlive 
the  passage  of  years  and  geoffraphical 
changes,  but  are  inextinguisnable  by 
the  subtle  influences  of  civilisation 
itself.  Some  chapters  of  the  late 
Mr.  Hope's  work  on  man,  apocryphal 
as  that  strange  book  is  on  many 
points,  are  models  of  this  kind  of 
analvsis.  Something  less  glarish 
would  have  suited  Dr.  Arnold ;  and 
had  he  lived  to  complete  his  sketch 
of  tbe  Middle  A^es,  he  would  have, 
dou1>tlefls,  introduced  the  subject 
The  present  volume  contains  scansely 
an  auusion  to  it,  and  in  a  series  of 
introductory  lectures  on  history, 
whcsre  it  would  have  found  its  ap- 
propriate place,  we  consider  its  total 
omission  a  defect. 

We  must  now  bring  these  remarka 
to  a  close.  They  have  exceeded  the 
limits  assigned  to  us,  but  the  subject 
is  seductive,  and  would  warrant  a 


larger  measure  of  observation  than  we 
can  afford  to  bestow  upon  it.  The  ex- 
traordinary individual  whose  charac- 
ter we  have  endeavoured  to  estimate, 
was  prematurelv  cut  off  in  the  midst 
of  his  days  and  his  usefulness ;  and 
it  is  but  reasonable  to  conclude  that, 
had  his  valuable  life  been  spared. 
Experience,  which  is  a  stern  teacher, 
would  have  softened  many  of  his 
asperities  and  corrected  many  of  his 
errors.  If  properly  directed,  the  ex- 
ercise of  his  talents  would  have  been 
of  immense  benefit  to  mankind ;  as  it 
is,  much  of  what  he  has  left  behind 
him  is  crude  and  unsatis&ctory,  and 
displays  the  activity  rather  than  the 
compactness  of  his  mind.  We  should 
also  fear  that  his  political  and  eccle- 
siastical heresies  would  find  more 
admirers  than  his  solid  virtues,  and 
that  Dr.  Arnold  vrill  be  oftener 
quoted  than  imitated.  '^Unicuique 
aedit  vitium  natura  creato."  The 
rule  is  of  universal  application,  and 
his  prominent  infirmity  was  a  con- 
tempt for  the  opinions  of  others,  and 
a  too  exclusive  confidence  in  the 
soundness  of  lus  own.  With  less 
of  this  haughty  self-reliance  and  more 
humili^,  what  mieht  he  not  have 
accomplished,  for  Dr.  Arnold  was 
both  an  accomplished  and  a  good 
man? 

Amf  yit^  ^yfutmfri  w$§t  »^«rif <^^«»««  »fi^t 

"SUm*  ym^  fuf  ^itfytf  •»  tpirnXfuten  i^n* 
'E^li  ya^  «'«XA«»v  AT^m  /uint  tmf* 


*  Calliaus. 


THE  SIKHS  AVD  THE  LATE  CAMFAIGK. 


The  popnifttion  of  the  PnnjaDtt, 
when  the  kingdom  VM  at  the  height 
of  itB  glory,  does  not  appear  to  hare 
CTceeded  three  or  four  milUong  of 
«oaU.  Of  these,  not  more  than  half 
a  million  were  Bikhs,  while  the  pro- 
portion of  Hindus  to  Manulmans 
could  not  have  been  Icn  than  three 
to  one.  All  were,  however,  taken 
indifferently  into  his  milHary  serrice 
by  Runieet  Singh.  Of  hi»  manner 
of  drilling  them  in  the  European 
fkshton,  and  of  the  chief  of  the  in- 
struments  \Thicb  he  nsed  insodrin^, 
notice  has  already  been  taken ;  and  it 
ia  fair  to  add,  that  they  did  not  stand 
alone.     Many  a  scoundrel  of  Euio- 

ni  extraction,  aa  well  as  soroe 
ericans,  and  fugitive  Sepoya  in 
abundance,  sought  emplovment,  and 
endeavoured  to  accumnlate  wealth, 
under  the  Lion  of  the  Pnnjaub. 
"But,  with  the  exception  of  Ventura, 
Court,  Avitabilc,  Allard,  and  Kor- 
land,  a  native  of  the  United  States, 
who  served  as  a  civilian,  though  with 
more  than  a  soldier's  proverbial  in- 
difference to  human  life  and  the 
claims  of  ptt^,  none  attained  to 
sitoations  of  high  eommand.  Some 
of  them  were  put  in  charge  of  bat- 
talions, with  pay  at  the  rate  of  SOW. 
or  looiu.  a- year;  otbera oomaaandad 
companies,  or  troope  or  squadrani  of 
borse ;  but  the  manner  in  irinch  the 
majority  was  dispoaed  of  was,  that 
-Uttnjeet  •Uaehed  iJwm  to  the  ar- 
tillery, and  they  received  wage^  at 
the  rate  of  ten  shillings  a-day  for 
teaching  the  natives  how  to  work, 
and  point,  and  manceuvre  the  guns. 

In  a  former  paper,  some  notice  was 
taken  of  the  arrangements  in  Sikh 
society,  which  renders  the  Funjanh, 
in  every  point  of  view,  a  nation  quite 
distinct  mim  all  which  touch  upon 
it.  A  monarchy  in  name,  it  yet  ex- 
hibited, even  when  Rnnjeet  reigned, 
much  more  the  appearance  of  a 
federation  of  petty  principalities  than 
of  a  single  conaolidated  nation;  for 
each  chief,  though  appointed  by  the 
Maha  Rajah  to  his  district,  mled  it 
and  held  it  too,  not  unfVequently  in 
defiance   of  the  power  wnicb  nad 

$  laced  him  in  nis  high  station, 
toreover,  of  the  parties  which  in- 
trigued one  agaiqn  the  other  at  the 


durbar,  and,  indeed^  thron^ont  the 
whole  extent  of  the  empire,  there 
was  no  end  ;  and  bo  formidable  were 
these,  that  Ranjcet  himself,  able  and 
nnscmpnlons  as  be  was,  controlled 
them  more  by  holding  the  baUnce 
amid  their  feuda,  than  by  pntting 
down,  by  a  ttrong  hand,  toe  factious 
niirit,  and  rendering  his  own  witi 
ffielaw.  The  conaequence  was,  that 
no  sooner  had  Runjeet  ceaaed  to 
breathe,  than  the  government,  pro- 
pcHy  BO  called,  reaoiTed  iladf  into  ita 
elements,  and  thoae  frtehtful  events 
followed  of  which  we  nave  already 
said  enough,  and  of  which  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  even  yet  the  end  it 
achieved. 

There  is  no  Salic  law  amom;  the 
SlkhB.  On  both  sides  of  the  Snttg 
women  have  repeatedly  held  the 
sceptre,  and  almost  aln^  with  an 
impure  as  well  as  a  feeble  band.  Upon 
this  plea,  the  widow  of  Runjeet's 
son  claimed,  upon  the  death  of  Noo 
Nehal  Singh,  to  govern,  as  regent, 
till  it  should  be  seen  whether  the 
widow  of  the  deceased  should  have  a 
child;  and  though  by  no  means  in 
favour  with  the  powerful  faction,  of 
which  Dhejan  Singh  and  Goolab 
Singh  were  at  the  head,  ebe  carried 
hcT  point.  But  her  frightful  de- 
baucheries soon  diegustea  even  the 
impure  Sikhs;  and  the  ahaurdity  of 
the  [ilea  on  which  she  claimed  and 

tbnted,  Sbere  Singh,  one  of  the 
twins  whose  legitimacy  Rnnjeet 
scarcely  admitted,  rebelled  agamst 
ber.  She  shut  herself  nn  in  the 
citadel  of  Lahore  and  atooo  a  nege. 
In  due  time,  however,  Dhejan  Singh 
came  to  the  assistance  of  the  prince, 
and  she  was  forced  to  surrender.  She 
was  murdered,  forthwith,  by  her  own 

And  now  began  that  series  of  mu- 
tinies and  frightful  revolts  which  led 
to  the  violation  of  the  protected 
territories  and  caused  the  Indian 
^vemment  to  put  forth  its  strength 
m  the  jnatest  quarrel  that  ever  led 
a  nation  to  arm.  The  Sikh  army 
had  always  been  kept  in  airear  wiio 
its  pay.  Even  Runjeet  himself  made 
B  practice  of  withholding  the  wages 
of  his  troope  till  a  threatened  mutiny 


1846.] 


The  SiJtbi  and  the  Late  Campaifpu 


607 


forced  upon  him  the  necessity  of 
acting  honestly;  mdeed,  it  was  no 
uncommon  thmg  to  fiixl  a  whole 
yearns  pa^  due  to  men,  who,  with 
anns  in  tneir  hands,  lived,  as  was  to 
be  expected,  by  plunder,  till  the 
districts  which  they  were  embodied  to 
protect  could  no  loqger  sustain  the 
weight  of  their  presence.  Dnniu; 
the  anarchy  that  followed  Runjeeta 
demise,  botn  the  Sirkar  and  the  army 
BUNPe  and  more  followed  the  bent  of 
their  inclinations ;  and  the  one  with^ 
holding  pay,  the  other  first  threaten- 
ed, then  robbed  the  peaceable  inhabi- 
tants, and,  finally,  broke  out  into  uni- 
versal  mutiny.  As  was  to  be  expected, 
the  infuriated  soldiery  turned  their 
arms  first  against  their  European 
commanders.  Some  of  these  thev 
slew,  others  with  difficulty  escaneo, 
while  some  owed  their  lives  to  tneir 
own  gallantry  and  the  devoted  at- 
tachment of  a  few  of  their  adherents^ 
Ilie  result  was,  that  Shere  Siuffh 
yielded  every  point  for  which  the 
mutineers  clamoured,  distributed 
largesses  among  them,  and  punished 
none;  after  which  he  granted  a 
four  months'  furlough  to  the  whole 
of  them,  and  forthwith  plunged  into 
the  course  of  degrading  vice  to 
which  he  had  long  been  addicted. 

It  was  in  1848  that  the  hatred  of 
the  Sikhs  towards  the  Kiiglish,  which 
had  long  smouldered,  and  by  the 
energy  of  Kunjeet  been  kept  under, 
began  to  shew  itself  openly.  Thev 
demanded,  that  the  new  Mana  Rajah 
should  refuse  a  passage  to  General 
Pollock  through  the  runjaub ;  and 
when  they  faded  in  carrying  this 
point,  they  clamoured  for  leave  to 
mil  upon  his  c(xnmunications,  and 
rob  the  convoys  which  from  time  to 
time  were  sent  up  to  him.  Shere 
Singh  steadily  refused  to  sanction 
these  proceedings ;  whereupon  a  con- 
spiracy was  entered  into  for  the  pur- 
pose of  getting  rid  of  him ;  and,  at  a 
review  of  cavalry  outside  the  walls 
of  Lahore,  he  was  murdered  by  his 
own  brother-in-law,  Ajeet  ^ngh." 
Not  that  the youngman  stood  alone. 
On  the  contrary,  I)hejan  Singh,  the 
same  minister  who  had  raised  Shere 
Singh  to  the  throne,  secretly  fa- 
voured the  plans  for  his  destruction, 
and  gave  proof  of  his  approval  of  the 
assassination  b^  getting  into  the 
murderer's  carriage  and  proceeding 
with  him  tow^i'ds  the  city.     3ut 


th^r  had  not  aat  lopqgtCMetliir  eie  a 
dioerenoe  of  opinion,  with  r^;ard  to 
the  new  government  that  was  to  be 
set  up,  occnnsed;  whereupon  Ajeet 
Singh  stabbed  his  relative  to  the 
heart,  and  casting  his  body  to  the 
ground,  made  his  followers  hack  off 
his  head 

It  would  be  as  little  profitable,  aa 
it  would  be  disgusting,  to  follow,  one 
by  one,  the  course  of  the  atrocities 
tnat  followed.  Ajeet  Singh  slew 
every  member  of  the  royal  family 
whom  he  succeeded  in  getting  into 
his  power,  ^ewinjg;  mert^  to  none, 
not  even  to  an  infant  bom  the  day 
before ;  and  summed  up  all  bv  send* 
ing  the  head  of  Dhejan  Singn  to  his 
son,  Rajah  Heerab  Singh.  He  paid 
dearly  for  his  folly;  for  Heerab 
Singh  getting  his  unde,  Gholab 
Singh,  to  join  him,  issued  orders  to 
the  troops  in  garrison  at  Lahore  to 
seize  the  murderer,  who  shut  himsel£ 
up  in  the  citadel  ^and  was  there  be- 
sieged. The  murderer  endeavoured 
to  escape,,  was  overtaken,  and  cut  to 
pieces,  whereupon  Herab  Singh  set 
up  Dhulab  Singh,  a  routed  son  d 
Runjeet,  as  Maha  R^ah ;  and  in  the 
capacity  of  minister  to  this  child  o^ 
tender  years,  endeavoured  to  grasp 
tl)e  powers  of  the  state.  He  wa3  not 
strong  enough  to  keep  the  place  he. 
had  won.  JNew  Actions  arose,  new 
mutinies  occurred  amon^  the  troops, 
and  Ilerab  Singh  becommg  an  object 
of  hostilitv  to  ms  neavest  a[  kin,  qied 
as  most  of  his  predecessors  had  done. 
And  now  the  mother  of  the  Infitnt 
Maha  Rajah  put  in  her  claim  to  be 
treated  as  regent,  and  Uie  whole 
&ame-work  of  society  iell  to  pieces. 
The  soldiers  roamed  about  the  coun- 
try at  will.  Towns  were  sacked, 
villages  plundered,  while  the  wretch- 
ed woman,  nominally  at  the  head  of 
afiTairs,  lived  as  we  could  not,  without, 
the  violation  of  all  the  dictates  oC 
decency,  stop  so  much  as  tp  hint  at.  . 

Meanwhile    the   Indian  govern-! 
ment  had  not  been  inattentive  to  the. 
progress  of  events  across  the  Sutlej. 
Other  and  more  .ur£»nt  cares  pressed, 
indeed,  upon  Lord  Ellenbprough,  so! 
that  he  had  neither  leisure,  nor  per- 
haps  military  means  sufficient,  to 
throw  the  weight  of  his  influence, 
into  the  scale  of  the  SO* 
but  his  lordship,  we  be) 
no  secret  of  the  plans  w 
ditated  for  the  putting; 


608 


The  Sikki  and  the  Late  Campaign. 


[May. 


state  of  things  which  could  not  fail, 
sooner  or  later,  of  involriiur  the 
British  provinees  in  a  war.    Sdnde 
and  Gwallior,  however,  demanded  his 
attention  in  the  first  instance.    He 
gave  it,  and  the  results  were,  the 
pennanent  annexation  of  the  former 
to  the  Company's  possessions,  and 
the  estabUshment  with  the  latter  of 
relations  which  must  conduce,  ere 
long,  to  the  absorption  of  the  weaker 
into  the  yortez  of  the  greater  power. 
And  then  he  b^^  to  maixh  an 
army  of  observation   towards   the 
Sutlej.     But  Lord  £llenborough*8 
brilliant  policy  was  too  rapid  for  the 
four-and-twenty  kings  of  lieadenhall 
Street    In  the  exercise  of  their  un- 
doubted right,  though  much  to  the 
astonishment  of  all  concerned.  Lord 
Ellenborough  was  recalled,  and  Sir 
Henry  Hanlinge,  in  the  spring  of 
1844,  proceeded  overland,  to  assume 
the  rems  of  government  at  Calcutta. 
From  the  first  beginning  of  British 
power  in  the  East,  there  has  been, 
both  in  tiie  Company  and  amon^  the 
people  and  government  of  England, 
Uie  greatest  horror  of  the  extension 
of  cuiminion  which  has  been  con- 
stantly going  forward.  When  tidings 
arrived,  in   1765,  of  the   assump- 
tion of  regal  power  over  the  pro- 
vinces of  Bengal,  Bahar,  and  Onssa, 
men  experien^,  amid  the  triumph,  a 
sort  or  dread  of  the  consequences, 
for  which  they  did  not  know  how 
to  account,      warren  Hastings,  in 
like  manner,  was  condemned  and 
afterwards  persecuted  for  ob^ring 
an   impulse   which  was   resistless; 
and  every  governor-general  since  has 
assumed  power,  plSged   to  pacific 
measures,  which  ne  has  invariably 
been  compelled  to  abandon.     But 
among  all  who  have  undertaken  the 
serious  charge  of  the  Indian  govern- 
ment, perhaps  not  one  ever  quitted 
England  more  honestly  desirous  of 
avoiding  war  than  Sir  Henry  Har- 
^inge.     For  himself,  he  had  seen 
^ough  of  battle  to  hinder  any  per- 
oaT  ambition,  as  a  warrior,  mm 
aying  him.    He  knew,  also,  that 
home  the  effect  of  the  Cabul  cam- 
igns  had  been  to  render  even  Sir 
jiarles  Napier's  triumphs  in  Sdnde 
npopular   rather   than   otherwise. 
kad  almost  the  last  advice  which  his 
old  master  gave  him,  ere  parting,  was 
to  shun  a  rupture  with  the  Sikhs  alto- 
liether,  if  it  should  be  posidble  90  to 


do ;  if  not  possible,  to  defer  the  evil 
as  long  as  might  be,  and  to  put  the 
enemy,  ere  he  strudk  a  blow,  wholly 
in  the  wrong.  Never,  surely,  was 
advice  more  prudent  or  more  josl 
offered ;  never  was  just  and  pradent 
counsel  more  faithfully  followed. 
Sir  Henry  Hardinge,  though  awake 
to  all  that  was  passing  in  the  Fnn- 
jaub,  would  not  permit  so  much  as 
one  additional  regiment  to  approach 
the  Sutlej.    He  satisfied  himsdf  that 


the  garrisons  of  Feroaepore  and 
Loodiana  were  of  sufficient  strength 
to  hold  them  till  succour  could  be 
sent;  and  refused,  therefore,  to 
throw  into  the  territories  of  the 
protected  chieft  one  man  more  than 
was  needed  to  keep  up  the  commu- 
nications between  these  advanced 
posts  and  the  frontiers  of  the  pro> 
vinces. 

The  summer  of  1845  was  marked 
by  frightful  excesses  in  Lahore. 
Murder  and  debauchery  went  hand- 
in-hand  together ;  and  tne  Banee  her- 
self, as  well  as  her  chief  adviser, 
Jowar  Singh,  no  lonj^  disguised 
their  purpose  of  conung  to  blows 
with  tne  English.  On  the  part  of 
Jowar  Sinf  h,  this  was  but  the  pro- 
secution of  a  policy  which  had  long 
been  in  favour  with  him ;  and  as  he 
was  heartily  detested  by  the  rest  of 
the  Sirdars,  they  made  it  a  pretext 
for  conspiring  against  him  and  put- 
ting him  to  death.  But  the  Banee 
was  swayed  by  different  motives. 
From  day  to  day  her  army  became 
more  unmanageable;  and  she  de- 
sired, above  aU  things,  to  get  rid  of 
the  nuisance,  even  if  her  deliveranee 
should  come  with  a  victorious  British 
force  to  Lahore.  Accordingly,  after 
having  long  withstood  the  clamours 
of  her  officers,  she  gave  a  hearty,  yet 
a  reluctant,  consent  to  the  proposed 
invasion  of  the  protected  states ;  and 
a  pkn  of  operations  was  drawn  up, 
which  indicated  no  slight  knowledge 
of  the  art  of  war  on  the  part  of  those 
ttom  whom  it  emanated. 

Meanwhile,  there  were  frequ^t 
and  anxious  consultations  at  Calcutta 
in  regard  to  events  as  they  were 
and  as  they  might  be  expeeted  to  be. 
The  governor-general  continued  to 
urge  &e  maintenance  of  peace ;  and 
expressed  his  disbelief  of  any  design 
on  the  part  of  the  Sikhs  to  provoke 
a  rupture.  At  the  same  time  he  re- 
ooomended,  and  caused  to  be  carried 


1846.] 


The  Sikhs  and  the  Late  Campaign. 


609 


into  effect,  the  eonoentntioii  of  a 
considerable  army  about  Meerut, 
Umballa,  and  Delhi ;  and  Sir  Hngb 
Gongh,  the  commander  -  in  -  chief, 
placing  himself  at  its  head,  both  the 
goyemment  and  people  of  India  stood 
still,  as  it  were,  to  watch  the  resolts. 

So  early  as  the  month  of  June 
affiurs  had  assumed  an  aspect  so 
alarming  that  it  was  judged  prudent 
for  the  goyemor*  general  to  yisit 
the  western  provinces  in  person ;  and 
to  confer  on  the  s^t  with  the  com- 
mander-in-chief m  r^ard  to  the 
measures  which  in  the  eyent  of  cer- 
tain anticipated  contingencies  it  misht 
be  judicious  to  adopt.  Aeoordinely, 
late  in  the  autumn.  Sir  Henry  Har- 
dinge  proceeded  up  the  Ganges,  and 
on  the  26th  of  ifoyember  met  Sir 
Hugh  Gough  at  Kumaul,  where  ar« 
rangements  were  made  such  as  it  was 
snppoeed  would  render  the  army 
available  for  any  emer^cy  that 
might  arise.  But  thoueh  it  was  well 
known  by  this  time  that  the  Sikh 
columns  were  in  motion,  though  a 
strong  advanced  guard  had  actuslly 
touched  the  Sutlej  opposite  to  Fe- 
rozepore,  and  other  columns  were 
reported  to  be  in  movement  towards 
otnerpoints  on  an  extended  frontier, 
Sir  Henry  Hardinge  restrained  the 
forward  movement  which  Sir  Hugh 
Gongh  had  begun ;  and  kept  his 
force  in  such  a  position,  as  that  it 
might  march  concentrated  and  en- 
tire as  soon  as  the  territory  should 
be  ftirly  violated,  and  not  liefore. 

On  the  20th  of  November,  Major 
Broadfoot,  poUtical  agent  for  Lahore, 
had  sent  on  a  desp&h  ftiU  of  im- 
portant intelligence  to  the  com- 
mander-in-chief. It  completely  re« 
moved  an  impression  which  up  to 
this  date  seems  to  have  nrevailea  in 
various  quarters,  that  tne  army  in 
and  about  the  Sikh  capital  did  not 
exceed  15,000  men,  and  established 
the  ftct,  that  not  fewer  than  seven 
diTisions,  each  mustering  from  8000 
to  10,000  men,  had  been  instructed 
to  cany  the  war  bevond  the  country 
ofthe  rnnjaub.  One  division  only 
was  to  abue  at  home  for  the  pre- 
KTvation  of  the  public  peace  and 
the  defence  of  tbe  capital,  while  the 
yemaining  six  were  to  pass  the  fron- 
tier, ea(£  upon  a  point  of  its  own. 
The  points  threatened  were  Roree 
and  tne  hill  country  about  it,  Loodi- 
1^  Horrekee,  Fezozepore,  Sdnde^ 


and  Attock.  It  is  tme  that  even  in 
this  despatch  doubts  were  expressed 
as  to  the  execution  of  so  gigantic  a 
scheme,  and,  indeed,  of  the  com- 
mencement of  hostilities  at  all.  But 
Sir  Hugh,  like  a  ffallant  soldier  as 
he  is,  considered  that  these  doubts 
had  no  very  sure  foundation  to  rest 
upon.  He  therefore  ordered  the  co- 
lumns to  concentrate ;  and  was  a 
march  or  two  on  his  way  to  the  banks 
of  the  Sutlej  itself  when  Sir  Henr^ 
Hardinse  stopped  him.  For  Sir 
Henry  Harding  be  it  remembeied, 
had  other  considerations  than  those 
which  weighed  with  the  commander- 
in-chief,  to  take  account  of.  And 
he  felt  that,  even  in  a  point  of  view 
strictly  military,  it  was  as  well,  per- 
hajM  better,  to  continue  his  central 
position  till  the  storm  burst,  because 
ne  should  in  that  case  be  able  to 
move  upon  it,  and  meet  it,  let  it 
come  from  what  quarter  it  mi^ht. 

Anxiously,  and  with  exceedmg  di- 
ligence, were  the  commissariat  ar- 
rangements pressed  forward.  Depots 
of  stores  and  provisions  were  formed 
in  various  quarters,  convenient  in  the 
event  of  operations,  while  camels, 
horses,  and  other  beasts  of  burden, 
were  hired  or  purchased  wherever 
the  agents  of  government  could 
find  them.  More  troops,  also,  were 
called  up  frx)m  the  interior,  and  di- 
rected to  concentrate  in  front  of  Sir- 
hinde ;  but  nothing  wad  done  to  pre- 
cipitate hostilities.  At  the  same  time, 
directions  were  given  to  the  different 
chiefk  of  the  protected  states  to  have 
their  contingents  ready,  so  that  they 
mi^ht  offer  to  the  invader  the  best 
resistance  in  their  power,  and  secure 
time  for  the  army  to  concentrate. 

In  this  statethingsremainedduring 
the  month  of  November,  and  up  to 
the  4th  in  the  month  following.  On 
that  latter  day,  however.  Sir  Henry 
Hardinge,  finding  that  his  remon- 
strances were  not  attended  to  by  the 
Sikh  government,  oonunanded  the 
Sikh  valkeel,  or  ambassador,  to  quit 
his  camp;  axid  proceeded  in  person 
from  Umballa  towards  Loodiana, 
making  a  peaceable  pnwress,  accord- 
ing to  the  customs  of  nis  predeces- 
sors, through  the  territories  of  the 
friradly  chiefs  that  intervened.  For 
both  he  and  Ma^or  Broadfoot  seem 
still  to  have  considered,  that  an  inva- 
sion upon  a  great  scale  was  little 
to  be  apprehenaed.   That  plunderero 


The  &ihi  and  the  Lale  Campaign. 


610 

mold  aom  tbe  nrer  alt  toen  now 
anttdpstod,  and  that  out  of  tbe  laie- 
ebief  produoed  bj  them  canvci  of 
war  woold  uise,  could  not  eeriotuly 
be  doubted.  But  that  the  Sikks 
would  take  tbe  uiicUtive  in  thia  war 
doea  not  a^ear  to  liave  been  dreamed 
of  by  any  one  about  the  govemor- 
geuera],  or  in  hu  eonfidenoe,  Alen 
remembered  how,  on  former  occ«- 
■ioni,  Sikh  armiee  had  approached 
the  fiirther  bank  of  the  SutleJ,  oc- 
cupied their  camp  there  for  awhile, 
and  retired  again;  and  Sir  Henry, 
not  less  ableuapolitituan  than  as  an 
officer,  wisely  argued  that  he  hod  no 
more  right  to  rctnonirtratc  a^ust 
their  doinc  M  aKsin,  than  they  had 
to  complain  of  toe  measures  which 
had  been  adotitcd  to  raider  Fcroie- 
pore  safe  againat  a  sudden  awault. 
For  it  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  in 
addition  to  the  old  fortress  wbicb 
imperfectly  comownded  it,  Feroxe- 
pore  had  recoiUy  been  covered  by 
■tout  fleld-worka, — the  construction 
of  which,  by-the-hy,  was  recom- 
mended by  tlie  Duke  of  Wellington, 
M  soon  as  tiding  of  the  ooDfiued 
state  of  tbe  Tunjaub  reached  huji. 
Accordingly,  Uie  ^overnor-ecneral, 
considering  that  Sir  John  Littler, 
who  occupied  I'erozeporc,  would, 
with  the  5000  men  whom  he  had 
under  his  orders,  be  able  to  hold  tlic 
place,  so  louB  as  hia  provisions  lasted, 
contented  liiiueelf,  while  travelling 
towards  lioodiana,  by  directing  that 
the  different  corps  in  tbe  rear  ^ould 
move  up  one  upon  the  other,  apd 
that  the  whtde  should  be  iu  reudioess 
to  push  forward,  if  required,  by  tjie 
morning  of  the  Utb  at  the  latest. 

Thia  forward  movement  brought 
tt^her  about  750Q  men  of  all  srois, 
with  thirty-3izguoB,  chi^y  Iwht  six- 

EDundera.    Its  object  was  to  nave  in 
and  a  force  wherewith  bi  bring  re- 
lief to  Feroeepore  should  it  be  in- 
vested ;  but  as  Sir  Henry  Ilsrdinge 
eonaidra^  that  7J0O  men,  however 
',  would  not  be  able  to 
way  through  30,000,  he 
I  lioodiana,  with  a  view  of 
how  far  it  might  be  pos- 
w  a  reinforcement  irani 
id  b^e,  before  we  pro- 
r,  it  may  be  as  weU  to 
ittle  more  in  detail  than 
it  done,  the  theatre  on 

WW  Ty  it, 


[M«T. 


his  mad'*  «ye  (t  tnloMbly  evnet 
nuqiofthewat  of  wu,  wtdefyanf 
man  to  make  hemi  or  tail  of  dooip- 
tiona  that  begin  in  marcbw  and  ead 
in  battles,  and  noise,  and  amoke. 

The  river  Sutl^j,  after  leaviu  Ui 
souree  among  the  monntaius,  »n 
in  a  Urtuoue  course  through  tiie 
great  [dain  of  Iliudoatan,  and  (bnu, 
for  many  miles,  tbe  bonnduy  be- 
tween the  PuQJMib  and  a  coontrj, 
wbicb,  though  under  British  pin- 
teotion,  did  not  till  wi^in  these  In 
months  form  an  integral  portioa  of 
tbe  British  empire.  Two  detaebed 
BtatiouB  on  the  northern  frontiei  of 
thia  district  were,  indeed,  in  our  pot- 
seaaion,  namely,  Loodiana  and  FaoK- 
pore  1  but,  Maidcs  that  Uiey  were 
uolated,  being  cut  off  from  cor  ovn 
territories  by  the  Ifmds  of  cbieb  nni 
altogether  to  be  relied  ufiOD,  tbef 
Mood  apart  full  ci^t^  miiai,  ma 
eould  not,  therefore,  ui  any  cue, 
render  mutual  aaaiatsncc  to  one  in- 
other-  Both  were  fortified,— Loo- 
diana,  however,  mcMt  imper&ctlj' 
Both  stood  expoaed  tu  sudden  d«a- 
ger,  for  they  were  close  to  the  mar- 
gin of  the  river ;  Mid  on  both  it  hi^ 
neoeisary  to  keep  an  eye,  inamudi 
as  some  tliousaiula  of  f(ood  Uoop^ 
beaides  tbe  wives  and  &ouliee  of  thtir 
(^ccrs,  were  stationed  in  eacb,  ac- 
cording to  the  established  usags  at 
many  years. 

The  general  aspect  of  tbe  pro- 
tected Sikh  states  has  little,  in  pojo' 
of  beauty,  to  recommend  it-  ^ 
country  is  flat,  cultivated  oeai  th« 
nuighljouThood  of  towns  and  villi^ 
but  not  ihiitful  even  there,  beouM 
the  aoil  is  sandy.  Elsewhere,  jun- 
gles of  stunted  Arubs  a  good  deal 
ove^row  it,  iolerrupting  ine  vsioo, 
andrenderiw  the  movement  of  tnwi' 
in  line,  and  especially  of  c»vui>^ 
difficult ;  and  there  ia  great  want  el 
water.  And  tbe  road?  are  but  in- 
different. 

Loodiana  lies  up  tbe  stream,  w 
compared  with  Fcrozeppre.  It  it 
likewise,  neater  to  Umnalls  bym'Y 
miles  at  the  least,  though  y"^  '^)' 
reach  the  one  without  coming  ^»f 
flight  of  the  towers  of  tbe  cioer.  " 
is  a  town  of  greater  note  than  FewM- 
pore,  both  because  of  the  wetith  ol 
the  shops,  and  that  iia  agreeawe 
climate  renders  it  a  favourite  yi''* 
of  resort  to  European  famillea.  B"' 
in  a  military  punt  of  view  it  ia  vef? 


1846.] 


The  Sikh$  and  tie  late  Campaign* 


6U 


little  to  be  regarded ;  its  defences 
cojudsting  of  a  eommon  wall  and  a 
fort,  which  could  not  withstand  the 
fire  of  a  battering  train  for  half 
a  day. 

Among  other  arrangements  which 
he  judged  it  expedient  to  make,  Sir 
Henry  jBLardinge  had  directed  a  ma- 
gazine of  provisions  and  military 
stores  to  be  formed  as  far  in  advance 
as  Busseean.  This  small  town  stands 
where  the  roads  from  XJmballaand 
Kumaul  meet,  and  is  admirably  placed 
for  the  supply  both  of  Ferosepore 
and  Loodiana,  being  about  equi- 
distant from  both*  Upon  it  he  re- 
quested the  commander-in-chief  to 
direct  his  march,  while  he  himself^  83 
we  have  already  stated,  went  on  to 
Loodiana.  He  there  found  that, 
though  some  hazard  must  of  neces- 
sity attend  the  measure,  it  would, 
upon  the  whole,  be  judicious  to  bring 
the  strength  of  the  garrison  at  once 
into  the  field,  and  filling  the  fort 
with  invalids,  to  depend  upon  them 
for  the  protection  of  the  ladies  and 
the  general  defence  of  the  place. 
Accordingly,  about  4000  out  of  the 
5000  men  who  held  Loodiana,  were, 
with  their  artillery,  directed  to  march 
upon  Busseean,  where,  upon  the 
13th,  they  formed  a  junction  with 
the  head  of  the  column  which  had 
been  moving  from  Umballa. 

Not  a  day  had  passed  since  the 
troops  be^n  to  concentrate,  without 
bringing  in  its  rumour  as  to  the 
purposes  and  proceedings  of  the 
Sikhs.  All  these,  however,  were  so 
contradictory  one  of  another,  that  it 
was  impossible  to  found  upon  them 
any  dennitive  plan ;  fi)r  now  Feroze- 
pore,  now  Loodiana,  and  now  other 
places  farther  to  the  north  -  east, 
were  described  as  threatened;  but 
the  13th  put  an  end  to  everything 
like  doubt  u^on  the  subject.  It  was 
then  asoertamed  that  the  enemy  had 
actually  crossed  the  river  in  force 
two  days  previously,  and  that  Fe* 
rozepore  was  invested.  In  a  momeiM^ 
the  plans  of  the  governor-general 
and  commander-in-chief  were  ma- 
tured. To  relieve  Ferozepore,  at  all 
hazards,  was  their  great  object ;  and 
.  in  order  to  effect  that  end,  the 
columns  were  put  in  motion  aud 
pushed  on  by  double  marches. 

In  all  operations  of  this  sort,  when 
.an  enemy  numerically  superior  has 
the  choice  of  the  initiatiive,  a  de- 


foree  eaoBot  ftU  to  he  pot 
much  upon  its  mettlei  as  wett  aa  to 
suffer  great  fatigue,  and  it  may  be 
iaoanv^uenoe,  for  hiek  of  proviaioDs 
likewise;  and  seldom  in  the  annals 
.of  modem  warfare  have  soldiers  been 
noore  tried  than  those  which  acted 
in  the  month  of  December  last  under 
Sir  Hugh  Gough  and  Sir  JFIenry 
Hardinge,  From  the  14th  to  Uie 
17th  they  were  en  route  from  before 
dawn  UU  well  on  to  midnight,  no 
time  being  afforded  so  much  aa  to 
cook  the  meat  which  they  carried  in 
their  haFcrsacks.  On  the  18th,  i^ier 
compassing  a  distance  of  twenty-one 
miks,  they  halted  at  a  place  called 
Moodkee  about  noon,  and  had  jwat 
began  to  light  their  fires  and  tomke 
ready  for  cooking,  when  the  woff^ 
passed  that  the  enemy  was  advancing, 
and  the  regiments  stood  to  theu: 
arms. 

There  is  one  circumstance  in  the 
proffress  of  Uiis  caoupal^  whjeh 
strikes  a  European  soldier  with  sur- 
prise. Notwithstanding  that  th^re 
was  present  with  the  British  vtmy 
a  cavalry  force,  most  evident  as  far 
as  it  went,  and,  in  point  of  numbers, 
by  no  means  contemptible,  the  in- 
.telligence  at  head-quiurters  seema  to 
hav-e  been  neither  rapid  nor  very 
accurate.  The  advance  to  Moodkee,  . 
for  example,  appears  to  have  been 
made  under  the  persuaaion  that  the 
enemy  were  still  m  their  lipea  about 
Feroaepore;  and  the  troops  halted 
and  established  their  bivouaCi  the 
•same  opinion  still  prevaUing  among 
them,  l^ovi  one  would  have  thou^ 
that  the  judicious  use  of  a  division 
eflightcavalry,n4ghthavepceyevited 
this.  Petter  mounted  by  far  than 
any  other  horsemen  in  Aain,  the 
Company*s  cavalry  must  be  diffenmt 
from  what  we  take  it  to  be,  if  it  be 
unsafe  to  send  forwuxl  patrols  aad 
.supports  many  miles  a'-nead  of  the 
army  which  is  advancing.  Had  this 
been  done  on  the  1 8  th,  it  is  impossible 
that  the  arrival  of  the  Bikhs  withiQ 
lislf  an  hour's  march  of  the  bamp 
could  have  taken  place  without  due 
warning  given.  As  it  was  not  done, 
jbhe  general  has  flood  cause  to  thank 
the  steadiness  ana  valour  of  his  m«i, 
that  he  was  not  attacked  more  at 
unawares  than  really  befell,  an^' 
driven  from  the  field. 

The  ^arm  being  jg^ven,  the  wh( 
army    stood    in    its     moksi   ^ 


tbe  enCrj,  witli  tbe  hone  artil- 
le^,  being  directed  to  feel  to  tbe 
front,  moved  fbrwud.  Tbe;  pwaed 
tbroagh  K  eoimti7  rnocb  orei^crown 
1^  low  jungle ;  uid  mw,  in  conie- 
qneneei  nothing  to  guide  tbem,  ex- 
oept  hisry  douda  of  dnst  in  the  air. 
"  aentlv  the  flub 

i,  vriUi  the  wbii 

T  their  heade,  told  them  that  hard 
koocki  were  coming.  They  formed 
up  rapdly,  and  in  good  order ;  and 
moring  on,  m  well  as  the  jungle 
would  allow,  arrived  in  dne  time  in 
wewnce  of  tbe  enemv.  And  now 
D^an  k  conflict,  of  which  it  it  im- 
pOMible  to  write  without  beelowins 
unmixed  praiae  upon  the  devoted 
beroiim  or  eveiy  individual  that 
took  part  m  it  About  12,000  British 
troope,  of  which  leea  than  3000  were 
Enropeans,  found  themselves  con- 
frtmted  by  40,000  Siks,  not  undisci- 
plined and  half-armed  barbarians,  but 
bravemen,trained  in  the  school  of  the 
French  empire,  and  confident  in  tb^ 
own  proweaa,  aa  well  oi  in  the  over- 
wbelnung  superiority  of  their  artil- 
leiy.  For  while  our  people  brought 
about  forty  light  pieces  into  the 
field,  more  than  double  that  number, 
— ^KMt  of  them  twelve-ponndeta — 
poured  dertrucdon  into  unr  ranks; 
and  knocked  down  guns,  tumbrils. 
Mud  horses,  with  an  accuracy  which 
■hewed  that  artillery  practice  was 
fiuniliar  to  th«r  owners. 

Of  k  battle  thus  begun,  and  waged 
thranghont  with  Btubbomnesa  on  the 
put  of  the  Engliib  and  exceediiu; 
braTerjr  by  tbe  enemy,  it  were  idle 
to  attempt  a  tecbniol  description. 
Bqfmenia  went  at  it  with  hearty 
nod-irill ;  and  when  tbe  British  ar- 
ollery  was  fiurly  swept  aside  by  the 
•openor  weight  of  the  fire  that  fell 
npon  It,  the  bayonet  and  the  sabre 
cama  into  idw,  and  carried  all  before 
tlwni.  llwBiuu  were  beaten  atevery 
point,  and  leaving  seventeen  guni 
IiehiDd,  retreated,  though  in  good 
cnder,  jnst  before  dark.  It  was  im- 
poMble  to  follow  tbem,  partlr 
neanse  tbe  men  were  loo  mucn 
fttigned  to  go  throng  with  a  ra^ 
marai,  partly  becauie  the  loss  ans- 
tained  nod  been  heavy,  and  there 
was  need,  in  some  tort,  to  reorganise ; 
io  npon  the  field  which  they  had 
won,  and  suTTOunded  by  the  dead 
and  tbe  dyins,  the  victors  Uy  down 
tbu  night  and  dept. 


There  was  great  snfffering  every 
where  for  want  of  water.  Hnnger 
men  may  endure  for  days  together; 
but  a  burning  thint,  in  a  tropical 
climate,  is  tOTible ;  and  when  the 
fever  in  the  blood  becomes  *g^- 
vatedbymch  exertions  st  tbeBntish 
armv  bad  that  dav  m&de,  the  whde 
world  seenu  valnelesa  in  comparison 
with  a  cup  of  cold  water.  None 
came,  however,  for  several  hours ; 
yet  the  ^lant  fellows  bore  the  prf- 
vation  without  a  murmur;  andwoen 
tbe  following  day  bronghl  tbem  a 
reinforcement  of  two  European  re- 
giments of  infantry,  with  a  small 
battery  of  heavy  guns,  they  felt  that 
they  were  irresisbble.  Nevertheless, 
the  general,  vrith  great  good  miat, 
gave  them  two  entire  oaya  to  re- 
fresh ;  he  had  nothing  to  gain  by 
Erecipitating  matters.  FeroMpore 
ad  been  saved  by  the  battle  of  the 
18th;  and  his  communicstioos  with 
the  place  being  in  some  sort  resloied, 
he  had  time  to  warn  Sir  John  Littler 
of  his  purposes,  and  to  prepare  him 
for  co-operating  in  their  accomplish- 
ment. These  were  the  chief  aavan- 
tagea  of  delay ;  besides  that,  othen 
probably  occurred  to  him,  namely,  the 
opportuni^  which  was  afforded  for 
the  coming  np  of  the  corpe  which  bad 
been  directed  to  march  th>m  Delhi, 
Mcemt,  and  other  stations.  And  on 
the  part  of  the  Sikhs,  itwas  donbtksa 
considered  that  their  veir  numbers 
would  render  a  long  but  on  one 
spot  impossible  for  them ;  for  no 
country,  however  fertile,  can  sustain 


did  right  in  halting  on  the  I 
whkih  hod  been  won  ;  and  posnbly 
would  have  done  still  better,  had  be 
prolonged  tbe  halt  till  thdr  nece«t>es 
should  nave  forced  tbe  enemy  to  act 
on  tbe  offensive.  However,  it  did  not 
■0  appear  to  tbe  bero  of  Uabara^ 
pore.  A  regular  fire-eater.  Sir  Hu^ 
Gouch  enterbum  no  predilection  for 
the  Fabian  mann^  of  making  war; 
and  who  will  have  the  hardihood  to 
charge  him  on  that  account  with 
an  nnsoldierlUEe  love  of  b^  profti- 
aionP 

Having  collected  the  wounded, 
buried  tte  dead,  secured  the  cap- 
tared  gnna,  and  restored  order  to 
the  ranks  of  his  r^menta.  Sir  Hurii 
Gough,  at  an  early  hour  on  tne 
morning  of  the  31«tt  again  put  hb 


1846;] 


the  Sikhs  and  the  Laie  Campaign. 


613 


columns  in  motion.  He  had  been 
gratified,  in  the  interval  between  the 
18th  and  that  date,  by  the  tender 
which  Sir  Henry  Hudinge  made 
of  his  personal  services  in  the  ca- 
pacity of  second  in  command; 
while  the  army,  which  knew  the 
worth  of  the  eovemor-general  in  the 
field,  as  well  as  in  the  council, 
rejoiced  with  him  when  the  news 
spread  abroad.  And,  indeed,  there 
was  great  room  for  gratification  on 
all  hands.  The  governor-general's 
behaviour  was  noble  in  the  extreme. 
He  would  not  rob  his  friend  of  a 
single  laurel,  while  he  cheerfully 
waved  whatever  daun  his  superior 
civil  rank  might  give  him,  to  take 
the  foremost  place  in  operations 
which  were  as  much  political  as  mi- 
litary. Yet  he  brought  to  the  aid  of 
the  general  all  the  Sdent  and  expe- 
rience of  which  he  is  possessed, 
working  with  him  cheerfully  in  the 
council  tent,  and  riding  in  uie  field 
wherever  the  fire  was  hottest.  Ho- 
nour be  to  both  these  gallant  soldiers  I 
They  suffered  no  unworthy  feeling 
to  come  between  them  and  their  en- 
tire devotion  to  the  public  service ; 
and  the  result  has  been  to  both 
their  country's  gratitude  and  a  fame 
which  shall  be  as  deathless  as  the 
memory  of  the  great  deeds  which 
thev  have  done. 

On  the  morning  of  the  2 1st  of  De- 
cember, long  before  the  break  of 
day,  the  armv  was  in  motion.  Bag- 
gage, wounded,  and  sick,  were  left 
m  Moodkee  under  the  protection  of  a 
couple  of  rmments  of  native  infan- 
try; while  tne  rest  moved  on,  left 
in  front,  taking  the  direction  of 
Sultan-Khan-\^lah,  a  village  near 
which  the  spies  reported  that  the 
enemy  had  entrencned  themselves. 
Meanwhile  Sir  John  Littler,  having 
been  duly  apprised  of  the  order  of 
march,  moved,  according  to  instruc- 
tions, from  Ferozepore;  and  the  main 
columns  taking  ground  to  their  right 
as  they  approached  the  supposed 
position  of  the  enemy,  a  junction 
between  the  two  corps  was  efifected 
without  hinderance.  Tnis  befell  about 
one  o'clock  in  the  day,  and  the 
strength  of  the  British  army  was 
raised  in  consequence  to  16,700  men, 
with  sixty-nine  guns,  chiefly  of  horse 
artillery.  And  now  came  the  Ques- 
tion, what  was  next  to  be  done  ?  That 
the  enemy  lay  in  great  force  about 


four  miles  fiurther  ofi^,  had  been 
fuU^  ascertained.  The  numbers  were 
vanously  reported  finom  48,000  to 
60,000  men ;  and  their  artilleiy,  al- 
most aU  heavy  ^Meces,  amounted  to 
I  OS  guns.  Moreover,  their  eam^  was 
reported  to  extend  about  a  mile  in 
lengthy  by  half  a  mile  in  width; 
to  be  covered  by  breast-works,  bat- 
teries and  redoubts,  and  to  inclose  the 
strong  village  of  Ferozeshah  within 
it.  The  question  therefore  was, 
whether  it  would  be  more  jadicious 
to  attack  these  entrenchments,  or  to 
halt,  shew  a  front  to  the  troops 
within  them,  and  wait  for  farther 
strength,  especially  in  heavy  g^sP 
It  may  seem  invidious  to  hint,  that 
the  latter  was  the  course  which  every 

grinciple  of  the  art  of  war  would 
ave  dictated.  Now  tiiat  the  in- 
vaders had  fairly  developed  their  plan 
of  campaign,  aelay  was  all  on  the 
side  of  the  British  general.  He  com- 
manded an  army  which,  if  nume- 
rically inferior  to  thdrB,wa8  fiur  more 
pliable.  He  had  a  right  to  calculate 
on  the  daily  increase  of  his  own 
force,  and  was  yet  strong  enough  to 
fight  a  battle  snould  the  Sikhs  grow 
vreary  of  inaction,  and  ouit  their 
lines  to  offer  it.  Nevertheless,  it  ap- 
peared to  the  fiery  old  general  that 
all  these  advantages  womd  be  more 
than  counterbalanced  by  a  show  of 
diffidence;  he  therefore  gave  his 
voice  for  immediate  action,  and  car- 
ried the  governor-general  heartily 
along  with  him. 

Something   less    than    an   hour 
having  been  spent  in  making  the 
necessary  arrangements,   the   army 
was  agam  put  in  motion.    It  passed, 
as  on  the  18th,  through  quantities  of 
low  jungle,  and  formed  into   two 
lines,  when  the  skirmishers  which 
covered  the  movement  gave  notice 
that  the  enemy's  position  was   at 
hand.    It  is  worthy  of  remark,  like- 
wise, that  the  course  of  the  ijrevious 
manceuvring  having  carried  it  round 
the  right  flank  <xf  the  enemy's  in- 
trenchments,  the  formation  in  order 
of  battle  took   place   between  the 
Sikh  camp  and  Feroasepore,  and  that 
the   lines   fronted    in   a   direction 
fdmost  exactly  the  reverse 
which  they  nad  faced  dr 
action  of  the  1 8th.    Moreo 
length  of  the  Sikh  camp  h 
Ferozepore  and  the  opei 
while  Its   breadth  pointe 


614 


The  Sikki  ami  th«  Lai*  Campaifn, 


[May, 


dueetioQ  of  Moo^M  tad  the  SatlQ, 
tbe  moyeiaentfl  wbidi  tamght  m 
Umballah  corps  into  oomBiiuiicatioB 
whli  Sir  John  littler**  diviakn  had 
placed  the  whole  opposite  to  thai 
side  of  the  intrenchmenta  whidi  waa 
the  atroogest.  Howerer,  there  lay 
the  eaemy ;  and  the  stout  old  com- 
mander, DO  wise  distrusting  the 
ability  of  his  followers  to  heat  them, 
mored  on  aa  if  he  had  been  dtredina 
a  review  manttuvie  on  Wormwood 
Scrubs  or  the  Fhcenix  Park. 

Lei  it  not  be  supposed  that  we 
desirei  in  the  most  remote  decree,  to 
detnet  from  the  merits  of  uegal* 
lent  men  who  fought  and  won  .the 
baUle  of  FeroaesGih.  They  did 
the  work  right  nobly ;  never&eless 
we  may  be  permitted  to  observe, 
that  onoe  again  they  (the  ehiefs)  set 
the  obvious  principles  of  war  at 
defiance,  and  conquered  by  the  exer- 
cise oi  sheer  valour.  Whether  they 
ought  to  have  risked  a  battle  at  aU 
may  be  questioned.  But  having 
come  to  the  determination  of  fiffht- 
in^,  it  was  surely  more  bold  tiian 
scientific  to  attack  the  largest  and 
best-protected  front  of  a  fortified 
position,  other  and  weaker  -points 
being  accessible.  The  Sikh  camp 
is  described  as  having  been  a  paral- 
lelogram. It  therefore  presented 
four  acute,  angles,  each  of  which 
must  of  necessity  be  without  any 
flanking  line  of  fire  to  protect  it 
Kow  had  tbe  Britkh  army  directed 
its  columns  of  attack  on  any  two  of 
these  acute  angles,  connecting  the 
attacks  bv  a  line  of  cavalry  and  skir- 
nushers  between,  there  needs  little 
knowledge  of  militaiy  matters  to 
shew  that  the  troops  would  have 
forced  their  wav  into  the  lines  with, 
probably,  one-lourth  of  tbe  loss  that 
actually  befell  while  storming  the 
front  of  the  position  in  line.  Still, 
as  we  have  just  said,  let  it  not  be 
supposed  that  we  desire  to  detract 
from  the  merits  o^  those  who  fought 
and  won  one  of  the  most  important 
battles  that  ever  was  waged  in  India. 
From  the  hidbesi  to  the  lowest  in  rank 
they  shewea  that  they  were  emi- 
nently possessed  of  a  quality  with- 
out which  all  other  military  virtues 
go  for  nothing.  Thar  courage  and 
endurance  would  take  no  deniiu ;  and 
where  there  is  a  fixed  determination 
At  to  be  beaten,  thnre  will  be 
led  a  marvellous  amount  both  of 


sewnee  and  of  skill,  to  overthrow 
sisteen  or  seventeen  thousand  men 
with  arms  in  their  hands. 

The  army  being  formed  into  two 
lines,— of  which  the  first  oonsiated 
entirely  of  inikntrv,  with  artillery 
in  the  centre  ana  on  each  flank, 
while  the  second  waa  composed  partiy 
of  inftatrv,  partly  of  cavauy, — moved 
steadily  rorward.  They  had  arrived 
within  one  thonsand  3raidi  of  the 
intrenchmenta  ere  a  gun  opened 
vipaa  them;  but  then  there  came 
such  a  storm  of  round  shot  and  sMAb 
as  no  other  troops  m  the  vrorki 
wonld  have  fl^ed.  On  went  the 
advanced  line,  however;  the  ar- 
tillery unlimb^nng,  and  repl^riBg  to 
the  enemy's  fire  aa  fkat  aa  ita  in- 
feriority, both  of  nwnbeti  and 
calibre,  would  allow;  tffl  the  whole 
were  pushed  to  withhi  two  hundred 
and  fifty  yards  of  the  batteries.  And 
iM>w  c^  gnrne,  mixed  with  i«iii>d 
and  shells,  whidi  smashed  the  in- 
fantry, upset  the  guns,  killed  men 
and  horses  by  the  score,  and  proved 
to  the  satisfaction  of  all  who  wit- 
nessed it  that,  in  one  important  pmnt 
at  least,  the  assailants  were  no  match 
for  the  assaulted.  In  an  instant  the 
infantry  were  directed  to  charge. 
They  left  their  artillery  friends  in  a 
very  demolished  state  behind  thesn, 
and,  setting  up  a  shout,  rushed  at  the 
breastworlu  and  defences  as  the  bail- 
dog  rushes  at  his  prey  when  his 
master  has  slipped  and  hallooed  him 
on.  There  was  frightfrd  carnage  as 
they  cleared  the  intervening  space, 
but  what  cared  these  noble  feUowa 
for  that?  Tvrice  broken  and  re- 
pulsed, the  62d  regiment  on  the 
rkht,  the  29th  more  to  the  left,  both 
of  them  well  supported  by  the  Sep|oy 
battalions  that  were  brigaded  with 
them,  forced  the  first  line  of  works 
at  the  pcnnt  <^  the  bayonet;  and 
with  a  rolling  fire  swept  do¥m  mul- 
titudes of  the  enemy,  who  either 
struggled  still  to  hold  their  groond, 
or  stopped  one  another  in  their 
efforts  to  escape  from  it. 

Th^  had  well  won  the  entranee 
to  the  camp,  but  a  seooad  line  of 
intrenchments  was  before  them ;  and, 
while  they  were  hastily  reforming 
for  a  second  rush,  an  event  occnrrei£ 
of  which  it  is  impossible  to  write 
without  honor.  The  Sikhs  had 
nnned  the  whole  of  this  outer  fiuse ; 
and  now  the  match  wat  applied,  mud 


1846.] 


The  Sikk$  and  the  Laie  Caa^^aign. 


615 


the  mines  encoded,  ccssvtipag  muoy 
a  gaOaiit  soldier  to  his  last  sccoont. 
ISove  bat  they  who  have  witncsecd 
the  effect  of  suoh  a  catastrophe  can 
fona  the  most  ronote  oonceptioa 
of  it.  The  suryiTors  hold  their 
hreath,  and  become  oooscioos  of  a 
fteling*  which  partakes  more  oi  awe 
than  M  terror ;  while  even  they  who 
haye  wrought  the  work  of  destmc* 
tion  appear  to  saze  with  wonder  f<Nr 
a  moment  on  toe  scene  which  they 
have  caused.  This  dinr,  for  ezample» 
the  explosion  was  iollowed  by  a 
momentary  lull,  in  the  roar  of 
battle.  But  it  was  onlp^  for  a  mo* 
meat  The  second  hne  of  Sikh 
batteries  onened  with  terrible  effect 
From  the  ilanking  batteries,  too,  shot 
came  as  thick  as  hail,  knocking  down 
wh<de  sections,  and  tearing,  in  its 
remote  flight,  into  the  ranges  of  the 
British  artillery,  which  still  stood 
on  the  ground  where  it  had  baited 
when  the  infantry  advanced  to  the 
charge.  And  here  one  of  those 
panics  which  are  much  more  apt  to 
take  the  lookers-on  at  a  great  battle 
than  the  troops  actively  engaged, 
seized  the  native  drivers.  A  shot 
struck  a  horse-artillery  wagon,  and 
set  it  on  fire.  It  blew  up,  killing 
men  and  horses  on  each  aide  of  it ; 
yet  the  animals  which  were  har- 
nessed to  it  received  no  hurt,  though 
the  noise  and  the  flame  behind  them 
seemed  to  drive  them  mad.  Away 
they  plunged,  with  the  burning 
mass  at  their  heels,  and  driving 
through  the  ranks,  caused  such  con- 
fusion, that  not  aU  the  efibrts  of  the 
oflioers  could  stop  it  In  a  moment 
the  whole  body  became  a  confused 
mass,  and  two  or  three  battalions  of 
us^ve  infantry  catching  the  disease, 
the  entire  force  fled  in  disorder 
across  the  plain.  They  never  halted 
till  they  got  to  the  village  of  Sultan- 
Khan-milah. 

Mea&while  the  struggle  went  on 
with  unabated  fury  in  front.  The 
second  line  of  infantry  on  the  right 
had  closed  up  to  the  support  of  the 
first,  and  the  whole  were  pressing 
forward  with  the  bayonet,  wnen  the 
sua  went  down,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
afterwards  the  darkness  of  an  Ori- 
ental night  closed  over  them.  What 
a  night  was  that !  By  dint  of  a 
prowess  never  surpassed,  rarely 
equalled,  these  resolute  scAdiers  had 
^«rwd  their  way  within  the  eeeond 


line ;  and  were  now  so  completely 
mixed  with  the  enemT,  that  no  man 
ooold  tell  whether  the  form  whieh 
stood  next  to  his  own  was  that  of  a 
fiiend  or  a  foe.  But  this  was  astate 
of  things  which  could  not  last  long. 
The  ^hs  felt  that,  if  not  routed, 
they  had  been  worsted,  in  the  fight 
They  therefore  fell  back  from  the 
Ferocepoie  front  of  the  camp,  asid, 
establisoing  themselves  in  and  about 
the  village  of  Feiofleshah,  there 
passed  the  night 

The  annals  of  war  present  us  with 
no  paralld  to  the  respective  positions 
of  the  hostile  armies  that  ni^ht 
They  were  both  within  the  lines, 
both  bivouacking  where  they  had 
lately  stood,  the  dead  and  wounded 
lying  in  multitudes  beside  them. 
The  English  had  carried  the  in- 
trenchments  and  kept  them;  the 
Sikhs  were  intrenched  again  in  a 
strong  village;  and  both  parties 
waited  for  the  dawn  to  renew  the 
battle.  Only  a  couple  of  hundred 
yards,  at  the  most,  divided  them. 
And  then  might  be  seen  with  what 
untiring  zeal  and  energy  good  offi- 
cers exert  themselves  to  sustain  the 
courage,  and  soothe  the  anxieties,  of 
the  soldiers.  Sir  Henry  Ilardinge 
and  Sir  Hugh  Gough  seem  never 
to  have  closed  an  eye.  Tbejr  went 
about  from  rej^ent  to  regiment, 
speaking  cheenngly  to  the  sound, 
and  kindly  and  smilingly  to  the 
wounded,  and  telling  all  that  "  they 
must  fight  it  out  on  the  morrow; 
for  it  would  never  do  for  a  British 
array  to  suffer  so  much  as  a  repulse." 
Moreover,  the  Sikbs  exhibited  no 
signs  of  courage  abated.  Ou  the 
contrary,  having  found  out  where 
the  governor-general  had  established 
his  bivouac,  they  opened  upon  it, 
and  upon  the  re^ments  near,  such  a 
fire,  tnat,  at  midnight.  Sir  Henry 
found  it  necessary  to  direct  two  regi- 
ments to  stand  to  their  arms  and 
take  the  gun.  And  noblv  these 
corps,  the  Queen's  80th,  and  the  2d 
Bengal  European  Light  Infantry, 
performed  their  allotted  task.  They 
rushed  upon  the  gun,  bayoneted  the 
gunners,  drove  away  the  line  of  in- 
Smtry  that  supported  it  ' 
Bjad  brought  back  1' 
triumph. 

There  was  rest  for 
soldier  throughout  the 
the  ttight^-^iwh  rest,  at 


Tha  Sikkt  and  the  Lalt  Ompatgn. 


616 

And,  who  taSei  from  the  comtHned 
pressure  of  cold,  hunger,  and  thint, 
and  have  nothing  to  rapport  them 
except  the  hope  of  Tictory  on  the 
morrow.  Sir  Hugh  Gongh,  in  liis 
ezceUeot  dispatoh,  calls  it  "a  long 
night,"  and  m  it  was ;  but  with  the 
approach  of  dawn  there  was  a  prompt 
arouung  ttatn  every  bironac  fire ; 
and  the  formation  of  a  line,  lew  ei- 
tensive  than  it  had  been  on  the  pre- 
vious day,  but  aa  regular  and  as  pliable 
aa  if  no  mnKuinaiy  battle  had  been 
fought.  Agam  was  the  hone  artillery 
at  its  stations  on  either  flank.  Again 
were  the  heavy  pieces  formed  in  the 
centre;  and  assoouaa  there  waelight 
enough  to  diacem  objects,  the  smfe 
was  renewed. 

Once    more    the    Sikh    artillery 
caused  terrible  havoc  in  the  ranks. 
Our  gnns  could  not  face  them ;  and 
were  the  less  able  to  do  so,  that  their 
ammunition    now   began    to    grow 
scarce.  Once  more,  therefore,  recourse 
was  had  to  the  bayonet ;  Sir  Hngh 
Gough   and  Sir   Henry  Hardinge, 
with  the  remains  of  their  staff,  riding 
in  front  of  the  line,  both  to   en- 
courage the  Boldiera,  and  to  cheek 
the  fire,  which,  if  b^;un  in  the  mid- 
dle   of  a    charge,    almost    always 
renders  the    movement  ineffective. 
Nothing  could  withstand  the  rush. 
Ferozesnah  was  carried ;  whereupon 
the  whole  line  wheeling  to  its  left, 
swept  the  camp,  till  not  an  enemy 
remained  in   their    positioD.      And 
then  was  seen  a  sight,  as  Kntifying 
to  all  concerned  in  the  battle,  as  war 
itaelf  ever  offers  to  contemplation. 
Having  carried  every  thing  before 
tbem,  the  troops  drew  up  in  a  line  as 
regular  as  if  tltey  had  been  formed 
to  salute  the  Queen  in  Hyde  Park  ; 
and  when  their  generals  rode  up, 
tbey  cheered  with  all  their  mit^t, 
waving  the  standards  which  they  Lad 
taken,  and  exhibiting  marks  both  of 
triumph  and  of  gratitude.    Yettbeir 
wnrk  »■•  nni.  yet  done.     A  fresh 
0  men,  from  thestand- 
b'erorepore,  was  aeen 
fell  upon  their  pMi* 
;  fnrv,  being  partien- 
nll  the  test  had  been, 
ind  for  a  few  moments 
EM,  whid)  had  here- 
in   one    direction, 
in  danger  of  being 


iMsj, 


llopoi 


4at(his  ti 


cote  of 


those  extraordinary  aeddetit*  igm* 
which  it  is  impossible  to  jatitide, 
becanae  in  the  managementof  miUbiy 
operations  they  are  never  comM 
upon.  A  staff-officer,  whose  inteUecb 
were  nnsetUed,  bad  ridden  back,  n 
soon  as  he  saw  that  the  enenn'acunp 
was  won,  and  directed  the  artuinyind 
cavalry  to  retire  upon  Ferwqnrt, 
in  order  that  men  and  horses  mi^t 
refVesh themselves.  NotBKnn,tlKR- 
fore,  wis  with  Sir  Uagh  Gov^^ 
when  Ty  Singh  with  his  anny  of  »■ 
serve  advanced  against  him,  ami  lie 
murderous  fire  of  round  shot  ud 
shell  which  the  latter  threw  islo  lix 
village  where  the  Brilisb  ia&atij 
stood  met  no  reply.  Moreowr, 
to  advance  from  the  village  would 
necesMrilj  expose  the  men  to  ilnoA 
certain  destruction,  because  a^ 
ful  cavalry  was  ready  to  _fi 
the  colnmns,  wbiie  to  remain 
were  conld  accomplish  nothing,  k 
ing  that  the  enemy  wooM  never  ctoe 
with  tbem;  battles  of  artillery  boil 
under  all  circumstances  their  b- 
vourites.  But  if  an  acddenl  hnngbt 
the  British  infantry  into  the  sow 
another  accidrat  relieved  them.  Tbe 
cavalry  and  arUllery,  moved  at  tiny 
had  been  directed  to  do,  after  bsTlng 
suffered  severely  from  the  superioinre 
ofthe  Sikhs,  which  to(A  tbem  in  task, 
while  the  in&ntry  were  advanong  to 
the  charae.  Now,  under  tbe  per- 
suasion that  a  general  retrcal  »« 
ordered,  they  pursued  tber  coniN 
tovrards  Feroa^<HV.  Hemoveoiffll 
brought  tbem  round  tbe  flank  of  to^ 
Sikht^  who,  mistaking  the  olgcct  M 
it,  suddenly  abandoned  their  guoi 
and  fled.  Onoe  more  the  aodMBl- 
able  infkntry  were  upon  tbem,  uh 
the  British  army,  maoled  sod  cup- 
pled  as  it  waa,  remained  mssten  « 
tbe  field,  as  well  as  of  seventr-lbiw 
pieces  of  cannon,  and  standsnh,  u<> 
other  trophies  innumerable. 

The  battle  was  fought  sad  ^ 
Looked  at  in  a  stiatagetical  V^  <" 
view,  it  may  have  beeo  fiiU  of  U^' 
das;  bnttbecovrageandsUadyaa- 
dpUne  of  tiie  men  conld  not  be  iitt- 
PMsed,  and  the  behaviour  of™ 
leaders  under  fire  was  msgnitost 
A  fearftal  eamt^  had  occorted  » 
both  ndes,  for  of  the  penMul  st*B 
of  the  govemor-gnieral  none  >x>* 
rode  near  him  except  his  swi,*^ 
of  seventeen.  Neverthdoi  bei? 
aa  tbe  loea  might  be,  tbe  wittVOV* 


1846.] 


Tke  Sikhs  and  the  Laie  Campaign. 


(y\1 


Enrebased  were  worth  the  coBt  And 
ir  Henrj  Hftrdhige  shewed  that  he 
felt  thk  to  be  the  ease,  bjr  inTkiBg 
the  annj  to  assemble  thatmght  about 
his  tent,  and  to  offer  pablk  thanks  to 
the  Lord  of  Hosts  for  the  yietory  with 
which  He  had  crowned  thdr  dTorta. 
Yet,  when  th«  historian  comes  to  re- 
e<»d  as  among  the  slain  the  names  of 
Broadfoot,  Somerset,  Henries,  and 
many  more,  he  will  be  forced  to  ae* 
knowled^  that  war  is  a  frightAil 
evil,  be  it  undertaken  in  what  cause 
it  may.  Sale,  too,  the  hero  of 
Jellalabad,  had  closed  his  esoreer; 
MK)askiU  had  fallen  as  became  his 
previous  osreer  of  honour ;  and  the 
ranks  were  thinned  to  an  eitent  not 
equalled  in  any  battle  of  the  Penin- 
snla,  Albuera,  perhaps,  alone  ex- 
cepted. It  was  a  campaign,  brief  to 
far  yet  pregnant  with  j^;reat  events, 
and  very  fmitfhl  of  private  sorrow. 
Neverthdess  Ferosepore  was  saved, 
and  the  invaders,  crushed  and  balBed, 
were  understood  to  be  in  fVill  il^ht 
towards  their  own  side  of  the  Sntiet. 
Thus  far  all  had  gone  well.  The 
protected  states  were  in  a  great  mea- 
sure freed  fr<mi  the  enemy,  and  the 
liver  once  more  ran  between  them 
and  the  British  lines,  nevertheless 
the  Sikhs  had  not  altogether  aban- 
doned their  hold  of  the  kll  bank ; 
and,  for  the  present,  it  was  judged 
more  prudent  to  leave  them  sa  in 
suite  of  their  defeats  at  Moodkce  and 
1*  eroaepore,  they  oatBumbeivd  the 
£nglish  by  Ibur  to  one;  and  haying 
erected  with  much  skill  a  semidr- 
cnktr  chain  of  works,  whi<^  pro- 
tected the  bridge  whereby  they  eom- 
munieated  from  one  bank  to  the 
other,  they  presented  a  llroiit  too 
formidaUe  to  be  assailed  by  the  rintf' 
tend  rtnuuns  of  the  armv  wfaidi  had 
jnsl  overthrown  them.  Accordingly, 
after  advancing  so  as  tflhetitally  to 
cover  Feroieporcy  Sir  Hugh  Gough 
pitched  his  tents,  so  that,  with  head- 
quarteiB  at  a  place  called  Mhalkee, 
M  mkht  keep  in  check  aarymovt- 
ment  ttiat  should  be  made  from  S»* 
braon ;  idnle,  at  the  same  tiflM,  he 
WM  ready  to  amMenvre  towards 
Loodhma  should  it  be  threatened, 
and  to  cover  all  the  roads  by  whidi 
the  reii^recmeiits  that  had  been 
ordered  up  might  he  expected  to 
travel. 

Though  the  treaty  whidi  held  the 
EngUdi  and  Sikh  gwemmeats  in 

VOL.  XZXIU.  2(0.  CXCYU. 


amity,  provided  that  the  Sikhs  should 
send  no  troops  across  the  Sutle^,  they 
were  permitted  to  retain  certam  jag- 
hires,  or  feudal  possessions,  on  the  left 
bank,  one  of  which  comprised  the  town 
and  fort  of  Dheermmcote.  Here  the 
enemy  had  established  a  magazine 
of  grain;  and  a  small  garrismi,  con- 
sisrnig  of  mercenaries,  chieilv  Bo- 
hellas  and  Affghans,  were  thrown 
into  the  place  for  its  protection. 
But  besides  that  the  grain  was  needed 
in  the  British  Ibw^  the  presence  of 
a  hostile  garrison  on  his  own  side  of 
the  stream  was  an  ^e-«ore  and  an 
annoyance  to  the  dnttsh  general. 
Wherefore  Major-aeneral  Sir  Harry 
Smith  was  directed,  with  a  brigade 
of  infantry  and  a  few  guns,  to  reduce 
it.  He  accomplished  the  service  on 
the  18th  of  January  without  loss, 
or,  indeed,  sustainins  a  serious  resist* 
ano6;  and  was  on  nis  wav  back  to 
camp  when  tidings  reached  the  com- 
mander-in-chief of  a  nature  not  to 
be  dealt  lightly  with,  far  less  ncff- 
leeted.  It  was  ascertained  that  the 
enemy  had  detached  20,000  men  from 
their cainpat  Sobraon  against  Loo- 
diaaa.  Their  objects  were  repre- 
sented to  be,  not  only  the  seizure  of 
that  place,  hut  the  mterruption  of 
the  British  communications  with  the 
rear,  and,  perhaps,  the  capture  of  the 
battering-train,  which  was  advancing 
by  Bttsseean ;  and  Sir  Hany  Smith, 
bcmg  reinforoed  to  the  amount  of 
8000  men,  received  instructiooa  to 
counterwork  the  prorject.  His  bu- 
siness was  to  form  a  junction  with 
Cdonel  Qodby,  who,  with  one  regi- 
ment of  cavalry  and  four  of  infontry, 
oceujpied  Loomana;  and  then,  but 
not  tdl  then,  to  push  the  Sikhs,  and 
drive  them,  if  possible,  back  upon 
their  own  ce^mtry. 

Sir  Harry  Smith  proeeeded  on  his 
way  in  lugh  spirita,  and  prosecuted 
bis    journey    by   forced    marches. 
Neither  was  the  exertion  uncalled 
for.     The  l^hi  had   come   upon 
Loodiana  in  great  force,  plundrnd 
the  outskirts  oif  the  town  and  burnt 
tiie  new  barradc ;  and  now  Cokmel 
Godby  and  hie  br%ade  wtri  flkfti  up 
in  the  fort,  whence  t*—-  -*^  "n 
express  to  iufom  the 
chief  of  their  danger, 
the  relieving   mce 
twenty-five  miles  of 
on  the  morrow,  at 
rennned  their  marel 


Gi8 


The  Sikhs  and  the  Late  Campaign, 


LMay, 


by  having  been  warned  to  move 
out  as  soon  as  the  dust  of  the 
coluDin  should  become  risible,  and 
to  join  it.  But  he  was  cautioned, 
as  Sir  Harry  Smith  had  been,  to 
avoid  as  much  as  possible  all  partial 
engagements ;  and  both  he  and  his 
immediate  commander  faithfulljr  and 
ski] full V  attended  to  the  admonition. 
Smith's  column  vras  in  full  march 
right  in  front,  when,  at  a  place  called 
Buddewal,  the  enemy  were  observed 
manoeuvring,  in  great  force,  to  come 
between  the  leading  regiment  and 
the  point  on  which  it  was  moving. 
He  was  supported,  as  usual,  by  an 
enormous  artillery,  and  occupied  a 
line  of  villages,  which  ran  at  ri^ht 
angles  with  the  bead  of  the  British 
column,  and  oifered  good  cover  both 
for  gu  ns  and  infantry.  In  a  moment, 
and  with  the  skill  of  a  practised 
leader,  Smith  changed  the  order  of 
his  march.  He  obliqued  so  as  to 
move  for  awhile  parallel  with  the 
enemy ;  till  the  latter,  far  outflanking 
him,  shewed  a  disposition  to  act  on 
the  offensive,  and  opened  a  heavy 
iire  from  forty  or  fifty  pieces  of 
heavy  cannon.  Upon  this  Smith 
formed  his  line,  brought  up  his 
eleven  guns,  and,  massing  them, 
threw  in  such  a  storm  of  shot  as  to 
check  the  Sikhs  in  their  advance. 
He  then  broke  into  eschellon  of 
battalions  and  squadrons,  so  as  to 
threaten  a  movement  directly  to  the 
front  all  the  while  that  he  was  taking 

ground  rapidly  to  the  right;  and 
andled  his  troops  so  nicely,  that 
without  firing  a  musket -shot  he 
carried  them  fairly  round  the  enemy. 
His  cavalry,  meanwhile,  observing  a 
similar  formation,  covered  the  ma- 
ncsuvre.  Several  times  they  charged 
in  squadrons,  driving  back  the  Sikh 
horse,  and  threatening  the  guns ;  so 
that  they  all  passed,  the  artillery 
inarching  under  their  protection, 
and  a  large  portion  of  the  baggage 
beinp  in  Tike  manner  saved;  but  a 
portion  of  the  latter  fell  into  the 
enemy's  hands.  It  could  not  possibly 
be.  saved.  And  when  we  consider 
IflgltMly  thus,  and  by  the  loss  of 
^  so  important  a  movement 

lade,  we  cannot  deny  to  the 
accomplished  it  all  the 
*•*»  military  world  has 

elieving  force 
''xertions  of 


the  enemy  to  stop  it.  Meanniiile 
Colonel  Godby,  havmg  seen  the  dood 
of  dust,  moved  from  Loodiana;  and 
marching  parallel  to  the  direcCioa 
which  It  seemed  to  take,  found  him- 
self,  in  due  time,  connected  by  Iub 
{Atrols  with  Smith's  advanced  guard. 
Botli  corps  upon  this  placed  them- 
selves with  Loodiana  on  their  rear, 
and  the  enemy  before  them;  the 
latter  being  so  drcnmstanoed,  that 
the  British  army  lay,  as  it  were,  upon 
one  of  its  flanks.  But  Smith,  though 
he  had  thus  relieved  the  town,  wis 
unwilling  to  strike  a  blow  till  be 
could  make  it  decisive.  He,  there- 
fore, encamped  in  an  attitude  of 
watchfulness,  waiting  till  another 
brigade  should  arrive,  which,  under 
the  command  of  Colonel  Wheeler, 
was  marching  from  head-quarten  to 
reinforce  him. 

Colonel  Wheeler's  march  seems  to 
have  been  conducted  with  eaual  dili- 
gence and  care.  He  heard  of  the 
encounter  of  the  2l8t,  and  of  its 
results;  whereupon  he  abandcped 
the  direct  road  to  Loodiana,  and, 
following  a  circuitous  route,  went 
round  the  enemy's  positi<m,  without 
once  coming  under  fire.  He  reached 
Sir  Harry  Smith's  camp  in  safety; 
and,  on  the  26th,  Smitn  made  his 
preparations  to  fight  a  great  battle. 
But  it  was  founo^  ere  Uie  columns 
were  put  in  motion,  that  the  enemy 
had  abandoned  their  position  at 
Buddewal,  and  were  withdrawn  to 
an  entrenched  camp  nearer  to  the 
river,  of  which  the  village  of  Ullee- 
wul  was  the  key,  covering  the  ford 
by  which  they  had  crossed,  and  on 
which  they  reckoned,  in  the  event  of 
a  reverse,  as  a  line  of  retreat. 
Operations  were  accordingly  soa- 
pended,  and  such  further  arrange- 
ments set  going  as  the  altered  slate 
of  affairs  seemed  to  require. 

While  these  important  operations 
were  proceeding  in  the  field,  the  stale 
of  affairs  at  Luiore  appears  to  hsve 
been  oonfhsed  and  uncomfortable  in 
the  extreme.  The  Banee,  with  her 
son  and  charge,  occupied  the  citadel. 
Almost  all  tne  troops  were  on  the 
Sutlej,  when  tidines  came  that  Rajah 
Goolah  Singh,  who  had  for  acme 
time  back  kept  aloof,  and  resided  on 
his  estate  among  the  mountains,  was 
descending  towards  Lahore  at  the 
head  of  10,000  men.  Now  Ri^ah 
Goolab   Singh  was   not  in  iavoot 


1846.] 


The  Sikhs  and  the  Laie  Campaign, 


619 


either  with  the  Ranee  or  the  Sirdars. 
They  equally  feared  and  suspected 
him ;  and  though  he  is  probably  as 
little  to  be  depended  upon  as  any 
other  chief  in  the  Punianb,  he  had 
either  felt  or  affected  heretofore 
great  love  for  the  British  alliance; 
and,  as  a  necessary  result,  was  entirely 
opposed  to  the  policy  which  had 
induced  the  war.  EUs  approach  to- 
wards the  capital,  theretore,  occa- 
sioned much  anxiety  and  dismay, 
while  the  government  endeavoured 
to  anticipate  anv  peaceful  movement 
on  his  part  by  despatching  forthwith 
a  vakeel,  or  agent,  to  toe  £nelish 
head-quarters;  but  with  this  func- 
tionary the  governor  -  general  re- 
fused to  communicate.  He  was  told 
that  the  British  government  knew 
nothing,  even  by  name,  of  the  parties 
for  whom  he  professed  to  act;  and 
that  tfa^  would  not  treat  with  any, 
except  iKajah  Goolab  Singh  or  the 
Maha  Kajah.  Hereupon  the  Sikh 
troops  became  more  furious  than 
ever,  and  that  movement  took  place 
which  drew  from  the  British  camp 
the  corresponding  march  of  Sir 
Harry  Smitn's  division  towards  Loo- 
diana.  Moreover,  there  came  into 
the  Sikh  camp  at  UUeewul  a  rein- 
forcement of  4000  men,  with  guns, 
almost  at  the  same  time  that  Smith 
received  the  accession  to  his  strength 
by  the  cominff  up  of  Colonel 
Wheeler's  brigade;  and  the  conse- 
quence was,  that  on  the  28th,  when 
tne  two  armies  came  into  collision, 
the  English  mustered  somewhere 
about  12,000 ;  the  Sikhs  over,  rather 
than  under,  24,000  excellent  troops. 
The  battle  of  Ulleewul  was,  out 
and  out,  the  most  scientific  affair 
that  occurred  in  the  course  of  this 
campaign.  It  was  planned  with 
skill,  executed  vdth  coolness  and 
precision,  and  fought  by  the  troops 
with  all  the  courage  and  gallantry 
for  which  British  soldiers  are  re- 
nowned. The  army  advanced  in 
columns  of  brigades,  with  artillery 
in  the  intervals ;  the  cavalry  in  ad- 
vance, the  infantry  in  a  second  line. 
They  had  marched  about  six  miles, 
when  a  spy  reported  that  the  en- 
emy were  also  m  motion;  and  by 
and  by,  from  the  tops  of  some  houses 
in  a  village,  their  masses  were  seen 
Rioting  in  the  direction  of  Ju^on. 
Ihey  formed,  however,  immediately, 
bavmg^  their  right  on  a  ridge  of  low 


hills,  of  which  Ulleewul  is  in  the 
centre,  and  their  left  resting  on  the 
entrenched  camp,  which  covered  the 
ford  of  Tulwa.  Fifty  pieces  of  heavy 
cannon  were  in  their  line,  and  they 
presented  altogether  a  very  formid- 
able i^pearance;  but  Snuth  never 
once  checked  his  movement  The 
ground  over  which  he  passed  was 
nrm,  and  covered  with  snort  grass. 
It  suited  exactly  the  description  of 
troops  which  he  was  handling ;  and, 
as  he  neared  the  enemy,  he  took  full 
advantage  of  it,  so  as  to  dis^ilay  the 
order  of  his  attack,  and  bring  his 
whole  strength  to  bear.  The  cavalry 
openiiu;  and  filing  off  by  divisions,  took 
ground  to  the  right  and  left;  thus 
opening  a  way  for  the  infiuitry,  and 
covering  each  flank.  The  guns  were 
massed  so  that  their  fire  miffht  pro- 
duce the  best  effect;  and  lul,  both 
horse  and  foot,  wheeled  into  line. 
And  now  on  both  sides  the  artillery 
opened;  under  the  fire  of  which 
Smith  observingj  that  the  enemy's 
left  outflanked  hun,  broke  again  into 
colnnm,  and  took  eround  to  his 
right.  It  is  impossible  to  read  these 
details  without  experiencing  die 
most  lively  admiration  of  the  ad- 
mirable eaup-d'ced  of  the  chief  who 
directed  the  movements,  and  the 
marvellous  steadiness  of  the  men 
who  performed  them.  '  Troops  so 
handled  could  not  fail  to  surmount 
all  opposition,  and  they  effectually 
did  so. 

The  firing  began  about  ten  in  the 
morning ;  by  one  o'clock  in  the  day 
the  Sikh  army  was  broken  and 
routed,  the  sround  covered  with  its 
wreck,  and  uie  Sutlej  choked  wiUi 
the  d^  and  the  dying.  The  whole 
of  the  artillery  fell  into  the  hands  of 
the  victors,  and  the  booty  was  im- 
mense; but  the  victors  had  neither 
time  nor  inclination  to  dwell  upon 
their  triumphs.  There  was  no  furtner 
danger  to  oe  apprehended  here.  Of 
the  24,000  men  who,  in  the  morning, 
threatened  Loodiana,  scarcely  as 
many  hundreds  held  together;  and 
these,  after  a  brief  show  of  rally  on 
the  opposite  bank,  melted  away  and 
disappeared  entirely.  Having  bivou- 
acked that  night,  therefore,  on  the 
field  which  he  had  won,  and  sent  i*" 
the  wounded,  with  the  captured  gu^ 
under  sufiicient  escort,  to  Loodir 
Sir  Harry  Smith,  with  the  bulk  r 
division,   took  the   road   to 


620 


Tk$  Sikki  and  ih$  LaU  Campm^. 


[May, 


ouarten;  aad,  ia  the  alkenuxm  of 
tae  8t]|  af  FebruafV,  eame  mto  po- 
flition  (m  the  right  of  the  umIq  wmj^ 
whieh  wM  hit  eetahlished  pest. 

We  h»Te  already  deserlbed  the 
respeetive  poritionB  of  Sir  Hugh 
Goiigh*9  foree  and  of  the  Sikh  amy 
that  faeed  it.  The  ktter  oeenpied  a 
•emioirde  of  formidable  works,  whieh 
oommanded  a  fbrd  in  the  Snitlej  on 
the  left  bank,  and  cohered,  as  wHh  a 
ike-de^ponit  the  head  of  the  bridge 
wherewith  that  river  was  spaaned. 
Other  entrenchments  they  nad  on 
the  ihrther  side,  but  as  oompned 
with  these  they  were  not  very  Im- 
portant; and  diey  kept  them  both 
with  about  86,000  men,  the  MUe  of 
the  soldiers  of  the  Ptii\}anb,  and 
seventy  pieces  of  cannon,  chiefly  of 
large  ealiore.  We  most  confess  that 
we  do  not  quite  see  why  the  attempt 
to  manoeuvre  them  out  of  this  posi- 
tion was  not  made.  They  had  shewn 
our  people  that  it  was  possible  to 
cross  the  Sutlej  and  threaten  the 
communications  of  the  British  army ; 
and  now  the  ford  of  Tulwan  was  as 
open  to  us  as  it  had  previously  been 
to  them.  We  confess  that  we  cannot 
quite  satisQr  our  own  minds  in  rqpard 
to  the  causes  which  may  have  pre- 
vented the  commander-in-chief  from 
makinff  use  of  this  fbrd,  and  sendii^ 
Sir  Harry  Smith  up  the  opposite 
bank  of  the  river,  so  as  to  threaten 
the  enemy  in  flank,  while  he  himself 
ad^'anoed  against  them  in  front  It 
appears,  moreover,  that  the  British 
genersls  were  possessed  of  boats 
enough  wherewith  to  construct  a 
bridge  for  themselves  below  the  ene- 
my's position,  had  th^  been  so  dis- 
pMcd.  But  neither  does  this  scheme 
seem  to  have  fbund  fhvour  in  their 
e^es;  and  so  both  flanks,  which 
mi^ht  have  been  turned,  were  left  in 
their  int^:rity.    Of  course  vre  ex- 

Sress  ourselves  thus  with  extreme 
iffidenee,  as  all  critics  ouffht  tp  do 
who  write  about  traosaenons  that 
have  occurred  at  a  distance ;  and  we 
are  bound  to  add,  that,  let  the  amount 
of  sdenoe  exhibited  in  the  arranee- 
ments  ibr  the  battle  be  what  H  minit, 
of  the  manner  in  which  the  flffhnng 
part  of  the  business  was  conoueted 
we  cannot  speak  too  highly.  Befbre 
dawn  on  the  10th,  certain  posts, 
which  the  enemv  used  to  occupy  by 
day  and  abandon  at  night,  were 
seized.     The  artillery,  indading  a 


part  of  <he  balterfog  tnda  wlikb 
had  eome  up,  was  placed  in  poaftka 
opposite  to  the  6»h  batteries;  the 
innntry  fenned  hi  Imes  of  br^ade, 
wHh  cavalry  on  the  flanks,  and  sup- 
ports chequering  them  in  oohmm; 
and,  88  soon  as  a  heavy  mist  whieh 
hui^  over  the  bonks  of  the  river 
elearad  away,  the  cannonade  bmn. 

The  details  of  the  battle  of  SotoaoB 
must  be  so  ftesb  fat  the  reeolketion 
of  our  readers,  tlmt  we  flhall  not  slop 
to  repeat  them.  However  skiUVilly 
gans  in  the  open  fleld  may  be  nsea, 
t^y  are  no  match  ibr  vieees  of  equal 
weight,  and  not  less  skilftilly  wened, 
through  embrasures;  and  so  h  was 
soon  discovered,  to  use  the  expressive 
words  of  Sir  Hugh  Gongh,  •'that 
the  issue  of  this  struggle  must  be 
brought  to  the  arbitrement  of  mos- 
ketry  and  the  bayonet.**  At  H  the 
British  troops  accordinglv  went— 
the  10th  and  59d  Qneen*s  K^gimenta, 
nobly  supported  by  the  4dd  and  59th 
Native  rafantry — forcing  their  wot', 
through  a  murderous  Are,  over  the 
cntre»Bhments ;  and  the  gallant  8d 
Dragoons  riding  in  single  flle  through 
the  apertures  which  wt  artOlery  had 
made,  and  Ibrming  agun  that  the^ 
might  cut  down  the  Sikhs  at  thetr 
guns.  But  why  go  on  with  the  de- 
scription? At  every  point  the  en- 
trenchments were  carried.  Tae 
horse  artillery  salloped  througliy 
and  both  they  Ukd  the  batteries  opened 
such  a  flre  upon  the  broken  enemy 
as  swept  them  away  by  ranks.  ^  The 
flre  of  the  l^hs,**  savs  the  com- 
mander-in-chief, '*  Ant  sladcenedf  and 
then  nearly  coMed ;  and  the  victors 
then  pressing  them  on  every  side, 

grecipitated  them  over  the  bridge 
ito  the  Sutlej,  which  a  sudden  rise 
of  seven  inches  had  rendered  hardly 
fbrdable.**  What  a  i^ht  Anr  a  de- 
feated army  to  be  in!  No  wonder 
that  the  gallant  old  chief  sneaks  wdl- 
nlgh  with  reluctance  of  tae  carnage 
whkh  it  was  both  his  duty  and  that 
of  his  followers  to  inflict.  **  The 
awftd  slaughter,  coofttsioa,  and  dis- 
may, were  sudi  as  would  have  ex- 
cited compasrion  in  the  hearts  ni 
their  conquerors,  if  the  Khalsa  troons 
had  not,  in  the  eaiiy  part  of  ue 
action,  sullied  their  gallantry  by 
slaughtering  and  barbaraosly  roaa- 
fVaktt  every  wounded  soldier  whcmi, 
m  the  victsBitudcs  of  attack,  the  for- 
tune of  war  left  at  their  mercy.** 


1846.] 


On  a  Late  French  TriaL 


e%i 


ThQi  ended  tbt  bittl€  of  MmMB, 
and  with  it— ^r  the  preeeot  at  kaet 
-—the  Sikh  war.  The  sane  evening 
the  Britieh  troops  b^gaa  to  pass  the 
Sutlej,  and  on  toe  morrow  they  were 
in  f uU  inarch  towards  Lahore  {  when 
ambaisadors  from  the  deieaated  gene*- 
rfds  presented  themselves  in  camp, 
hut  were  not  admitted  into  the 
governor-general's  presenoe*  The 
officers  who  saw  them  informed  them, 
with  little  eeremony,  that  only  with 
the  Mthm  Bi^ah  would  Sir  Henry 
Hardinge  ooipmanicate ;  and  in  due 
time,  the  youthful  soverdign,  attended 
by  Rajah  GkK>lab  Sii^h,  eame  as  a 
suppliant  ibr  merey  within  the  Brit* 
ish  lineSi  It  was  not  refused  him. 
The  blame  of  the  war  was  thrown,  as 
it  ought  to  have  been,  on  the  tur«- 
bulent  cbieft,'~though,  to  mark  the 
governor-general's  sense  of  the  na* 
tional  offeaee,  the  sovereiga  was,  at 
the  outset,  rslused  the  honours  thai 
are  given  in  the  £ast  to  crowned 
heads ;  but  peace  was  granted  to  him 
uid  to  the  runiaub  on  terms  which 
indicate  as  mucn  of  true  wisdom  as  of 
moderation  in  him  who  assigned 
them. 

The  Sikhs  have  been  punished  by 
the  privation  of  all  that  fertile  dis- 
trict which  lies  between  the  Sutlej 
and  the  Ilyphans  or  Beass.  The 
whole  of  the  protected  states,  as  they 


used  to  be  eaUed,  are  iibeorbed  and 
become  an  integral  portion  of  the 
British  empire.  One  million  and 
a  half  sterUag  is  demanded  as  com- 
pensation for  the  expenses  of  the  war, 
and  militai^  occupation  of  the  whole 
of  the  Puigaub  is  to  be  held  till  the 
full  amount  shall  be  paid.  And 
a  i^arraagement  of  the  Sikh  army 
is  to  take  place,  on  such  a  plati 
as  the  governor-general  shall  judge 
best  for  ibe  preservation  of  peace 
both  at  home  and  abroad.  Finally, 
Sir  Henry  Hardinge  has  been  oieated 
Viscount  Hardinge;  SirHu^Gough, 
Baron  Gough ;  Sir  Harry  Smith  has 
been  rewarded  with  a  baronetcy, 
which  he  hae  nobly  earned ;  and  on 
all  the  other  officers  and  men  en- 
ga|^  honours  have  been  heaped, 
which  miMT  gratify  the  country  which 
bestows  them,  but  can  add  nothing  to 
the  h^h  &me  of  the  recipients. 
They  have  been  thanked  by  both 
Bouses  of  Parliament ;  they  are 
thanked  by  every  man,  woman,  and 
diild  throughout  the  empire;  and 
even  they  who  mourn  over  the  fal^ 
of  their  nearest  of  kin  find  comfort  in 
the  ibong^t  that  they  died  nobly 
and  in  a  righteous  cause. 

''  Thanks  be  to  Almighty  God  for 
the  great  triumph  which  He  ha9 
granted  to  our  anas ! " 


ON  A  LATE  FRENCH  TRIAL. 


ArrB»  going  through  a  course  of 
French  Hovds  (as  too  many  idlers 
novmdays  have  done),  and  re* 
creating  one*8  self  with  a  series  of 
histories  illustrating  ever^  pomible 
iolhntion  of  every  <n<der  of  the  deca« 
kgae,  the  amattd  reader  is  often 
tempted  to  ask.  Are  these  tales  sup- 
Med  to  represent  the  real  state  of 
French  manners  at  the  present  day  ? 
'-'Are  these  varieties  of  rascality, 
these  pictures  of  crime,  lust,  knavery, 
murder,  whieh  Balzac,  Sue,  Dumas, 
and  Soulie,  are  in  the  'habit  of  ex- 
hibiting in  the  feuiiktons  of  every 
daily  journal,  really  copied  from 
nature,  or  eidy  the  moostroue  jpro* 
duetions  of  those  famous  wnters* 
diseased  imaginitfion?  Since  crime 
was  punished  and  historv  began,  such 
a  Mate  of  horrible  soelaJ  demucbery 
aa  that  daieribcd  by  every  one  of 
theae    Wriiers    kai    learoeiy    b^eil 


known  hi  any  country  :-^such  a  ge* 
neral  perversion  of  morids,  such  a 
total  irreligion,  such  a  determined 
abrogation  of  the  law  which  ordains 
that  chaHity  is  a  virtue,  and  marriage 
a  sacred  obllgatbn.  And  with  all 
thii  flagrant  activity  in  the  commis- 
sion of  criaw,  there  seeme  to  be  an 
entire  blindness  on  the  part  of  the 
criminal.  He  does  not  appear  to  be 
in  the  least  aware  that  bis  life  ia 
disgraceful, — ^that there  is  anything 
wrong  in  his  career  of  brutal  heathen 
pleasure ;  he  flaunts  his  mistress  in 
the  face  of  the  world  without  an 
idm  of  shame,  and  would  talk  to  his 
sister  obcmt  her  if  need  were.  And 
ail  the  while  he  assumes  that  he  is 
morally  the  superior  of  the  inhabit- 
ant of  every  other  country  in  th 
trorld.  How  many  times  has  on 
read  that  France  is  the  centre  ^ 
qivil^ion ! — that  for  manners  ai 


622 


On  a  Late  Frenek  Trial. 


[May, 


morals  all  the  world  is  looking  to 
Paris  for  example, — ^that  the  mission 
of  Franoe  is  so  and  so,  &c.  You 
can't  take  np  a  French  newspaper 
but  a  paragraph  to  that  effect  stares 
jrou  in  the  face ;  and  the  sentiment 
IS  repeated  by  poets,  politicians,  and 
novelists,  firom  Thiers,  and  Victor 
Hugo,  and  down  to  honest  Paul  de 
Kock. 

One  might  be  disposed  to  fSm^ 
the  orgies  narrated  m  the  Peau  de 
Chagrin  or  the  Memoires  du  DiabU 
as  fabulous ;  or  poor  Paul's  descrip- 
tions of  Parisian  life  as  mere  imagi* 
nations;  but  that  every  now  and 
then  a  newspaper,  or  a  police-c6urt, 
issues  a  real  authentic  document, 
which  is  infinitely  more  startling 
than  any  of  the  novelists*  fictions. 
The  trial  of  Beauvallon  for  shooting 
Dujarrier  (which  occuried,  and  is 
reported  at  length  in  the  Parisian 
newspapers  at  the  end  of  last  month) 
is  one  of  these  instances.  Persons 
of  M.  Beauvallon's  stamp  may  be 
found  in  plenty,  no  doubt,  with  us; 
and  tipsy,  gambling  rows  and  disre- 
putable puties,  such  as  that  whidi 
occasioned  the  unlucky  Dujarrier*s 
death,  may  take  place  at  Greenvdch 
or  Richmond,  as  well  as  at  the  Trois 
Frdres ;  but  otur  rakes  have  at  least 
the  deceacy  of  hypocrisy,  and  go  to 
the  deuce  in  private.  If  such  a  case 
as  that  of  Beauvallon  -  Dujarrier 
murder  were  to  occur  in  England, 
the  principal  could  never  again  hold 
up  his  head  here,  the  male  witnesses 
would  be  dismissed  out  of  all  decent 
society,  the  females  (actresses  for  the 
most  part)  would  run  a  strong  risk 
of  bemg  assailed  at  their  next  ap- 
pearance on  the  stage  with  some- 
thing more  substantially  uncompli- 
mentary than  even  hisses, — not  a 
person  concerned  but  would  be  irre- 
trievably ruined  by  the  exposure. 

Fancy  such  a  case  as  this  occurring 
in  England.  Half-a-dozen  literary 
men  and  editors  of  the  first  rank, 
accompanied  by  half-a-doasen  young 
dandies  of  the  high  fashion,  and  a 
dozen  celebrated  actresses,  each  mis- 
tress of  one  or  other  of  the  male 
guests,  dine,  dance,  and  gamble  to- 
gether at  a  tavem«  A  dispute  occurs 
il  play  between  one  literary  gentle- 

n,who  has  lost  five  hundred  pounds, 

another  very   dashing  man  of 

)  well  known  for  having  appro- 

'  and  pawned  a  friend^  watch. 


Nothing  will  satisfy  the  latter*B  nice 
sense  of  honour  but  demanding  an 
apology   for  the  former's  da&oos 
expression.  ^  As  I  have  said  nothing 
wrons,  and  as  my  challenger  cannot 
say  what  I  have  said  wrong,"  replies 
the  challenged  party,  '*  of  conne  I 
cannot  apologise.**    "  My  honour  de- 
mands blood,   then  says  the  gentle- 
man who  pawned  his  friend's  wstcb, 
and  seconds  are  appointed,  two  on 
each  side :  and  these  gentlemen,  men 
of  fashion,  men  of  prudence,  and 
men  of  the  world,  can  find  no  better 
way  out  of  this    dilemma  than  to 
bring  their  men  on  to  the  field,  and 
to  let  MuiWBB  pass  between  them. 
All  these  virtuous  men  and  women 

Snrith  the  exception  of  the  poor 
aughter^wretdi  who  lies  in  Pere- 
la-Chaise,  with  a  pistol-ball  through 
his  jaw)  come  before  a  court  of  jus- 
tice, and  give  their  testimony  aito 
the  transaction.  There  is  not  tbe 
least  shame  in  confessing  a  share  in 
the  businen.  Each  witness  gives 
his  or  her  testimony  in  a  good-hu- 
moured off-hand  way;  most  joke 
about  it;  some  brag  and  are  pom- 
pous. Every  man  and  woman  leaves 
the  court,  and  returns  to  his  or  her 
occupations,  to  the  modest  private 
life  of  which  they  are  ornaments, 
without  a  single  stain  on  his  or  her 
honour,  including  the  immaculate 
principal, — the  gentleman  who  ap- 
propriated the  watch.  Every  one  of 
the  literary  characters  has,  no  doubt, 
written  a  score  of  times  since,  tbat 
France  is  the  centre  of  civilisation, 
the  arbiter  of  manners,  the  great 
social  reformer,  and  exemplar  of  the 
world. 

Let  us  follow  the  case,  as  it  is  ex- 
hibited in  the  French  papers,  begin- 
ning of  course  with  the  "  Act  of 
Accusation,"  a  romantic  narrative  of 
proceedings  which  the  crown  PfOW' 
cutor  always  makes,  and  in  which  it 
appears  to  be  his  doty  or  custom 
always  to  bear  as  hara  as  posnble 
upon  the  prisoner  whom  he  brings 
before  the  tribunals. 

"On  the  7th  of  March,  1845,adinncr 
at  theXrois  Fr  eres  Proven^aux  at  Vsria 
brought  together  sixteen  or  dgbteen 

girsons.  .Adnong  these  were  the  Sicur 
ujarrier,  at  that  time  manager  d 
the  Presse  newspaper;  the  Sieur 
Rosemond  de  Beauvallon,  one  of  the 
editors  of  the  Globe ;  the  Sieur  Roger 
de  Beauvoir,  the  Count  de  Flers^the 


1 846.] 


On  a  Late  French  Trial 


6-23 


Sieur  Arthur  Bertrand,  and  several 
^women  attached  to  different  theatres, 
espKially  the  Demoiselle  Lievenne, 
actress  of  the  Vaudeville  Theatre. 


A.  nirie  given  hv  this  lady  a  short 
time  before  was  the  cause  of  the  pre- 
sent dinner. 

<^  A  doubtful  point  having  occurred 
in  a  game  of  cards  at  Mademoiselle 
Liievenne*s  house;  it  was  proposed 
that  the  fifteen  or  sixteen  louis  which 
none  of  the  players  claimed  should 
contribute  towards  the  payment  of  a 
dinner  to  be  shared  by  all  persons 
present.  Should  there  be  any  fur* 
ther  expense,  it  was  agreed  to  defray 
it  by  a  general  subscription.  More 
guests  were  invited.  Koger  de  Beau- 
Toir,  for  instance,  by  the  Count  de 
Flers,  and  his  brother,  and  Dujarrier 
by  Mademoiselle  Lievenne,  who  was 
anxious  to  repay  some  hospitalities 
which  she  had  lately  received  from 
him.  Dujarrier,  however,  was  little 
disposed  to  come:  the  day,  or  the 
day  before  the  dinner,  he  told  two  of 
bis  friends  that  he  had  called  that 
morning  upon  Mademoiselle  Lievenne 
in  order  to  excuse  himself,  but  that 
she  was  absent,  and  he  onlv  saw  her 
femme  de  chambre^  who  told  him  how 
much  her  mistress  would  regret  his 
absence.  Dujarrier  even  prewed  one 
ofhis  friends,  Veron,  to  accompany  him 
to  this  dinner.  Unluckily  he  did  not 
obey  the  secret  presentiment  which 
warned  him  to  keep  away,  and  on  the 
7th  of  March  sat  down  at  the  same 
table  with  Beauvallon. 

**  Before  detailing  the  circumstances 
which  led  to  the  deplorable  meeting 
of  the  nth  of  March,  it  will  be  as 
well  to  give  some  brief  account  of 
Dujarrier  himself.  Fains  have  been 
taken  to  represent  him  as  a  man  of 
haughty  ana  offensive  manners — with 
the  insolence,  in  a  word,  of  the  par- 
MJMi.  Nothing  can  be  more  untrue : 
those  who  knew  him  best  have  testi- 
fied that  he  was  not  the  least  quarrel- 
some ;  that  he  was  hard  and  stiff  in 
manner  certainly;  but  it  was  the  hi^h 
position  he  had  won  for  himself  m 
jonnialism  which  was  his  chief  cause 
of  offence  in  some  people's  eyes,  and 
the  elegant  luxury  in  which  he  lived. 
A  most  active  and  intelligent  man 
of  business,  never  allowing  pleasure 
to  interfere  with  his  duties,  Dujar- 
rier, although  very  young,  had  still 
realised  a  considerable  fortune.  For 
the  rest,  if  he  gained  money  easily, 


he  spent  it  as  quickly,  and  had  a 
general  reputation  as  a  bold  and 
generous  player. 

"  At  the  same  time  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  from  frequenting  a  society 
in  which  the  most  perfect  abandon 
reigns,  and  the  company  of  women, 
who  have  no  right  to  exact  from 
other  persons  the  reserve  which  they 
do  not  themselves  practise,  Dujar- 
rier had  accustomed  himself  to  cer- 
tain jokes,  and  freedoms  of  language 
and  behaviour,  in  which  no  person 
of  good  societv  ever  indulges.  In 
the  course  of  the  dinner  of  the  7th  of 
March,  for  instance,  he  made  several 
personal  allusions  to  M.  Roger  de 
Beauvoir;  and  drank  toasts  to  the 
latter's  cravat,  his  waistcoat,  &c.,  to 
which  Roger  replied  in  a  similar 
strain.  Some  time  afterwards,  it  ap- 
pears, by  the  testimony  of  the  last- 
named  individuid,  Dujarrier  got  up 
and  said  he  would  tutoyer  ^1  the 
women  present ;  and  addressing  Ma- 
damoiselle  Lievenne  by  her  Christian 
name,  boasted  offensively  that  he 
would  have  her  favours  before  six 
months  were  over.  It  must  be  ob- 
served, however,  that  the  conversa- 
tion was  general  at  the  time,  and 
nobody  seems  to  have  heard  the 
above  remarks  except  the  persons 
already  named. 

"After  dinner,  DujarrierandRo^er 
de  Beauvoir  seem  to  have  had  a  dis* 
pute  regarding  some  affair  of  busi- 
ness,— a  fcuifieton  in  the  Presie 
newspaper, — which  conversation  ter- 
minated by  Dujarrier  asking  the  other 
whether  ne  wanted  an  aSTair  with 
him,  Dujarrier  ?  Roger  replied,  "  I 
don*t  look  out  for  quarrels,  I  find 
them  sometimes  ;**  and  so  quitted  the 
company.  Diyarrier  now  was  led  up 
by  Arthur  Bertrand  to  Mademoiselle 
iJievenne,  and  apologised  to  her  for 
his  conduct  towards  ner.  The  apo- 
logy was  accepted,  and  she  readily 
gave  him  her  hand. 

"  The  table  was  now  removed  from 
the  dininff-room,  when  dancing  be- 
gan ;  whi^  in  an  adjoining  apartment 
a  party  sat  down  to  the  game  of 
lansquenet.    No  particular  incidei.t 
occurred  in  the  game  up***^  ♦^'^  '^"-'l 
arrived  to  the  turn  of 
Agnan,  who,  not  beiJ 
stake  so  large  a  sum  at 
admitted  Dujarrier  a 
(at  their  request)  as 
bauk.    Dujarrier  sul 


624 


Oil  a  Late  Frenek  Trial. 


[M»!. 


louit,  B6MiTalkm  for5^,  the  bank  won 
in  three  deals,  so  that  75  louts  be- 
came due  to  Dujarrier,  and  17J^  to 
the  other  partner  BeMivalloo.  When 
St.  Agnan  came  to  make  up  the  ac* 
counts  of  the  bank,  he  found  that 
there  was  some  error,  and  that  some 
louis  were  wanting  to  pay  his  part- 
ners in  full.  Beauyallon  proposed  to 
let  the  matter  pass.  Dujarrier,  how* 
ever,  claimed  his  seyenty-fiye  louis  in 
fail;  and  later  in  the  erenin^  on 
some  further  conversation  with  fiean- 
vallon,  Dniarrier  is  reported  to  have 
said  to  the  latter,  in  a  nigh  tone,  that 
'*  he  owed  him  nothing,  and  would 
pay  him  nothinf^.*' 

'*  However,  Dujarrier  acknowledged 
that  he  owed  Beauvalloneigfaly-four 
louis  on  another  account,  and  just  as 
he  was  about  to  quit  the  party  re« 
membered  the  debt  and  dischaiged 
it.  He  had,  however,  only  seventh- 
five  louis  1^  and  having  applied  m 
vain  to  some  person  in  the  company 
Ibr  the  remaining  nine,  he  sent  for 
the  keeper  of  the  restaurant,  M.  Col- 
lot,  from  whom  he  borrowed  ten 
louis,  and  so  discharged  his  debt  to 
Beauvallon.  So  they  parted,  Dujar- 
rier losing,  <m  the  whole,  125  louis, 
Beauyallon  gaining  twelve  or  thir- 
teen thousand  firancs.  In  the  course 
of  all  that  had  passed  between  them 
no  rude  or  irritating  expression  had 
been  used  by  one  party  or  the  other ; 
the  behaviour  on  both  sides  was  that 
of  oold  and  measured  politeness, — a 
fact  attested  by  many  vritnesscs  of 
the  scene. 

"  Digarrier  was,  therefore,  greatly 
surprised  when  next  day  he  was 
waited  upon  by  the  Count  de  Flers 
and  the  Sieur  d'Equevilley,  iHio 
came  to  ask  him  for  a  doubie  repa- 
ration on  the  part  of  Roeer  de  Beau- 
voir  and  Beauvallon.  Although  he 
did  not  look  upon  the  afikir  in  a  se- 
rious light,  Dujarrier  neverUieless 
thouffht  he  would  refer  them  to  a 
oouple  of  his  friends,  who  would  act 
for  him.  Arthur  Bertrand  and 
Charles  de  Boignes  were  the  gen- 
tlemen who  agr^  to  act  as  Dujar- 
Tier*s  seconds,  and  a  rendeivoas  was 
"preed  upon  for  Monday  the  l(Hh  of 

irch. 

''At  this  meeting  Bertrand  and  De 
remonstrated    with    Mon. 
and  Eqnevilley,  pointed  out 
•w  gentlemen  were  acting  in 
unusual  raann^  in  being 


bearers  of  a  double  chaUenge,  lad 
establiabed  the  right  of  thebr  prind* 
pal  only  to  deal  with  one  adTenuT. 
They  were  about  to  select  Bogtr  oe 
Beauvoir,  when  they  learned  fail 
mother  had  died  the  previoBB  night; 
whereupon  all  explanations  with  De 
Beauv oir  were  adioumed  fat  a  Bumtb. 
Duiarrier*s  ehaUenge^the  only  one 
with  which  thej  now  had  to  desl^ 
speared  to  Digarrier's  seoondtBotto 
be  very  aerious.  They  attempted 
with  the  otmoat  xeal  to  effect  an  sr- 
rangement,  but  tried  in  vain.  Flen 
and£quevilley,Beauvallflii*s  fiiendii 
said  that  Beanvallon  had  dedand 
that  if  Diynrrier  would  not  soeept 
this  provocaUon  he  wonld  force  hua 
to  come  out  on  another.  Seeiog 
which,  and  determined  to  give  pos- 
tive  proof  of  Beauvallon's  detenni- 
nation  to  bring  his  adverss^  to  the 
ground,  De  HoigDes  and  fieitnad 
obtained  from  Fkrs  and  E^uerilfej 
their  approval  to  thefoUowingdoca- 
ment: — 

•«*  We,  the  undersigned,  dechn  thit, 
after  a  discussion  between  ihtm,  M. 
BeattvalloD  has  provoked  M.  Dajtrnor 
in  such  terms  aa  to  render  it  impooiMe 
for  tho  latter  to  refuse  a  meeting.  n« 
have  done  oar  ntmoat  to  ooociliale  tbcM 
two  gentlemen ;  and  at  is  only  becMie 
Beauvallon  baa  inaiated  unen  the  neeuag 
that  we  have  consented  U>  aoi  at  se- 
conds.' 

**  The  choice  of  arms  now  bccMie 
the  question,  and  was  aooorded,  after 
some  parley,  to  Diyarrier.  A  nit 
meeting  was  arranged  for  the  next 
SKHrning  at  the  house  of  De  BoKoe^ 
who  now  wenttoD^ja^ier  toiafonn 

him  of  the  result  of  the  oonferen^. 
In  their  etrnveraation  Dtuairier  aaia 
that,  ahhongh  the  duel  did  not  seem 
to  him  at  allneeessary,  he  was  never- 
theless determined  to  fi^.  He*^ 
young,  the  nasiager  of  a  joun«i 
whidi  had  many  enonies;  his  po«' 
tion  at  the  head  of  it  called  apon 
hhn  to  reftise  no  challenge,  and  it  he 
declined  this  he  was  sure  it  would  » 
followed  by  twenty  more.  ..,, 

^  Knowing  Beanvalloi's  gM^  ^ 
with  the  sword,  Dujarrier  mkcfed 
the  pistol  as  his  weapon.  Duiv^ 
the  day,  Arthur  Bertrsad,  haying 
met  Beauvall<m*s  sewrnds,  heard  am 
them  that  their  princMpal  wis  ^^ 
mme  adroit  with  the  pistol  than 
with  the  swon^  of  which  fhet  Be^ 
ttwsd  informs  Diganier.    The  lat* 


lae.] 


On  a  LaU  French  Trial. 


625 


t«r  pernwtad  in  hit  cfaoice,  however. 
He  paesed  a  peri  of  the  eTenii)|;  at 
cards  at  the  house  of  the  Sieur 
AleTOfider  Dumae,  whom  he  did  net 
leave  till  midnight.  At  one  he  re* 
eeived  a  note  mm  Bertrand  to  state 
that  the  meeting  waa  arranged  for 
that  morning  (Tuesday). 

"•  That  moffniag  the  four  seeonds 
arranged  by  writing^  the  oonditioBs 
af  the  meefeinff.  The  eombataats 
ivere  to  be  at  uiirty  paees'  distance  $ 
eai^  was  free  to  advance  ive  paees. 
When  either  fired  the  other  was  to 
ataiid  etiU,  and  immediately  to  return 
liis  adversary's  fire.  They  ioesed  up 
who  ehoula  furnish  the  weapons, 
Beauvallon'a  par^  won  the  toaiu 
Diuarrier  now  arrived  in  his  diariot, 
aod,  with  hb  aeoonda  and  Doetor  do 
Guiss^  drove  to  Madrid  in  the  B<HS  de 
Boittboig**^  where  the  renoontre  was 
to  lakeplaee. 

**  Here  they  waited  for  an  hour  and 
a  half  in  the  eold^  and  with  the  snow 
fallii^  until  fieaavallon's  party  ar- 
rived. De  Boignes  once  more  went 
up  to  them,  declared  that  the  duel 
was  impossible*  and  spoke  in  the 
same  tmns  aiMl  most  strongly  to 
Beauvallon  himself.  The  latter  bow- 
ever,  reptied,  eoldly,  that  if  there  had 
been  an  insult  there  was  cauae  for  a 
4iiel,  and  that  aueh  mattera  could 
never  be  arranged  on  the  grouad. 
However,  he  drew  back  and  bad  a 
few  momenta*  eooaoltation  with  hia 
aiifondw  after  which  he  aanoutteed 
that  nothing  eould  be  done. 

"  DeBoi|nieaandFleraBowael«eted 
the  ground.  The  fiNrmer  measured 
ibrty  paeaa,  which  he  carried  on  to 
Itaiy-rour,  leaving  a  glove  and  a 
handkerchief  at  either  extremity. 
The  aeoonda  likewiae  marked  out  and 
^aiMBiihed  the  apaae  whMh  each 
eoaafaatani  waa  dUowad  to  advance. 
Meanwhile,  EqueviH^  produced  a 
bvaee  of  pistolafiron  his  pocket,  made 
by  the  gmMmtth  Deiiame ;  these 
were  blue-barrellad  piatols.  Ber- 
trand, who  was  about  to  load  one  of 
them,  obaerved  with  aurprise  l^at 
hia  finger,  which  he  had  taroat  into 
the  bait^  waa  aU  black  when  he 
withdraw^  '' Had theae piatola not 
been  fired  latdy?  *  he  aaked.  But 
D*£i|nevill^  dieehured,  on  bia  ha- 
noor,  that  BJeauvailon  did  not  know 
the  weapon^  and  that  1^  hlaeknesa 
of  thebaml  aroae  siamly  from  a 
eap  haviog  been  anappaa.    The  two 


De  Boignes  gave  the  signal.  Diuar- 
rier fixed  immediately,  bat  the  ball 
passed  above  Beauvldlon  at  a  con- 
siderable distance  to  the  right.  Hav- 
iog fired,  Di^rier  inaUntly  stopped, 
dropped  his  pistol  instead  of  guard- 
ing bia  bead  with  it,  and  ioatead  of 
covering  himself,  presented  a  full  face 
to  his  adversary, 

'*  His  fire,  however,  had  not  been 
returned.  The  interval  was  so  long 
that  De  Boignes  could  not  help  cry*' 
ing  out  to  Beauvallon,  **  Fire,  sir, 
fire  r*  which  at  l«pgth  he  did.  For 
a  moment  Dujarrier  did  not  movCf 
but  the  next  he  fell  backwards  to  the 
around:  be  waa  wounded  in  ^  &ce* 
Zhe  anxiety  with  which  he  looked  at 
the  doetor  shewed  he  was  perfectly 
conscious.  Doctor  de  Guise  endea- 
voured to  tran^uiUiae  him,  and  gave 
all  the  aid  in  his  power.  De  Boignes 
asked  him  whether  he  was  in  pain ; 
he  replied  by  a  nod  of  the  head :  his 
face  became  livid,  and  he  expired. 
The  hall  had  passed  a  little  above 
the  right  nostril,  penetrated  tfirough 
the  upper  maxillary  bone  deep  into 
the  head,  breaking  the  occipital  bone 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  produce 
a  violent  commotion  of  the  spmal 
marrow. 

«' Was  the  combat  a  fiur  one?  In 
the  first  place,  the  chances  were  most 
unequal.  DHJarrier  was  such  a  no- 
vice, that  aotually  while  talking  to 
De  Bonnes  on  the  ground,  and  re* 
eeivine  the  latter*s  last  instructions, 
he  pulled  the  trigger  of  his  pistol, 
which,  had  it  not  missed  fire,  would 
have  endangered  De  Boignes*  life. 
Beauvallon,  on  the  contrary,  weU 
known  lor  hia  skill  in  iencingi  waa 
atill  mont  skilful  with  the  pistol,  as 
hia  aa(|iiaintances  can  be  brought  to 
shew,  and  aa  he  himaelf  owned  to 
aoBse  of  them.  Besides,  it  is  to  be 
6aied  that  the  weuKma  weie  not 
nnfiunihar  to  him. 

^*  In  all  likelihood  they  belong  to 
the  SUeur   Granier   de   Caaaagnac; 
though  the  latter  certainly  declarca 
that  he  did  not  lend  them  to  hia 
brother-in-law,  Beauvallon,  and  that 
Us  pistols,  on  the  11th  of  March, 
were  at  the  gunamith'a,  Devisme*a 
being  cleaned.    Devisme  aays  he  baa 
no  piatola  of  CaaaMpiar  on  the  1 1th 
of  Mareh ;   that  he  fetched  aw^ 
Caasagnae's  matola  allerwarda,  ar 
his  oraer.   Flera  and  Arthur 
tiand  believe  that  Ca6sagnae*a| 
were  thoae  i^aed  in  the  e0iiibat|| 


were  hy  the  Mine  maker,  Derume ; 
luid  the  mine  ootoored  Wre),  blue ; 
tbe  Ull*  nKd  in  the  duel  fitted  Cu- 
Mgnw'a  bureb. 

"  Od  the  otiier  hand,  wiA  rmrd  to 
EqnevUley'a  •tatemoit  tlut  theblKk- 
ened  pntol-burd  remarked  by  Bet- 
tnuid  WM  w  blackened  by  luuply 
firing  a  cap,  experimenta  tuve  Mea 
trie^^  and  it  has  been  proved,  1.  That 
the  firing  of  a  cap  will  leave  no  black 
depodt  at  the  extremity  of  the  barrel 
of  a  piitol ;  2.  That  a  finger  intra* 
duced  into  the  barrel  of  a  [natol  m 
tried  nill  not  be  blackened ;  3.  That 
it  will  not  be  blackened  even  tbon^ 
a  great  number  of  npe  are  tried  in- 
stead of  one;  4.  That  a  oomplete 
ebarge,  or  a  charge  of  powder,  Ired 
fhim  the  barrel,  leavet  a  depoeit 
within  which  blackens  the  finger 
when  inserted  in  the  tube ;  5.  And 
that  if  the  pistol  U  many  time*  dis- 
charged tlie  remit,  of  courae,  is  the 
Hune,  but  the  deposit  does  not  in- 
erewc  in  proportion  to  the  quantity 
of  powder  burned.  Tbe  piatols  then 
had  been  nied — by  whom  Tf 

"  This  point  can't  be  quite  cleared 
up,  but,  periiapa,  it  becomes  leaa 
doubtful  when  we  cooaider  how 
Beauvallon  passed  hb  time  on  the 
-  morning  of  tbe  1 1th  of  March.  Tbe 
niebt  before  he  gave  orders  to  be 
called  at  half-past  five;  the  porter's 
daughter  only  called  him  at  half-paat 
six.  At  seven,  his  fHend  Amoux, 
who  had  passed  the  night  ia  his 
todsings,  t>Md  him  to  get  up.  Beau- 
TalToD  WBt  already  up  ;  he  went  out 
directly  afterwards  without  saying 
wbithn  be  was  ^ing:  tbe  porter 
saw  him^  away  ma  hack  cab,  which 
was  waitii^  at  the  door.  When  he 
returned  it  was  part  ten,  and  his 
seconds  were  waiting:  at  a  quarter 
or  half-past  nine  he  Ead  callea  upon 
the  Sieur  fierard.  But  what  had  he 
been  doin^  fitun  seven  until  that 
hour,  or,  if  von  please,  until  nine, 
when  Equevdiey  called  upon  De 
Btrignea,  bringing  tbe  pirtolt  for  the 
dad  with  bimf  Admit  Bertnnd's 
supposition,  and  it  is  easy  to  imagine 
hmr  Beauvallon  employed  tbe  two 
honra,  the  secret  of  which  has  been 
keptsoweU. 

**  In  fine,  did  not  Beauvallon  break 
tbe  law  imposed  upon  the  combatant! 
by  the  seconds  f  InMead  of  return- 
i^  Dufarrier's  fire  immediately,  as 
had  been  exprenly  wrecd,  was  be 
not  for  a  Ions  timetakLw  wnl  >ln>l 


him  ?  It  was  only  when  tbe  second, 
De  Boignes,  called  upon  him,  that  be 
made  up  his  mind  to  fire.  Two  wit- 
nesses who  were  near  tbe  place,  have 
declared  there  was  time  to  count  foor 
between  the  two  shots.  Doctor  de 
Guise  also  thought  the  interval  lai% 
betwera  tbe  shots ;  and  De  Boigoe* 
wid  Bertrand  declare  that  it  waa  forty 
or  fifty  seconds. 

"  Tttere  is  a  circumstance  in  Beau* 
vallon's  life  which  onght  to  be  men- 
tioned here,  although  at  tbe  period 
when  it  occurred  it  was  not  the  occa> 
non  of  any  l»al  proceeding  against 
him.  In  the  bt^mning  of  the  year 
IS40,  he  used  to  fte^uent  the  house 
of  Madame  de  Bovia,  a  native  of 
Guadaloupe  like  himself^ — hi«  re- 
lation too,  according  to  Beanvallon's 
statement.  Madame  de  Bovis  missed 
a  watch  belonging  to  a  member  of 
her  family,  and  search  having  been 
made,  it  was  discovered  that  the 
watch  had  been  pawned  at  tbe  Mont 
de  Fi^te  by  Beauvallon.  A  M. 
Cambier  vaited  on  Beauvallon  on 
the  part  of  Madame  de  Bovis,  and  at 
length,  and  after  much  difficultv, 
obtained  a  sum  from  Beauvallon  sum- 
dent  to  redeem  the  property. 

"  'lite  Cour  Royale  of  PaTi^  which 
took  cognisance  of  tbe  duel,  declared 
there  was  no  ground  for  prosecuiiiw 
the  seconds  or  the  surviving  princi- 
pal. On  the  appeal  of  Ihe  crown 
prosecutor,  however,  to  the  Court  of 
Caaation,  that  tribunal  confirmed 
the  judgment  of  the  inferior  court 
respecting  the  seconds,  but  reversed 
the  judgment  with  respect  to  Bean- 
valltm,  and  ordered  the  Cour  Royale 
of  Rouen  to  take  cofjnieance  of  the 
affair.  That  court  assigned  tbe  cause 
to  the  Aseiie  Court  of  the  Seine 
InfSrienre,  before  which,  flnaUy, 
*  Roeemond  de  Beauvallon  was  ac- 
cused of  having,  <m  the  11th  of 
March,  IMtf,  eoromitted  volnntary 
and  premeditated  bomieide  on  the 
penon  of  Di^airier.' " 

Tbe  above  is  the  edifying  nam> 
tive  of  the  Procureor  du  Km  Salve- 
ton.  It  ia  given  at  length  in  the 
JoKraal  4tt  DOoIm  ;  biU  garbled  with 
a  noble  audacity  in  tbe  Epmt,  of 
which  journal  Grauter  de  Caiaag- 
nae  ia  the  chief,  the  brother-in-law 
of  the  amiable  Roaemond  de  Bean- 
vallon.  Ononepartortiieotba'.ds* 
and-forty  witneoKs  were  called,  tbe 

frmr  artitnAm.  tlui  fWnwuM   A^v*vu1iw 


1846.] 


On  a  Late  French  Trial. 


627 


Domas,  the  elegant  Roger  de  Beau- 
Tofr,  and  near  a  dozen  of  pretty 
young  actreaaes,  who  had  participated 
in  the  orgy,  and  with  whom  some 
of  the  frequenters  of  the  St.  James's 
theatre  are  fiuniliar.  Berryer  was 
the  chief  advocate  on  the  side  of 
Beauvallon,  with  him  was  l^ttre 
Dam,  a  friend  and  fellow-countr3anan 
of  the  interestine  Bosemond.  MM. 
L^n  Duval  et  Komigui^res  of  Paris 
appeared  on  hehalf  of  Francis, 
brother-in-law  of  Dujarrier,  the  pro- 
secutor. The  newspapers  describe 
with  their  usual  splendid  accuracy 
the  appearance  of  the  court,  the  toi- 
lette of  the  ladies,  and  the  arrival  of 
their  distinguished  visitors  at  Rouen. 
Some  came  by  railroad :  Dumas,  that 
most  modest  of  men  and  writers, 
havin|r  to  give  testimony  in  an  aiSair 
in  which  gambling,  prostitution,  and 
murder,  were  involved,  preferred 
coming  to  the  scene  of  action  with 
post-horses  and  an  open  carriage. 
Indieed,  one  of  the  most  curious  parts 
of  the  trial  is  the  admirable  coolness 
of  behaviour  exhibited  by  all  con- 
cerned. No  principal  or  accessory 
seems  to  be  in  the  least  ashamed  of 
himself  or  his  company,  or  of  his 
share  in  the  transaction;  and  here 
they  shew  a  sreat  advantage  over 
us  in  England,  for  we  venture  to 
think  that  no  set  of  gentlemen  could 
have  been  engaged  in  such  a  series 
of  transactions  without  having  a 
hearty  shame  and  remorse,  if  not  for 
the  act,  at  least  for  the  exposure. 

The  first  person  examined  was 
the  prisoner,  Beauvallon,  who,  ac- 
cording to  the  French  custom,  was 
taken  in  hand  by  the  president  of 
the  court.  It  appears  to  be  this 
magistrate's  duty  to  make  the  pri- 
soner commit  nimself  as  much  as 
possible.  Beauvallon's  version  of 
bis  own  case  differs  very  little  firom 
the  procureur-g^nSral,  except  that 
he  (Beauvallon;  professes  very  ]dae- 
able  intentions,  and  declares,  that  he 
conmenced  the  negotiations  for  re- 
parrtkm  in  the  mildest  manner. 
When  the  prisoner  asked  Dujarrier 
to  pay  hJm  the  sum  about  which 
there  was  a  dispute,  the  latter  said,— > 

^  I  don*t  owe  any  thing,  and  won't 
pay  amy  thing."       ^        „„ 

^  On  my  return  home,"  Beauval- 
lon says,  *'  I  aum  I  felt  hurt.  From 
Dujarrier's  saying,  he  neither  owed 
nor  would  pay  me  any  thin^,  I 
thought  it  would  appear  as  if  I 


had  made  a  claim  to  which  I  had  no 
right.  Wounded,  then,  as  I  was,  I 
consulted  two  of  my  friends  as  to  the 
course  I  ought  topunue,  and  as  their 
opinion  was  similar  to  my  own.  I 
despatched  these  gentlemen  to  M. 
Digarrier,  with  a  message  which  I 
clearly  conveyed  to  them  beforehand. 
They  were  to  say  to  him, '  M.  Beau- 
vallon says  that  you  were  unpolite  to 
him,  and  asks  if  you'had  any  intention 
to  wound  him.'  I  gave  them  no  other 
mission.  They  waited  upon  M.  Du- 
jarrier, who,  it  appears  from  their  ac« 
count,  received  them  in  an  insulting 
way.  He  pretended  not  to  know 
me.  '  M.  Bufalon,'  said  he,  '  M. 
Beautallon,  M.  Beauvallon,  who  the 
deuce  is  he  P  I  have  no  explanation 
to  give,'  and  referred  them  to  two  of 
his  friends."  This  impertinence  cost 
young  Dujarrier  his  life.  It  could 
not  be  borne  by  the  chivalrous  Bose- 
mond de  Beauvallon.  **  My  demands," 
sir^s  he,  **  were  those  of  a  man  wound- 
ed in  his  honour.  As  Dujarrier  re- 
fused a  reparation  by  words,  I 
demanded  one  by  arms.* 

At  the  conclusion  of  his  examin- 
ation, the  president  asked  Beauvallon 
some  questions  relative  to  the  watch 
transaction. 

Preddent, — Did  not  Madame  Bovis 
send  a  person  to  you  to  reclaim  a 
watch  of  hers  which  you  had 
pawned? 

Priioner, — I  gave  it  back  imme- 
diately. 

President. — ^But  far  from  giving 
back  the  pawn-ticket  immediately,  it 
appears  yon  threatened  to  kick  the 
person  who  asked  for  it  down  stairs ; 
on  which  he  said,  *  Do  not  try  it ; 
I  have  a  cabriolet  at  the  door,  with 
a  commissary  of  police  waiting.' 

Priiotier, — It  is  £dse.  Besides, 
this  person  said,  after  the  duel,  ^  I 
will  kill  M.  de  Beauvallon  by  de- 
famatkm  as  he  killed  Dujarrier  by 
the  pistol-bullet.'  I  committed  a 
fauli  o/vauth,  but  I  expiate  &  crueUy. 

Pre8iaent,-^lt  is  a  pity  that,  in 
the  late  instance,  you  were  so  sus- 
ceptible on  the  point  of  honour,  when 
you  shewed  yourself  (/  uie  a  mo' 
derate  expresnon)  so  weak  upon  tbb 

LAWS  or  DBL1CACT ! 

•*  The  laws  of  delicacy"  is  capita' " 
''  The  fault  of  youth"  is  still  bef 
Ought  not  a  poor,  simple,  y 
gentleman  to  be  pardoned  who 
a  watch  in  a  moment  of  igar en 
Isn^t  there  crery  excuse  for  1 


628 


Oh  a  Late  French  Trial. 


[Mir, 


Sliould  we  not  pky  and  admare'tlie 
cruel  expiatioa  of  his  fkult  ?  Con- 
sideri  hk  lionoar  is  now  so  delicate 
that  he  murdera  a  man  for  saying 
that  he  doesn't  owe  him  money.  The 
ilnt  day*s  trial  ended  vrith  this  ad- 
mirable exposition  of  the  laws  of 
delicacy;  on  the  next,  the  examin- 
ation of  the  witnesses  began. 

The  weapon  which  had  taken  the 
poor  vrretcn's  life — the  coat  he  wore 
— the  ball  which  killed  him — the 
doctor  who  extracted  it — gave  each 
their  testimony.  The  tavem-keq[)er 
tertified  as  to  the  nature  of  the  ami- 
able orgy  and  the  taquinenes  de  ee$ 
mt99ie¥r9  ume  ce§  dames;  at  which 
expression  there  was  much  laughter 
in  court.  Mademoiselle  Athenais 
Lievenne,  ^*  artist**  oftiie  Yaodeville 
Theatre,  aced  twenty-one  years,  gave 
evidence  of  Dujairier^s  rude  and  ra- 
ther familiar  conduct,  as  before  re- 
ported. After  dinner,  Di\jarrier 
made  an  anology,  which  the  good- 
natured  Ataenais  accepted,  and  gave 
him  her  hand.  Inen  Eugene 
Roger  de  Beauvoir  explained,  how  he 
had  intended,  to  have  a  shot  at  Du- 
iarrier,  too,  for  his  gross  behaviour, 
but  that  the  death  of  his  (the  wit- 
ness's) mother  prevented  his  exe- 
cutixig  his  project.  Grisier,  the  fa- 
mous fencing-master,  came  forward 
to  shew  that  Beauvallon,  who  sup 
posed  the  duel  would  take  place  with 
the  sword,  had  come  to  him,  in  order 
to  learn  and  practise  a  coup  by  whieh 
an  adversary  could  be  disarmed, 
proving  th^i  the  exceedingly  pacific 
mtentaons  of  De  Beauvafion,  who^ 
bang  a  perfect  master  of  the  sword, 
did  not  intend  to  kill  Dujarrier  out- 
right. But  the  great  witness  ou  this 
day  was  the  great  Alexandre  Dumas : 
'*At  the  announcement  of  whose 
name,*'  says  the  IHbaU,  ''all  eyes 
were  directed  towards  the  door  at 
which  was  about  to  enter  the  popular 
author  of  r^tf  Count  of  MmiU'Cruto:' 
Those  who  know,  from  the  author's 
own  writii^s,  his  history,  wad  that 
his  father  was  a  mulatto  general 
famous  in  the  revolutionary  wars, 
will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  the  son 
is  a  margtfisf  for  though  we  have 
heard  of  the  Maiquis  of  Marmalade 
ud  the  Duke  of  Alicompame  in 
lUyti,  we  did  not  know,  until  now, 
that  the  French  had  recognised  a 
neapro  aristocraQT. 

/¥Mft(2fal.— Witness,  what  is  your 
MWM  and  pra-aames? 


WU/nges,  —  AiMXAMMM  Tkua 
Davt,  IfABauia  i>b  i«a  pAiLuntnL 

Preddent.  —Your  age  ? 

WitMM. — ^Forty-one. 

Preniemt. — Your  profesnonP 

WitM9s, — If  I  were  not  ia  the 
country  of  Carneille,  I  should  ny  I 
was  a  dramatic  anthor. 

Premdemt. — ^Dramatic  authonvsry 
as  centuries  cliaiige.  Make  yonr  de- 
position. 

Now,  the  fact  la,  the  ^larqiw 
Alexandre  Dumaa  Davy  de  k  Pail- 
leterie  had  ocareelT  any  thinj  to 
say,  but  he  amplified  this  littk  st«k 
of  information,  with  a  skill  and  oa- 
phasis  of  rbodomontade  which  the 
marquis  poeBeaaea  bevond  any  aur- 
guis  or  dramatic  author  in  £iiro|K. 
You  would  have  ianeied  that  he  was 
the  centre  of  the  whole  actioo,;  tbe 
great  arbiter  of  chivalry  and  s^judi* 
eator  of  honour.  "  As  it  wis  Du- 
iarrier's  first  afifair,"  said  Miit|SM 
Davy, ''  we  were  obliged  to  be  parti* 
cularly  chary  Qf  bis  repatstioo.'' 
"  IlfmU  qtiejt  MMbiaee  mom  beftimi" 
was  the  expression  that  themisefsUe, 
poor  heathen  used  himself  {  asifauir- 
der  was  the  baptism  which  a  yeeaa 
neophyte  of  the  world  was  ceaapeUed 
to  undiergo ! 

As  an  authority  for  duelliRg.  ^ 
marquis  quoted  a  documeat  eslkd 
**  Le  Ck)de  du  Duel,"  which  wasdrsaii 
up  by  several  of  the  most  reputeble 
persoiMS  in  France,  and  lastaDeefl  a 
case  which  bad  come  under  ius  kaov* 
ledge  where  a  sovereign  prinos  (tne 
King  of  Wirtemb^g  or  theDuke  ?' 
Baden?)  had  permHted  a  prince,  bis 
nephew  (one  of  the  Bonaparte  ft' 
may),  to  come  upon  bis  tmi^"* 
order  to  fight  a  and. 

«\\T»  were  the  princes?"  •»« 
one  in  court  asked.  ^  ,  , 

The  anther  of  iiaftMy  rnphed  mi 
"mBT  wxax  TWO  or  ms  *"^*'J^Y 
Faianns,"  and  asked  leave  togoMek 
to  Paris  that  night,  as  he  beTiereds 
new  niece  of  hit  was  about  to  be  prv 
ducea  at  one  c€  tlie  theatres. 

Next  it  was  the  turn  of  Msdiiiw- 
selle  Lola  Montea  to  be  ^°^°^ 
That  charming  person  has  app^lf^ 
on  the  boards  of  Her  Mijest/s  Tbc- 
atre,  if  we  mistake  not  Ft©*  ^ 
of  her  that  slie  whipped  a  rofsl  side- 
de-eamp  at  Berlin,  and  even  f^ 
lenged  another  military  man  te  ^ 
her  with  the  pistol,  i^e  iobsh>^ 
tfie  sane  houw  with  Pig'arrier  it  i^ 


1  946.] 


On  a  Late  French  Trial 


6W 


time  of  his  death,  and  hiberits  a  part 
of  his  fortune.  Diyarrier  wished  to 
t;ake  her  to  the  house  of  the  Marquis 
.A^lezandre  Dumas  on  the  last  night 
^which  he  passed  in  this  world. 

At  seven  o'clock  on  Tuesday  morn- 
ing, as  she  had  seen  nothing  of  Da- 
jarrier,  she  sent  her  maid  to  his  apart- 
ments. He  was  eating  a  basm  of 
soup  before  going  out,  and,  instead 
offfoing  to  Tuit  her,  sent  her  a  note. 
*-*  Le  temoin,**  says  the  newspaper 
report,  "prend  une  lettre  placee  sur 
sa  poitrine  !*^ 

*'  Ma  cbere  Lola,.-.  Je  son  poar  me 
battre  au  piitolet.  Ceci  explique  pour- 
qaoi  Je  na  vais  pas  te  yoir  ce  matiQ ;  j*ai 
besom  de  tout  mon  caltt«.  A  deux  heures 
toot  sera  fini,  et  Je  coiirrai  t*eiobrasser . .  • 

^  '*  Mademoiselle  Lola  Montes,**  con- 
tinues the  report,  '*  whilst  this  letter 
is  read,  holds  down  her  head,  and 
abundant  tears  furrow  her  coimte- 
sance.**  What  a  noble  fund  of 
sentiment  they  have,  these  French 
'writers! — what  a  rich  and  genuine 
language  to  express  it  I  A  few 
minutes  afterward,  it  appears  from 
the  same  report,  the  versatile  Montes 
had  left  on  furrowing  her  counte- 
nance with  tears,  and  was  grinning 
and  bragein^  about  her  own  parti- 
cular sldu  with  the  pistol. 

So  for  five  long  days  the  debates 
continued.  More  men  of  letters  gave 
their  testimony:  more  female  ** art- 
ists** theirs.  The  seconds  of  Digar- 
rier  confirmed  in  the  main  the  state- 
ments of  the  Acte  d* Accusation.  The 
onus  of  the  duel  lay  with  Beauvallon 
and  his  friends ;  the  cause  of  it  was 
never  explained,  nor  the  cause  of 
the  blackening  of  the  pistol-barrels, 
which,  accordmg  to  Beauvallon  and 
his  seconds,  had  never  been  used. 
Dujarrier*s  friends  made  one  last  at- 
tempt on  the  field,  addressing  them- 
selves to  Beauvallon*s  friends,  and 
finally  to  him  himself.  The  only 
point  on  which  they  acquitted  him 
was  the  charge  that  he  had  waited 
for  forty  seconds  before  he  fired,  tak- 
ing aim  all  that  time.  He  did  not 
require  near  so  mudi  time ;  but  his 
adversary  having  fired  and  missed, 
M.  Bosemond  de  Beauvallon,  whose 
life  was  now  ouite  free  from  danger, 
and  who  conla  not  explain  what  was 
the  cause  of  his  quarrel  with  his  op- 
ponent, took  perfectly  good  aim  at 
nim  and  blew  his  biuns  out.  Tlua 
is  the  upehol  tf  att  At  dafontiom. 


The  advocate  of  the  parUe  eMb^ 
Dujarrier*s  mother  ai^  nephew  in- 
jured by  his  death,  now  made  a 
speech  upon  the  evidence,  and,  as  it 
seems  to  us,  upon  a  great  deal  more. 
He  represented  Dujarrier  and  all  his 
friends  in  the  most  fkvourable  light. 
The  unlucky  young  man  was,  ac- 
cording to  M.  Leon  Daval,  the  most 
amiable  of  creatures :  his  love  of 
pleasure  you  would  fancy  quite  vir- 
tuous and  becoming ;  his  fondness  fbr 
eny,  sheer  generosity ;  if  he  insulted 
ademoiseue  Lievenne  by  a  point- 
blank  statement  that  his  money 
would  win  her,  what  did  he  do  but 
repeat  what  all  poets  and  all  nwraHsis 
had  said  befbre?  They  call  them 
"moralists**  in  France  who  say  that 
every  woman  has  her  price ! 

But  as  for  Beauvallon  and  his 
chief  second,  there  were  no  words 
too  strong  for  their  abuse  :  if  he 
could  not  crush  them  by  proofs,  he 
charged  them  with  a  fury  of  hints 
quite  as  eloquent,  and  dragged  Bean- 
vallon's  friends,  his  relations,  aad 
his  father,  in  for  a  share  of  the  abuse. 
M.  DuvaFs  speech  is  quite  a  cnriosi^ 
of  invective,  nis  pursuit  of  Beauval- 
lon exceedingly  adroit  and  savage. 
**  He  murders  Dnjarrier  (says  he),  for 
what?  —  fbr  wishing  to  avoia  his 
society.  On  mj  word,  Monsienr 
Bosemond  de  Beauvallon  will  have 
to  kill  a  great  number  of  people,  if 
he  fires  at  all  those  who  decline  the 
honour  of  his  acquaintance.**  Beau- 
vallon smiled  at  this,  the  report  says 
—  smiled  and  blushed  slightly.  It 
was  a  great  unkindness  to  sneh  a 
meritorious  gentleman ;  presently 
Beauvallon  cried ; — "  he  has  every 
delicacy  of  sentiment,  this  young  en- 
thusiast, who  pawns  the  watches  and 
blows  out  the  brains  of  his  fellow- 
men.  Berryer  took  un  his  defence 
with  his  usualfougne  and  enthusiasm ; 
and  the  eloquence  of  the  **  illustrions 
advocate,**  as  the  French  papers  call 
him,  a^iears  to  have  met  with  pro- 
di^us  applause. 

Tie  begins  with  a  claptrap.  What 
be  was  most  afhiid  of,  the  illustrious 
orator  said,  was,  lest  Dujarrier*8 
mother  should  have  appeared,  and, 
with  a  voice  of  austere  nu^esty,  called 
for  vengeance  for  her  son.  The 
illustrious  orator  could  not  have 
borne  that  sight:  luckily  it 
spared  him.  And  he  begins 
foul  of  the  partie  civUe,  and 
^'    (moat justly)  of hayusg iny< 


Oh  a  tale  French  Trial. 


[Hay,  1846. 


The  fault  was  all  with  Dujanicr, 
not  with  the  peacefiil  Roaemotid.  The 
doel  cornea ;  le  coup  pari ;  Benyer  haa 
not  a  word  about  the  naiting  or  the 
taking  aim.    You  would  image  Du- 

1'arrier  was  shot  in  epite  of  £eauval- 
on,  and  by  uttne  fate  which  guided 
that  guiltless  creature's  boll.  The 
adTOcSite  having  exonerated  the  duel- 
list, stands  up  and  apologies  for  duel- 
lia^  itself;  and  declares  that  it  is 
vaiu,  absurd,  wicked,  flying  in  the 
face  of  God  to  prevent  it !  It  coats 
the  illustrious  orator  nothing  to  use 
the  Almightj  name  ;  he  drags  it  into 
court  perpetual!}',  and  brags  and 
SWBgKers  about  the  purity  of  his 
beli^  The  morning  of  the  duel 
Beauvalloa  was  seen  coming  out  of 
church.  "  Oh,  no !"  cries  his  ad- 
vocate, "  this  is  no  murderer,  this  is 
no  assasnn,  the  man  who  at  this 
solemn  moment  flings  himself  at  the 
feet  of  God,  of  whom  we  do  not 
always  think  enough  in  the  midst  of 
our  affairs  and  our  passions!"  That 
he  was  going  to  fi^t  a  duel,  is  no- 
thins.  Noble  and  honest  orator! 
an  hour  afterwards  this  man  took 
aim  and  murdered  a  fellow-creature. 
But  then  it  was  a  duel,  and  that  is 
justifiable— -absolutely  necessary. 

"Listenl"  orieaBerryer,  "totheopi- 
nionof  aman  profoundly  religious, — 
the  opinion  of  M.  Guizot  on  duelling. 
"  'French  maimerB  are  chivalrous,' 
Guiiot  says:  '  tJity  are  elegant. 
They  have  substituted  duelling  for 
assassination.  When  the  honour  of 
a  man  or  woman  has  been  attacked, 
ft  reparation  is  necessary.  The  bar- 
barian empIovB  stratagem,  the  Fran- 
piw  has  the  duel.'" 

This  quotation  is  very  likely  not 
in  Guizot  (fur  Uenyer's  statements 
have  about  as  uiuch  authority  for 

""" as  those  of  another  illus- 

tor  whose  name  be^ns  with 
t  that  is  not  the  point  j  nor 
state  of  the  law  of  duelling 
:,  Dor  the  practice  of  the 
ere  (that,  no  doubt,  will 
comment  from  competent 
al  persons),  which  have  led 
ritiiig  down  of  this  story, 
moral  condition  of  the 
illustrated  in  the  story, 
the  most  mai^clloua  part 


of  it — the  most  muvelloDs  lud  Ik 
most  painful. 

GniEOt  lays  it  down  that  tfac 
Frenchman  is  cbivalnnit  and  ekgut, 
and  —  bos  invented  the  duel. 

Berryer  declares  that  though  t 
man  blows  another's  hraini  out  im^ 
premedj 
in  —  becanaelic 
goes  to  church. 

Uon  Duvat  savs  that  all  Freneli 
moralists  and  philosophers  hive  de- 
clared that  every  woman  n  to  be 
bought. 

Itosemond  de  Beanvallon  lap  hit 
honour  requires  him  to  take  aim  ii 
andmurder  a  man,  because  theliHer 
refuses  to  say  that  some  uninipOTtiiil 
words  wen  really  unimportani. 

Marquis  Davy  de  hi  Pailieterie 
backs  up  his  friend  to  fight,  bcuuc 


_.  being  murdered,  by  somebody. 

All  parties  admit  a  slate  of  md- 
cubinage  to  be  so  perfectly  naioisl 
as  to  call  for  no  question ;  the  veniiity 
of  the  female  being  a  point  terfedlj 
established  by  "  morafists,"  «c 

And  a  man  having  killed  aiK-'" 
— didly  acknc-'-^"""  '""•  ''"*' 


not  guilty. 

mat  do  Honour  and  Cooioenw 
meanP  Are  they  lies  and  feblts- 
Is  honour  the  property  of  men  alone, 
and  do  all  women  sell  theirs  ?  And 
has  Conscience  made  itself  e«»y  "• 
France,  and  determined  that  «■ 
bauchery  is  justifiable  in  all  cssft 
and  Murder  is  requirile  in  w**- 
All  which  points  appear  to  ^ej*'*' 
bliahed  by  this  astonishing  FteikIi 
trial.  As  for  the  actors  in  it,  oi"? 
Dujarrier  is  under  the  sod,  with /n 
old  mother  probably  stiU  ^o^iEg 
him.  Lola  and  Lieveone  are  copioWi 
by  this  time,  and  ogling  and  gnnnj^ 
as  before ;  the  chivalrous  BeanvallM 
is  free  to  return  to  the  wofW  ^ 
adorn  it :  the  Marquis  Vm  »  i*^ 
domontading  awav  as  usuw,  »*  "J* 
rate  of  forty  volume*  a-yew;  •'" 
"  illustrious  orator"  will  ipw'  '*?' 
phemies  and  bellow  claptrai«  to  toe 
ndmiration  of  all  France  in  his  «« 
S|>eech.  She,  meanwhile,  retaiM  her 
position  as  Centre  of  QTilw'wj' 
and  we— how  much  better  are « ■ 


B  ;-PiiatM  t?  Otatw  BvcU]',  LWI*  61nti,  MiCMta  SfiMii, 


FRASER^S    MAGAZINE 


FOA 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 


No.  CXCVIII. 


JUNE,  1846. 


Vol.  XXXIII. 


MANNERS,  TRADITIONS,  AND  SUPERSTITIONS  CF  THE  SHETLANDERS. 


If  Eegina  will  permit  an  Ultima** 
Thulian,  a  dweller  in  the  solitary 
isles  of  the  Caledonian  archipelago, 
to  offer  an  occasional  mite  to  her 
great  metropolitan  treasury  of  know- 
ledge, I  flatter  myself  I  could  *' sub- 
mit to  public  inspection"  (as  a  fashion- 
able modiste  newly  returned  from  the 
spring  markets  would  say)  some  facts 
new  to  our  modern  periodical  litera- 
ture. Vigilant  and  far-searching  as 
the  spirit  of  literary  enterprise  now  is, 
it  has  scarcely  turned  a  thought  to 
the  fields  of  curious  and  interesting 
information  that  bound  the  northern 
extremity  of  our  own  empire.  An 
adventure  in  Tahiti  or  New  Zealand, 
a  ramble  in  the  Marquesas,  a  ti^r- 
hunt  in  India,  **  a  dinner  in  ancient 
Egypt,"  a  legend  of  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury, is  devoured  with  avidity,  and 
admired,  however  trivial  in  itself, 
because  it  is  associated  in  the  reader's 
mind  with  the  idea  of  rarity  or  dis- 
tance. Like  the  fruits  of  warm 
climates,  the  knowledge  that  is  dug 
from  antiquity  or  transported  across 
the  Pacific  is  oilen  more  prized  than 
the  observations  which  we  could 
gather  from  the  study  of  society 
around  us,  and  at  the  small  cost  of  a 
few  days*  sail  from  the  metropolis  of 
the  kingdom. 

It  is  for  this  reason,  probably,  and 
because  it  does  not  require  the  writer 
to  encounter  savages  or  circumnavi- 
gate the  globe,  tnat  our  cluster  of 
islands,  lying  between  the  parallels 
VOL.  zzzxn.  Ko.  cxcym. 


of  the  fifty-ninth  and  sixty-second 
degrees  of  north  latitude,  are  a  sort 
of  terra  incognita  in  the  current  lite- 
rature of  the  day.  An  Englishman 
knows  more  of  Australia  or  China, 
of  the  Oregon  or  the  Punjaub,  than 
he  does  about  any  one  of  the  Shet- 
land Isles,  though  they  are  above 
ninety  in  number,  and  cover  a  space 
of  seventy  miles  from  south  to  north, 
and  more  than  fifty  from  east  to 
west.  If  he  has  read  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  Pirate  he  may,  perhaps,  re- 
member the  name  of  *^  Sumburgh 
Head,"  the  southmost  promontory  of 
the  group ;  or  of  the  "  Fitful  Head," 
ren&red  classical  hj  the  same  pen 
as  the  residence  or  Noma.  If  he 
has  chanced  to  be  at  Windsor,  or 
Brighton,  or  Buckingham  Palace,  he 
may  have  seen  a  little  hirsute  quad- 
ruped called  a  sftelty,  or  Shetland 
I>ony,  about  the  size  of  a  Newfound- 
and  dog,  and  imported  expressly  for 
the  eauestrian  amusement  of  the 
royal  cliildren.  But  with  this  animal, 
and  the  two  extreme  points  I  have 
mentioned,  the  probability  is  that  his 
knowledge  of  the  country  and  its  in- 
habitants — liistorical,  geographical, 
zoological,  and  statistical  —  termi- 
nates. 

Ask  him  about  Foula,  or  Burray, 
or  Bressay,  or  Papastour,  or  Whalsey, 
or  Yell,  or  Fetlar,  or  Unst,  the  Out 
Skerries,  the  Noup,  the  Sneug,  or 
any  other  locality  between  Laa>l^ 
Ness  and  Quendal  Bay,  and  ^ 

TT 


634 


Manners f  Traditions,  and  Superstitions 


[June, 


perhaps,  have  no  great  confideace  in 
the  prayers  of  Bessie  Millie,  vrho 
sells  favourable  winds  to  mariners 
for  the  small  consideration  of  six- 
pence ;  and  he  may  regard  with  still 
greater  suspicion  the  humanity  of 
our  consuetudinary  laws,  which  at- 
tach a  sort  of  retributive  punishment 
to  every  native  who  shall  rescue  a 
drowning  straneer  or  assist  a  ship- 
"wrecked  crew.  But  if  such  chimeras 
haunt  his  imagination,  I  fearlessly 
bid  him  dismiss  them.  The  tourist 
is  in  no  danger  of  casting  anchor  on 
a  kraaken,  or  being  dragged  by  the 
multifarious  claws  of  some  gigantic 
polypus  to  the  bottom  of  the  ocean. 
These  legendary  monsters  exist  only 
in  our  popular  creed,  and  disturb 
the  repose  of  none  but  the  super- 
stitious fishermen. 

It  is  true  if  the  visitor  expects  the 
accommodation  of  railways,  or  post- 
chaises,  or  turnpike-roads,  he  will 
be  disappointed;  but  he  will  find 
our  rude  climate,  and  our  barren 
soil,  tempered  by  the  warmth  of  a 
friendly  greeting,    and   lighted  up 
with  a  glorious  luminary  that  for 
three   months    scarcely   ^uits    the 
horizon.    During  that  period  dark- 
ness is  unknown,  the  snort  absence 
of  the  sun  being  supplied  by  a  bright 
twilight.      To  use  the  words  of  a 
native  historian,  **  Nothing  can  sur- 
pass the  calm   serenity  of  a   fine 
summer  night  in  the  Shetland  Isles, 
the  atmosphere   is    clear    and  un- 
clouded, and  the  eye  has  an  uncon- 
trolled and  extreme  range;  the  hills 
and  the  headlands  look  more  ma- 
jestic, and  they  have  a  solemnity 
superadded  to  their  grandeur;    the 
water  in  the  bays  appears  dark,  and 
as  smooth  as  glass ;  no  living  object 
interrupts    the    tranquillity  of  the 
scene,  unless  a  solitary  gull  skim- 
ming the  surface  of  the  sea;  and 
there  is  nothing  to  be  heard  but  the 
distant  murmuring   of  the   waves 
aniong  the  rocks.      Surely  such  a 
picture  of  tranquil  grandeur  as  this, 
18  enough  to  put  heart  into  the  most 
timid,  to  scare  away  all  the  traditionary 
perils  and  monstrosities  with  which 
Ignorance  and  superstition  have  sur- 
rounded our  nortnern  archipelago. 

Another  drawback  to  tourists  has 
now  been  removed  by  the  facilities 
'which  steam  has  supplied ;  the  pass- 
age from  Leith  to  Lerwick,  a  dis- 
tance of  ninety-six  leagues,  can  be 


made  as  regularly  as  her  inajesty*i 
mail,  and  in  as  short  space  as  Ro- 
derick Random*s  post-wagon  took 
to    travel   from    York  to  London. 
No  doubt  the  case  was  very  different 
before  this  great  revolution  in  smack 
and  packet    navigation  was  intro- 
duced.   Then  our  means  of  oonmni- 
nication  with  the  rest  of  the  world 
were  difificult   and  few.     A  letter 
from  Shetland  to  Orkney  had  to  go 
round  via  Edinburgh ;  or  if  any  of 
our  enterprising  merchants  wished 
for   early  intelligence,  he   had  to 
despatch  a  vessel  of  his  own  for  the 
purpose,  and  aflcr  all  might  find  the 
post-office  authorities  refuse  for  his 
convenience  to  interrupt  theordiniry 
means  of  correspondence.    We  were 
often  half-a-year  behind  in  onr  in- 
formation, which    led   us  into  the 
commission  of  ridiculous  anachro- 
nisms    and     irregularities.       Our 
clergymen    prayed    for   kings  and 
queens,  months  after  they  were  doA 
and  buried.     A  young  prince,  or 
princess,  might  be  weanecC  or  walk- 
ing, before  we  were  apprised  of  its 
birth.    The  greatest  national  occnr- 
rences,  the  wars  of  the  Common* 
weidth,    the    persecutions    of  the 
Stuarts,  the  change  of  one  dynasty 
for  another,  were  events  known  at 
the   extremities    of  Europe  before 
they  reached  us.     And  if  ^ve  were 
unwittingly  guilty  of  high  treason, 
in  praying  for  one  monarch  when, 
by  a  fiction  of  the  law,  we  were 
understood  to  have  sworn  fesltf  to 
another,  the  fiiult  was  not  oun,  but 
in  the  want  of  steam-boats. 

Tradition  says,  that  the  JRevoIu- 
tion  of   1688   was    not  known  m 
Shetland  for  six   months  after  it 
happened.     Brand,  the  missionaiy, 
states,  that  **  it  vras  the  month  of 
May  thereafter  before  they  heart 
any  thing  of  the  late  revolution,  and 
that  first,  they  say,  from  a  fisher- 
man, whom  some  would  ^•^^/J]! 
raiffned  before  them,  and  impeached 
of  nigh  treason,  because  of  his  news. 
Martin,  in  his  History  of  tke  IM 
repeats   the   story  with  some  in*" 
provement.    He  says,  ''The  Shct- 
landers  had  no  account  of  the  Fringe 
of  Orange's  late  knding  in  England, 
coronation,   &c.,  until  a  fisherman 
happened  to  land  there  in  Hiay  ibl* 
lowmg,  and  he  was  not  believedi  but 
indicted  for  hiffh  treason  for  aprcs^' 
ingeuch  news. 


1  6460 


of  the  Shetlanders, 


635 


This  is  the  common  report,  which, 
liowever,   is  exaggerated,    and   not 
quite    correct.      The  news   of  the 
landing  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  in 
England  had  reached  the  island  of 
XJnst   within    little    more    than    a 
month  after  it  took  place — the  5th 
of  Noyemher,  1688.     The  intelli- 
gence was  evidently  accidental,  hut 
the  fact  is  stated  in  a  letter  written 
lyy  one   of  the   ancestors   of  Mr. 
IMowat,  of  Grarth,  and  dated  15th 
IDecember,  1688,  which  thus  con- 
cludes, **I  can  give  no  account  of 
news,  save  only  that  the  skipper  of 
the  wreckt  ship  confirms  the  former 
report  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  his 
landing  in  England  with  ane  consider- 
able  number   of  men,    hot   upon 
"what  pretence  I  cannot  condishend.** 
Though  the  fact  of  the  prince*s  land- 
ing was  known,  it  may  be  tme  that 
months  elapsed  before  the  Shetland- 
ers  learned  the  event  of  the  Revolu- 
tion.   Kow  all  this  has  passed  away. 
We  are  no  longer  reckoned  out  of 
the  circle  of  Christendom,  or  to  be 
on  visiting  terms  with   any  thing 
more  civilised  than  shuas  ana  bottle- 
nose  whales.    Every  week  we  hold 
communication   with    the    Scottish 
metropolis,  the  three  winter  months 
excepted ;  and  I  see  no  reason  wh^ 
this  interruption  should  be,  for  if 
steamers   ply   all   the  year  ^ound 
between  New  York  and  Liverpool, 
why   not    between    Lerwick    and 
Leith? 

Suppose,  then,  one  of  your  literati^ 
smitten  with  the  curiosity  to  pene- 
trate this  extreme  verge  of  her 
majesty's  dominions,  let  him  put 
himself  under  my  tutelage,  and  ac- 
company me  on  the  imaginary 
voyage.  Like  good  Mrs.  Glass,  who 
presumes  her  liare  to  be  caught 
before  it  is  skinned,  I  stipulate  that 
my  friend  be  in  Edinburgh  before 
starting.  He  must  be  at  the  North 
Bridge  Duty-house  by  half-past  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning  of  any  given 
Friday  in  the  spring,  summer,  or 
autumn  months.  There  he  will 
find  cab,  hackney,  minibus,  omnibus, 
or  railway  at  his  service,  to  set  him 
down  at  the  nether  extremity  of 
Granton  pier,  where  he  has  to  pay 
twopence  for  his  pierage,  and  where 
he  will  observe  the  Sovereign 
steamer,  of  two  -  hundred  horse 
power,  rocking  and  roaring,  casting 
forth  volumes  of  black  smoke,  with 


various  other  symptoms  of  a  deter- 
mination to  be  on.  The  last  bell 
rings  at  six  precisely,  the  luggage  is 
stowed  on  deck,  the  driver  and  the 
porter  are  paid.  You  muflSe  vourself 
up  in  cloak  or  Codrington,  look  out 
for  a  conversable  visage  among  the 
crowd,  make  up  your  mind  to  be 
desperately  sea-sick,  cast  a  parting 
gaze  on  the  friends  left  behind,  and 
away  you  go  full  boil. 

llie  broad  Firth,  studded  with 
islands,  the  shore  on  either  hand 
planted  with  towns,  and  verdant 
with  forests  and  green  fields,  diverts 
your  attention  from  certain  disaCTee- 
able  inward  emotions  that  begin  to 
turn  your  countenance  yellow,  and 
threaten  a  premature  separation  be- 
tween your  stomach  and  your  break- 
fast. Sternwards  lie  the  small  isles 
of  Cramond  and  Inchcolm,  and  ten 
miles  in  the  distance  the  Firth  is 
land-locked  by  the  strait  at  Qneens- 
ferry,  with  its  projecting  rock  and 
promontory.  The  bay  presented  to 
the  eye  in  this  direction  is  pictur- 
esque and  beautiful.  On  the  right 
is  seen  Edinburgh,  with  its  castle, 
steeples,  monuments,  hills,  blue- 
slated  roofs,  and  long  terraces  of 
streets.  The  opposite  coast  of  Fife 
is  sprinkled  with  dwellings,  and  lined 
witn  fishing  villages,  the  nearest  of 
which  are  Burntisland,  Einghorn, 
Rirkaldy,  and  Dysart. 

Half>an-hour*s  sailins  brings  you 
under  the  lee  of  Inchkeith,  where 
there  are  an  elegant  lighthouse,  a 
rabbit  warren,  and  a  ^w  agpricul- 
tural  donkeys.  Beyond  this  island 
the  Firth  expands.  Bounding  the 
view  southwards  are  Musselburgh 
and  Prestonpans,  the  hills  above 
Haddington,  the  high-cone  of  North 
Berwick  Law,  and  the  stupendous 
Bass-rock,  the  solaneoosifera  JBcusa 
of  old  Drummond  of  Hawthomden, 
the  friend  and  host  of  Shaksneare. 
To  the  north  the  range  of  fisninff- 
towns  (most  of  them  dubbed  buigha 
by  King  James  VI.)  continues — 
Wemyss,  Buckhaven,Leven,  Larso, 
Elie,  St.  Monance,  Pittenweem,  tne 
two  Anstruthers,  and  Crail.  At 
several  of  these  places,  if  weather 
permit,  the  Sovereign  takes  on  board, 
and  lands  passengers,  which  gives 
you  an  opportunity  for  extracting 
from  your  now  loquacious  companion 
alittle  of  his  historical,  topographical, 
and  antiquarian  knowledge. 


636 


Manners  J  Traditions^  and  Superstitions 


[June, 


At  Wemysa  Castle  he  will  point 
you  out  the  window  of  the  room 
where  Queen  Mary  had  her  first 
interview  with  Damley.  Buckhaven, 
he  will  tell  you,  is  a  colony  of  Dutch- 
men, the  most  pure  and  undiluted 
in  Scotland,  descended  from  the 
crew  of  a  vessel  which  was  stranded 
on  the  spot  in  the  reign  of  James  VI. 
Leveu  is  a  manufacturing  as  well  as 
a  fishing  town ;  it  grinds  bone-dust, 
and  gives  title  to  an  earl.  Largo 
is  renowned  as  the  birth-place  of 
Alexander  Selkirk,  the  original  of 
Kobinson  Crusoe.  The  house  still 
remains,  being  a  cottage  of  one  story 
and  a  garret,  in  which  the  father  of 
the  imaginary  hermit  of  Juan  Fer- 
nandez carried  on  his  humble  craft 
of  a  shoemaker.  Fittenweem  was 
the  head-quarters  of  the  witches  of 
Fife;  and  on  the  beach,  below  the 
town,  you  will  be  shewn  the  place 
where  the  last  suttee  of  them  was 
performed  for  the  benefit  of  his  in- 
fernal majesty,  and  to  the  great 
relief  of  the  pious,  witch-fearing,  to- 
bacco-hating Kin^  James.  Anstru- 
ther  (Wester)  denvcs  iclat  from  two 
celebrated  personages,  natives  of  the 
burffh,  Mag^  Lauder  and  Dr. 
Chtumers.  The  small  house  in 
which  the  latter  was  bom  stands 
close  upon  the  harbour,  and  the 
field  where  the  ancient  "fair"  was 
held,  memorable  in  song  for  the 
scandalous  gallivanting  between 
Maggie  and  Itob  the  Banter,  lies 
immediately  northward  of  the  town. 
It  was  here,  also,  that  the  two 
heroes  of  the  Heart  of  Midlothian^ 
Robertson  and  Wilson,  were  appre- 
hended for  robbing  the  collector  at 
Fittenweem,  in  1736,  the  extraor- 
dinary circumstances  of  which,  con- 
nectea  with  the  escape  of  the  former, 
and  the  execution  of  the  latter, 
caused  the  famous  Forteous  mob  in 
Edinburgh,  so  graphically  described 
by  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Crail  is  an 
ancient,  out-of-the-way  place,  but 
has  some  repute  in  history.  Here 
the  Danes  first  landed  in  Scotland, 
and  killed  Ring  Constantine  in  bat- 
tle. Here  John  Knox  inflamed  the 
fish- wives,  with  one  of  his  "  rousing" 
sermons,  to  march  with  him  to  St. 
Andrew's,  and  demolish  the  splendid 
cathedral;  here  Archbishop  Sharp 
was  minister,  and  rebuked  the  Duke 
of  Lauderdale,  and  sundry  others  of 
the  Malignant  nobles,  on  the  "  stool 


of  Repentance,"  in  order  to  qualify 
them  for  being  admitted  into  the 
communion  of  tne  true  Covenantee. 

Fassing  Crail  a  few  miles  yon  turn 
the  point  of  Fife  Ness,  the  "  East 
Neuk,"  where  the  spacious  bay  of 
St.  Ajidrew*s  opens  before  yon,  its 
dangerous  entrance  being  signalised 
by  the  beacon  on  the  Carr  Rock.  To 
tne  right  you  see  the  Isle  of  May— 
Maia  Sheepifeda,  —  and,  farther  on, 
the  Bell  hghthouse,  which  will  re- 
mmd  you  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  beau- 
tiful lines,  "  Pharos  loouitur,"  and 
Southey's  legendary  ballad,  "The 
Abbot  of  Aberbrothock."  In  the 
distance  on  the  left,  the  ruined  tow- 
ers of  St.  Andrew's,  and  the  conical 
dun  which  gives  its  name  to  Dnndee, 
are  visible;  and  before  you,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  bay,  stretch  the 
mt  coast  and  the  dim  hOls  of  Forfar- 
shire. As  you  near  Arbroath,  pro- 
bably your  eye  may  catch  something 
skinuning  rapidly  along  the  beach, 
like  an  exploaed  Congreve  rocket  on 
a  journey,  or  a  megatherium  smok- 
ing a  cigar.  It  is  a  tnun  on  the 
Dundee  and  Arbroath  railway.  This 
latter  town  is  a  place  of  very  con- 
siderable manufactures,  espedallv 
spinning  flax;  and  here  you  will 
have  a  close  view  of  the  rums  of  the 
magnificent  abbey  and  its  circular 
window,  which  serves  as  a  landniark, 
and  is  commonly  called  B^  0  by 
sailors. 

Beyond  Arbroath  stretch  for  miles 
the  lofty  precipitous  cliffs  of  free- 
stone called  the  Red  Head,  250  feet 
in  height,  and  eaten  by  the  wav^ 
into  detached  colonnades  and  innu- 
merable caverns,  in  one  of  which  re- 
sides the  famous  White  Lady,  who  is 
only  visible  in  a  clear  day,  when  the 
eye  can  catch  a  hasty  glimpse  of  her, 
in  a  direct  Kne  as  the  steamer  passes 
the  mouth  of  the  grotto.  This  phe- 
nomenon is  caused  by  the  npoi 
light  penetrating  a  hole  near  the 
inner  extremity,  and  communicatijig 
with  the  surface  above.  The  locality 
here  is  the  classic  ground  of  the  An- 
tiquary ;  the  fishermen  of  Auchmithy 
being  the  prototypes  of  the  Muckle- 
lockets,  and  the  Red  Head  cliffs  the 
scene  of  the  perilous  escape  of  Miss 
Wardour. 

Farther  on  is  Lunan  Bay,  and,  on 
roundinj;  the  point  of  Usan,  Mon- 
trose, with  its  lofty  steeple,  its  smok- 
ing factory  chimneys,  and  its  roagni- 


1846.] 


of  the  Shetlanders, 


637 


ficent  suspension-bridge,  bursts  upon 
tbe  sight.  The  landscape  here  is 
rich,  and  the  scenery  picturesque; 
but  the  steamer  stands  often  too  far 
out  to  sea  to  enjoy  it  in  perfection. 
From  Montrose  to  Stonehaven  the 
coast  is  bluff  and  rocky ;  behind  it, 
some  dozen  miles  off,  towers  the  great 
chain  of  the  Grampians,  and  between 
lies  the  fertile  valley  or  strath  called 
the  Howe  o'  tfie  Meams. 

From  this  point  to  Aberdeen  there 
is  little  to  attract  the  attention,  ex- 
cept Bervie  and  Dunnottar  Castle, 
near  Stonehaven.  The  coast  is  the 
classic  region  of  smoked  haddocks.  The 
celebrated  fimian  is  prepared  with 
peat-reek  at  the  small  fishing-villa^ 
of  Findon ;  and  the  hervies^  greatly  m 
request  with  the  Edinburgh  and 
Glasgow  gourmands,  derive  their 
name  from  the  town  so  called,  where 
the  first  spinning-mill  built  in  Scot- 
land for  yarn  and  thread  was  erected. 

The  ruin  of  Dunnottar  Castle  is  one 
of  the  most  majestic  in  Scotland.  It 
was  built  in  the  times  of  Bruce  and 
Baliol,  and  continued  Ions  the  seat 
of  the  noble  family  of  Keith.  When 
sailing  past  it  the  appearance  is 
strangely  fantastic,  as  it  consists  of  a 
mass  of  roofless  edifices,  so  numerous 
ajs  to  resemble  a  desolate  town.  It  is 
perched  on  a  lofty  perpendicular 
rock,  like  a  huge  inverted  tub  pro- 
jecting into  the  sea,  and  almost 
divided  from  the  land  by  a  deep 
chasm ;  the  summit  is  level,  and 
contains  about  three  and  a  half  acres. 
Various  historical  associations  are 
connected  with  this  ruin.  It  was  be- 
sieged by  General  Lambert,  when 
Cromwell  was  in  Scotland  in  1652, 
and  was  eventuallv  surrendered  by 
Colonel  Ogilvie  of  Barras,  the  go- 
vernor. Tne  crown  and  other  re- 
galia of  Scotland  were  deposited 
there,  and  must  have  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  the  besiegers  had  they  not 
been  secretly  conveyed  away  by  Mrs. 
Grainger,  wife  of  the  mmister  of 
Kineff  parish,  who  buried  them  un- 
der the  floor  of  the  church,  where 
they  remained  in  safetv  till  the  Re- 
storation. The  concealment  of  these 
valuable  memorials  of  Scottish  roy- 
alty forms  the  sul^ect  of  an  interest- 
ing painting  by  Houston,  which  was 
among  the  pictures  of  the  Boyal 
Scottish  Academy's  exhibition  of  tnis 
year  at  Edinburgh.  During  the  per- 
secution under  Charles  XI.  Dunnot- 


tar, like  the  Bass  Hock,  was  converted 
into  a  state-prison  for  the  confine- 
ment of  the  refractory  Covenanters. 
Here  numbers  of  them  were  incar- 
cerated in  1685  ;  it  is  said  about  16T 
men  and  women,  apprehended  for 
field-preachings,  and  treated  with 
great  barbarity,  being  shut  up  in  a 
small  subterranean  vault  in  the 
warmest  season  of  the  year,  until 
many  of  them  perished  from  foul 
air,  like  the  wretched  inmates  of  the 
Black  Hole  at  Calcutta.  A  grave- 
stone in  the  churchyard  of  Dunnottar 
records  the  place  of  their  burial,  and 
the  dismal  vault  is  still  called  The 
Whigs'  Vault.  The  seaport  of  Stone- 
haven, a  little  farther  on,  has  a  hand- 
some appearance;  the  new  part  of 
the  town  being  regularly  built  with 
broad,  well-paved  streets. 

Leaving  all  these  ancient  relics 
and  topographical  curiosities  behind, 
the  tounst  will  find  himself,  about 
the  tenth  hour  since  quitting  Gran- 
ton  pier,  entering  the  harbour  of 
Aberdeen.  The  average  detention 
of  the  steamer  here  is  four  hours, 
but  the  time  depends  much  on  the 
state  of  the  tide.  While  lying  at 
anchor  here  you  will  have  leisure  to 
survey  the  granite  buildings  of  that 
northern  capital,  and  also  to  form  a 
more  intimate  acquaintance  with  the 
Sovereign,  by  discussing  a  substan- 
tial Scotch  dinner,  washed  down  with 
first-rate  Glenlivat,  made  into  hot 
toddy,  which,  if  well  primed  and 
mixed,  will  impress  you  at  the  end  of 
the  fourth  hour,  if  your  memory 
keep  steady,  with  rather  a  favourable 
opinion  of  the  Highland  alcoholic 
districts.  The  Sovereign  you  will 
find  a  trim,  elegant,  spacious  vessel, 
quite  able  for  her  latitudes,  and  ready 
to  oblige  every  daring  son'  of  Adam 
who  burns  with  desire  to  get  a  sight 
of  the  North  Pole. 

But  the  time  is  up,  the  steam  is  on, 
the  plunging  wheels  are  in  motion, 
and  in  ten  minutes  you  are  off,  the 
churned  waves  recemng  and  leaving 
a  foaming  track  behind,  like  a  high- 
way on  the  ocean.  The  Bullers  of 
Buchan  and  Peterhead  lie  far  to  the 
left ;  but  the  Sovereign  heeds  them 
not,  paddling  her  weary  watery  way 
direct  to  Wick,  which  generally  oc- 
cupies ten  hours.  Here  another  de- 
tention occurs,  and  freque^' 
one,  from  the  quantity  c 
passengers  to  land,  cattl 


638 


Manners^  TradUians,  and  Supersiiiians 


[June, 


There  are  few  attractions  at  this 
place,  unless  it  be  the  odonr  of  fish, 
which  are  here  so  abundant  that  the 
fields  in  Caithness  are  sometimes  ma- 
nured with  herring.  Had  yon  time 
for  a  trip  into  the  interior,  you  might 
regale  your  eye  with  a  sight  of  the 
cacophonious  ruins  of  Girnigo  Castle 
or  tne  verdant  plantations  of  Stir- 
koke.  But  the  Fates  and  Captain 
8nowie  forbid,  and  northward  away ! 
is  the  word. 

The  voyage  across  the  stormy 
Pentland  Frith  is  usually  made  in 
five  hours,  the  island  of  South  Ro- 
naldsbay  being  the  first  of  the  Ork- 
neys that  appears  to  the  left.  Ad- 
vancing onwards  you  pass  Copinshay, 
with  its  ^*  horse,**  a  precipitous  rock 
said  to  be  nearly  1000  feet  hiffh.  The 
view  of  this  island  amuses  and  amazes 
travellers.  **  It  presents,**  says  Miss 
Sinclair,  **a  dgantic  barricade  of 
rocks  inhabited  by  millions  of  birds, 
which  we  saw,  though  I  had  not  time 
to  count  them,  sittmg  in  rows  like 
charitv  children  with  black  hoods 
and  wnite  tippets,  ranged  along  every 
crevice  in  the  cliffs.  Several  guns 
were  fired,  when  an  uproarious  noise 
ensued,  which  can  be  compared  to 
nothing  but  the  hurrahing  of  a 
whole  army.  Above,  below,  and 
around,  the  sea,  air,  and  rocks,  seemed 
all  one  living  mass  of  birds,  scream- 
ing at  the  full  pitch  of  their  voices, 
rushing  through  the  air,  careering  to 
the  very  clouds,  fiickering  in  circles 
overhead,  zigzajB;ginff  all  around  us, 
and  then  dropping  iDce  a  shower  into 
the  ocean !  ** 

If  the  sea  is  smooth,  the  steamer 
takes  a  narrow  channel  which  lies 
between  Copinshay  and  Deerness,  the 
most  easterly  parish  in  the  mainland ; 
and  af^er  rounding  a  bold  headland 
called  the  Mool^  she  stands  through 
the  Siringj  a  rather  intricate  passage 
which  divides  the  Mainland  from  the 
island  of  Shapinsay.  I^eaving  Thieves 
Holm  to  the  left,  she  brings  up  in 
Kirkwall  Roads  senerally  between 
three  and  four  o*ciock  in  the  after- 
noon. Her  detention  here  is  short, 
rarely  exceeding  an  hour;  and  re- 
tracing her  course  down  the  Siring, 
she  proceeds  northward,  passing 
Stronsay,  Sanday,  and  Nortn  Ro- 
naldshay,  arriving  at  Lerwick  about 
four  o  clock  in  the  morning,  the 
voyage  been  generally  made  in  about 
twelve  hours. 


This  is  a  dreary,  solitary  pasB^e, 
the  only  human  habitation  to  be  net 
with  b^ng  Fair  Isle,  about  half  way 
between  tne  two  northern  arcbipel*- 
goes.  It  rises ''like  an  emerald  in  tlie 
wide  ocean,  quite  a  little  world  in 
itself,  covered  with  g^rass  of  a  most 
vivid  and  luxuriant  verdure.**  On 
nearing  this  Arctic  oosu,  you  willbeir 
firom  some  of  voar  topographical  fel- 
low-tourists tne  Traaitionary  Namt' 
tioe  o/the  Shipwreck  of  ike  Duke  dt 
Medina  Stdonioj  Oommander  of  Af 
Spanish  Armada  in  the  year  15SS. 
According  to  this  narrative,  the  da- 
cal  commander  of  the  Invincible  Ar- 
mada, after  being  chased  by  the 
English  admiral,  was  driven  on  Fair 
Isle,  where  his  anchorless  ship  strack 
and  went  to  pieces,  himself  and  ^ 
of  his  men  effecting  a  landing  in 
their  boats  with  the  greatest  d^- 
cultv.  This  was  a  perilous  addition 
to  the  population  of^so  small  a  ter- 
ritory, which  could  scarcely  ykJA 
enough  to  support  the  few  families 
that  occupied  it.  The  Snaniirds 
soon  consumed  all  the  victuals  io  the 
island,  devourinff  fish,  fowl,  sheep, 
horned  cattle,  and  even  horses.  Fa- 
mine was  the  consequence,  and  the 
love  of  self-preservation  taught  the 
natives  to  wiuihold  further  contribn- 
tions  to  the  strangers,  and  to  aecrefe, 
in  the  darkness  gf  the  night,  amoog 
the  recesses  of  the  rocks,  the  provi- 
sions that  were  indispensable  for 
their  own  existence.  Many  of  the 
Spaniards  perished  of  hunger,  otben 
were  thrown  by  the  famishmg  island- 
ers over  the  cliffs  into  the  sea. 

Their  destitute  situation  was,  st 
length,  made  known  to  a  gentleman 
in  Shetland,  Mr.  Andrew  Umphrey, 
who  farmed  the  Fair  Isle ;  and,  vtith 
the  assbtance  of  his  boats,  they  were 
conveyed  to  Quendal  Bay,  where  the 
duke  became  the  guest  of  Malcolm 
Sinclair,  "  a  worthy  Scottish  gentle- 
man,** until  a  vessel  should  be 
equipped  to  convey  him  and  the  snr- 
vivors  of  his  crew  to  the  Continent. 
Tradition  says  that  the  duke,  havinjT 
a  mind  to  produce  an  imposmg  effect 
on  his  hospitable  entertainer,  dreoed 
himself  up  in  the  splendid  costume  of 
a  Snanish  grandee,  and  asked  him  ^ 
he  bad  ever  before  seen  a  person  of 
his  rank  and  mien?  Sinclair  being 
a  true  Fresb3rterian,  and  knowipg 
his  guest  to  be  a  foreign  Fspv^ 
blonuy   replied   in  broi^  Scotch* 


1846.] 


of  the  Sketlanders* 


639 


**  Farde  in  that  fiioe,  I  have  seen 
many  prettier  men  hanging  in  the 
Burrow  Muir!*'  the  said  locality 
beinj;  then  the  common  place  of  ex- 
ecution at  Edinburgh.  The  duke 
and  his  party,  however,  did  eflfect 
their  return,  having  been  safely 
landed  at  Dunkirk  in  a  vessel 
equipped  for  the  purpose. 

When  the  rocks  oi  Fair  Isle  have 
receded  from  the  view,  the  two  pro- 
montories of  Sumhurgh  Head  and 
Fitfiel  Head  (the  White  Mountain) 
salute  the  eye ;  and  by  degrees  the 
shores  of  Dunrossness  and  the  out- 
line of  the  Mainland  are  developed  in 
perspective. 


€t 


The  country,"  sa^s  Dr.  Hibbert, 
"  aeems  to  be  charactenaed  rather  by  the 
number  than  by  the  height  of  its  hills ; 
but  the  nakedness  of  the  surface,  which 
not  a  tree  or  shrob  interposes  to  conceal, 
recalls  every  chilling  idea  that  mav  have 
been  preconceived  iu  the  mind  of  hyper, 
borean  desolation.  The  stranger  can 
scarcely  avoid  contrasting  the  sterility 
that  appears  before  his  eyes  with  the 
richness  of  the  yalleys  he  may  have  so 
lately  quitted  on  the  banks  of  Uie  Forth. 
Shetland  truly  appears  to  be  what  was 
long  ago  said  of  it  by  a  Stirlingshire 
visitor, '  the  skeleton  of  a  departed  coun. 
try, 


t  >i 


Havine  landed  the  tourist  in  Ler- 
wick, without  being  vrrecked  against 
the  north  pole,  or  lodged,  like  an- 
other Jonah,  in  the  stomach  of  an 
ichthyosaurus,  I  shall  leave  him  to 
select  his  own  amusement,  to  examine 
Fort  Charlotte,  or  gaze  on  the  nume- 
rous boats  that  stud  Brassay  Sound, 
or  take  his  ease  in  his  inn,  or 
go  fishing  for  podte^s  or  Moks^ 
or  any  other  occupation  that  imiy 
chance  to  hit  his  humour.  H!e 
will  not  find  our  metropolis  quite 
so  large  as  London  or  Pekin,  nor 
so  regularly  built  as  Edinburgh  or 
St.  retersbuTg.  It  has  one  street 
of  considerable  length,  in  the  form  of 
an  amphitheatre,  along  the  shore, 
with  numbers  of  lanes,  or  dosses^ 
leading  backwards  to  a  rood  on  an 
eminenoe  above  the  town.  The 
houses  are  built  of  erey  and  white 
sandstone :  some  of  tnem  are  hand- 
some, fitted  up  with  every  accom- 
modation in  modem  stvle.  But  in 
viewing  the  position  of  the  place,  it 
will  be  seen  at  a  glance  that  no 
architect  had  been  consulted  in  plan- 


ning the  streets.  The  oddest  an- 
gularities prevail,  no  order  being 
observed.  Backs  are  turned  to  front^ 
gable  ends  to  the  street,  projecting  at 
angles  of  every  degree.  With  the 
exception  of  those  newly  erected,  the 
tenements  appear  as  if  they  had 
dropped  from  the  clouds,  and  as  if 
ever|r  proprietor  had  made  it  his 
original  study  to  be  as  unlike  his 
neighbour  as  possible.    Gas  and  stone 

Eavement  have  been  introduced.  We 
ave  a  court  and  town-house,  a 
news-room,  a  bank,  a  prison,  a  ma- 
sonic lod^,  and  a  manufactory  for 
straw  plait.  The  utmost  quiet  reigns 
in  the  town,  whose  echoes  are  never 
awakened  by  steam-whistles,  or  mail 
horns,  or  even  the  wheels  of  carrii^ 
cart,  or  gig.  The  clattering  of  a 
shelty*s  feet  is  the  only  noise — ex- 
cept when  we  have  drunken  sailors — 
pedestrian,  equestrian,  or  vehicular, 
that  gnet  the  ear. 

Whilst  you  arc  enjoying  yourself 
alter  your  own  fashion,  allow  me  to 
revert  to  the  descriptive  sketch  with 
which  I  set  out,  and  which  has  suf- 
fered a  little  interruption  by  my  ac- 
count of  the  voya^.  The  absence 
of  general  vegetation  is  one  of  the 
first  things  that  arrests  the  stranger's 
notice.  Every  thing  looks  brown, 
parched,  and  barren.  Our  indi- 
genous trees  are  few,  scarcely  de- 
serving the  name,  and  never  requir- 
ing a  visit  from  the  commissioners  of 
woods  and  forests.  Indeed,  thou- 
sands of  the  natives  have  no  other 
idea  of  a  tree  than  a  log  of  fir,  which 
they  may  have  seen  in  a  Norwegian 
dipperor  a  drifted  shipwreck.  Tney 
cannot  understand  how  it  is  rooted  in 
the  earth  and  shoots  out  foliage.  A 
phenomenon  of  this  kind  would  be  as 
new  and  marvellous  to  them  as  the 
icy  ocean  would  be  to  the  scorched 
negro  of  Central  Africa.  Dr.  Niell 
mentions  that  a  native  Shetlander, 
who  had  spent  his  days  in  his  own 
island,  havmg  occasion  to  visit  Edin- 
burgh, when  trees  were  first  pointed 
out  to  him  on  the  coast  of  Fife,  ob- 
served, that  •*  they  were  very  pretty  ;** 
but,  added  he,  with  gn»t  simplicny,. 
*'  What  kind  of  grass  is  that  on  the 
top  of  them?**  tiie  term  grass,  c 
girse^  being  applied  in  Shetland 
all  herbs  having  green  leaves.  Tru 
and  branches  are  found  in  p 
mosses,  shewing  that  trees  must  b 
existed  at  one  time.    But  they  I 


640 


Manners,  Traditians,  and  Superstitions 


[Jane, 


yanislied.  Our  groves  are  merely  a 
few  dwarf  busheB  of  birch,  willow, 
and  moontain-asb,  stunted  and  scat- 
tered over  tbe  bleak  soil,  and  scarcely 
of  height  sufficient  to  hang  a  dos. 
If  there  be  any  other  more  conmiand- 
ing  specimens  of  the  genus  arborj 
they  are,  perhaps,  some  old  plum  or 
sycamore  m  one  or  two  gardens,  which, 
at  the  age  of  100  years,  may  have 
attained  the  stature  of  forty  or  fifty 
feet.  Except  in  these  cases,  we  have 
nothing  in  the  timber  line  suited  for 
higher  purposes  than  making  a  bar- 
ber's poie,  or  Uie  rafters  of  a  cottar's 
shieling.  We  have  no  native  coal,  but 
abundaiice  of  peat ;  no  cholera,  but 
often  rheumatism,  catarrh,  and  dys- 
pepsia; no  Roman  Catholics,  but  a 
few  Methodists,  Independents,  and 
Anabaptists.  Until  tne  passing  of 
the  Reform  Act  in  1832,  we  were 
unknown  in  the  parliamentary  repre- 
sentation of  the  British  empure ;  but 
since  that  time  we  have  had  the 
honour  to  return  half-a- member. 
Our  only  musical  instrument  is  the 
fiddle,  for,  like  all  northern  nations^ 
the  Shetlanders  are  fond  of  dancing ; 
but  the  Presbyterian  discipline,  true 
to  its  puritamcal  character,  discour- 
ages tnese  amusements,  lest  they 
should  tend  to  foster  idleness  and 
vice.  This  I  think  is  a  mistaken 
rigour,  for  the  effect  of  such  pro- 
hibitions is  to  check  innocent  and 
healthful  enjoyment,  to  induce  a 
morose  habit,  and  clap  an  extin- 
guisher on  some  of  the  happiest  asso- 
ciations of  life.  It  is  said  to  be  a 
characteristic  of  the  colder  re^ons 
that  the  people  are  addicted  to  stunu- 
lating  beverages,  but  I  cannot  accuse 
my  countrymen  of  that.  On  the 
contrary,  they  are  remarkable  for 
sobriety ;  and  though  Father  Mat- 
thew has  not  yet  paid  us  a  visit, 
temperance  societies  have  been  esta- 
blished, the  effect  of  which  has  been 
to  diminish  the  sale  of  intoxicating 
liquors,  and  to  cause  some  of  our 
conscientious  spirit-dealers  to  shut 
shop,  and  abandon  the  traffic  alto- 
gether, from  an  honest  conviction  of 
its  impropriety.  We  have  benefit 
societies,  but  their  advantages  do  not 
seem  to  be  highly  appreciated, — 
owing,  perhaps,  to  the  desultory  ha- 
bits and  precarious  occupation  of  the 
people,  who  would  ratner  trust  to 
the  lottery  of  the  sea  and  the  fishing- 
boat  with  its  immediate  gains,  than 


to  a  distant  and  doubtful  reumbnrse- 
ment  from  a  society.  The  only 
branch  of  this  benevolent  scheme 
that  succeeds  is  the  Fishermen's  Fund, 
for  the  relief  of  widows,  orphans, 
and  invalids  or  a^ed  persons.  It  was 
established  nearw  forty  years  ago, 
and  is  understood  to  have  a  capital  of 
nearly  3000/.  Though  we  scarcely 
reqmre  the  services  of  tbe  Irisn 
apostle,  we  have  much  need  of  Mac- 
adam. Our  roads  are  miserable. 
We  have  no  regular  highways  or 
turnpikes,  and,  fortunately,  no  high- 
waymen. In  many  parishes  there  is 
not  even  a  foot-path,  nor  a  sheep- 
track.  The  traveller  must  take  the 
sun  or  the  nearest  shrub  for  his 
compass,  and  pilot  hu  way  over  the 
dreary  waste  by  meaUis  from  hDl  to 
hill,  and  from  toon  to  toon.  There 
are  no  public  conveyances,  no  car- 
riages, no  carts,  no  railroads,  no 
briages,  no  canals,  no  harbours,  but 
only  some  open  roadsteads,  or  wind- 
ing creeks,  called  voes^  which  deeply 
indent  all  the  larger  islands,  and 
afford  great  facilities  for  internal 
communication  were  the  inhabitants 
provided  vath  the  means.  It  has 
been  suggested  that  small  steam- 
hoats,  using  peat  for  fuel,  might  be 
employed  as  a  substitute  for  land 
conveyance  both  for  passengers  and 
the  produce  of  the  country ;  but  I 
much  fear  there  is  neither  capital  nor 
enterprise  for  such  an  undertaking. 
In  the  absence  of  regular  roads, 
wheeled  carts  are  of  litUe  use ;  but, 
in  their  stead,  ponies  with  pack- 
saddles  are  employed.  There  are  a 
few  parishes — Tingwall,  for  example 
— where  tolerable  roads  for  svmmer 
are  made;  but  you  may  judge  of 
their  quality  for  mail  or  st^e-ooach 
purposes,  wnen  you  learn  that  during 
winter  they  are  so  broken  up,  peo- 
ple cannot  ^  to  church  on  foot 
without  wading  knee-deep  in  mud. 
In  like  manner,  some  of  the  ooe«,  as 
that  of  Hillswick,  afford  safe  anchor- 
age for  vessels,  being  sheltered  from 
every  wind,  and  of  sufficient  capacity 
to  contain  the  whole  navy  of  Britain. 
The  spade  is  almost  the  only  imple- 
ment used  in  husbandry,  for  with  us 
agriculture  is  nearly  as  much  iu  its 
infancy  as  when  Noah  stepped  from 
the  ark,  or,  to  go  a  little  fartner  back 
with  Dryden,  '^when  Adam  delved 
and  Eve  span."  A  plough  is  a  rarer 
sight  here  than  the  constellation  of 


1846.] 


of  the  Shetlanders. 


641 


that  name.  The  laird  and  the  minister 
may  have  one  or  two,  drawn  some- 
times by  a  pair  of  oxen,  sometimes 
by  a  quartett  of  ponies.  The  harrow 
is  even  more  primitive  in  its  structure 
and  operation  than  the  plough.  It 
is  guiltless  of  iron  in  any  form,  and 
so  rude  that,  lik^Solomon's  Temple, 
you  might  suppose  no  edge-tool  had 
ever  been  lifted  upon  it  in  the  mak- 
ing. It  consists  merely  of  two  paral- 
lel bits  of  wood,  about  three  feet 
lon^,  with  from  eight  to  ten  circular 
teeth  in  each  piece,  the  whole  frame- 
work being  connected  at  the  ends  by  a 
cross-bar. 

In  using  them,  the  employment  of 
animal  labour  is  dispensed  with,  for 
they  are  drawn  by  a  man,  often  by  a 
woman,  harnessed  to  them  by  a  rope 
tied  to  each  end  of  the  parallel  bars. 
Sometimes  the  land  is  too  rough  for 
a  wooden  harrow ;  instead  of  which, 
after  the  ground  is  delved  and  sown, 
a  person  takes  a  besom  of  heather, 
ana  sweeps  mould,  seed,  and  manure 
over  head.  This  substitution  of  the 
human  being  for  the  brute  is  de- 
grading enough,  but  it  is  not  so 
looked  upon  by  us.  In  former  times, 
it  was  not  uncommon  to  make  wo- 
men perform  the  work  of  horses 
even  in  more  civilised  parts  of  Scot- 
land than  our  remote  islands.  When 
the  foundation  of  Ileriot's  Hospital 
in  Edinburgh  was  dug,  not  longer 
ago  than  1632,  the  "  softer  sex"  were 
compelled  to  do  the  severest  part  of 
the  drudgery — carting  away  the  rub- 
bish !  Among  the  disbursements  in 
the  treasurer's  book  for  that  year, 
belonging  to  the  hospital,  are  men- 
tioned the  prices  paid  for  "  shakells 
to  the  wemeine's  hands,"  also  "  loks 
and  cheines  for  thair  waistes," 
"  item,  ane  qukip  (whip)  to  the  genr 
tlewemen  in  the  cairty  12^.,  and  "to 
the  man  that  keipis  them,  3/.  12«." 
The  money  is  Scottish,  so  that  the 
price  of  iron,  and  leather,  and  the 
amount  of  wages  in  those  days,  must 
have  been  very  small.  Perhaps  for 
the  credit  of  Scotland,  I  ought  to 
add  the  explanation  given  of  these 
extraordinary  facts,  to  shew  that  in 
the  seventeenth  century  females  ge- 
nerally were  not  put  to  such  servile 
and  shocking  work.  The  "gentle- 
wemen  in  the  cairt,"  and  the  "  sax 
wemen  that  drew  the  red,"  were 
doubtless  hardened  offenders  of  a 
particular  class,  upon  whom  every 


kind  of  church  censure,  such  as  the 
jougSy  sackcloth^  and  the  cutty-stool^ 
had  been  fruitlessly  expended. 

As  Edinburgh  had  uien  no  bride- 
wells or  houses  of  correction,  it 
seems  probable  that  the  magistrates, 
whose  jurisdiction  extended  even  to 
hanging  and  drowning  in  ihe  North 
Loch,  had  tried  the  effect  of  public 
exposure  in  the  manner  stated  above, 
by  employing  these  incorrigible  cul- 
prits in  "  redding  (cleanng)  the 
found"  of  the  hospital.  But  in  Shet- 
land, as  I  have  said,  for  a  man  or 
woman  to  do  the  work  of  a  horse, 
is  nothing  more  than  a  part  of  our 
agricultural  system.  Corn,  peats,  or 
other  articles,  are  transported  on  the 
human  back,  in  cosies  or  cubbies — a 
sort  of  rude  basket  made  of  straw. 
Occasionally  the  pony  is  employed 
in  carrying,  and  then  the  creels  or 
heather  baskets  are  used,  which  are 
balanced  one  on  each  side,  by  means 
of  the  cUbber  and  mazy. 

While  our  husbanmy  is  in  so  pri- 
mitive a  condition,  it  may  readily  be 
supposed  that  the  march  of  improve- 
ment has  made  but  indifferent  pro- 
gress with  us.  But  to  compensate 
for  this  drawback,  we  have  advan- 
tages which  our  richer  neighbours 
in  the  more  genial  climes  of  the 
south  do  not  possess.  We  have 
cheap  land,  cheap  rents,  cheap  beef, 
cheap  mutton,  clieap  bread,  cheap 
poultry,  cheap  fish,  cheap  every 
thing.  What  would  an  English  or 
a  Lothian  farmer  say  to  getting  a 
whole  island  to  himself  at  tne  rate  of 
eight  shillings  the  statute  acre,  with 
plenty  of  women  to  labour  it,  at 
wages  of  sixpence  a-day!  Nay,  in 
some  of  the  islands  this  rent  would 
be  deemed  extravagantly  hi^h,  1200 
per  cent  too  dear  I  In  Yell,  for  in- 
stance, an  estate  of  73,000  acres, 
nearly  one-half  in  pasture,  the  rest 
arable  and  inclosed  grass  land,  only 
produces  an  average  rent  of  scarcely 
eightpejice  per  acre !  Surely  here  is 
scope  for  Lord  Brougham's  agricul- 
tural schoolmaster  to  look  abroad, 
and  instruct  our  landowners  and  hus- 
bandmen in  the  virtues  of  miano. 
True  it  is,  our  soil  is  no^ 
best,  partaking  more  or  I 
quality  of  moss,  mixed  wj 
particles  of  the  decayed  roc 
it  rests.  The  atmosphere, 
cially  in  winter,  is  unifori 
but  temperate  beyond  wh 


ManntTt,  Traditioru,  and  Superstition 


642 

credited  by  tboae  accustomed  to  the 
coll]  pTevaJent  at  that  season  in  tile 
interior  of  the  tbreckingdoma.  Sdow 
rarely  lies  above  a  day  or  two  at  a 
time ;  although  we  bave  occasionally 
Bnow-atorma  of  two,  or  nearly  three 
months'  duration.    A  few  years  aao 
the  clergyman  of  Yell  noted  the  fi3- 
lowing  in  his  memorandum- book  on 
the  24th  of  December :— "  This  day 
the  turnips  are  as  green  as  they  were 
ftt  Michaelmas ;  the  rye-grass  among 
bear-stubble  measures  from  eight  to 
ten  inches  of  green  blade ;  and  among 
the  last  year  s  rye-grass  the  daisy  is 
every  where  seen  in  bloom."    Let 
the  Carse  of  Gowrie,  or  the  sheltered 
fields  of  Hampshire  and  Devonshire, 
match  this  if  they  can.    Last  Chcist- 
nuu,  such  was  tnc  mildness  of  the 
temperature  we  could  boast  of  our 
young  gooseberries,  and  winter  blos- 
■orDS,  as  well  as  our  more  southerly 
neighbours.     And  then  there   are 
certain  troublesome  vermin,  abund- 
ant enough  in  more  favoured  cli- 
mates, from  which  we  are  exempt. 
There  are  some  of  our  islands  to 
which  neither  the  mouse  nor  the  rat 
have  yet  found   their   way,     The 
grouse  or  moorfowl  is  also  a  stranger 
to  us,  thoaeh  common  in  Orkney 
and  the  Highlands  of  Scotland ;  and 
the  reason  perhaps  is,  that  the  hea- 
ther with  us  is  too  stunted  to  afford 
them  the  shelter  they  require.    It  is 
not  many  years  since  justices  of  the 
peace  were  as  rare  as  mice  or  moor' 
fowl,  for  except  the  sheriff- substitute, 
there  was  not  a  magistrate  of  any 
kind  in  Shetland.    Kay,  it  would 
appear  we  must  have  had  a  visit 
of  St.  Patrick  to  scare  away  certMn 
loathsome  reptiles,  for  as  an  eminent 
living  naturalist  observes  in  his  tour, 
"Theuntravclled  natives  of  Unst  bad 
never  seen  either  frcws  or  toads,  and 
indeed  had  no  idea  of  the  appearance 
these  animals ! "  Ourdo- 
:  are  abundant,  but  their 
die    and   price    would 
e  dealers  in    Smithfield 
.  good  fatted  cftw  ready 
er  weighs  from  one-and- 
wo-and-a-half  hundred- 
that  a  flesher  could  tuck 
lis  arm  ;  and  an  alderman 
mr  civic  feuts  would  not 
I  were  one  of  them  served 
n  an   ashet   before  him. 
oued  extravagantly  high 
three-hali^enoe  or  two- 


[June, 


pence  the  pound.  A  whole  calf  majr 
be  purchased  for  cighteenpcnee  j  and 
if  the  skin  is  re-sold  it  brings  a  shil- 
ling, leaving  only  uxpencc  as  the 
price  of  the  carcase.  A  ewe  fit  for 
the  butcher  will  sell  for  four  or  five 
shillings,  and  a  male  lamb  for  about 
a  third  part  of  the  sum.  The  native 
race  of  sheep  are  small  sized,  and 
scarcely  weigh  more  than  twenty  br 
twenty-four  pounds  of  mutton,  car- 
rying a  fleece  of  from  one  to  one 
and  a  half  pounds  of  wool.  They 
have  small  tails ;  and  it  is  rare 
to  see  a  ewe  with  horns.  The  prac- 
tice is  now  getting  in,  where  it  can 
be  safely  adopted,  of  crossing  the  na- 
tive breeds  ivith  black  and  whke- 
faced  rams,  and  where  the  pasture  is 
sound,  either  of  the  crosses  answ^ 
very  well,  as  both  mutton  and  wool 
arc  improved  in  quantity.  But  wher- 
ever the  pasture  is  deep  and  wet, 
they  are  invariably  found  not  to  be 
so  hardy,  or  to  thnve  so  well,  as  the 
original  breed.  In  some  parishes 
their  number  is  very  great,  and  they 
form  a  sort  of  common  property,  or 
at  least,  the  proprietor  cannot  always 
distinguish  his  ownj  for  aa  all  the 
tenants  in  these  cases  exercise  an  un- 
limited right  of  pasturage  on  the 
hills,  or  "scathold,"  as  the  tenure  is 
called,  except  the  few  who  drive  their 
sheep  into  the  same  cruive  or  ptntnd, 
no  other  person  can  possibly  know 
the  exact  number  belonging  to  each 
individual.  My  friend,  the  minister 
of  Sandsting  and  Aithsting,  whow 
parish,  spiritually  as  well  as  pastor- 
ally,  contains  one  of  the  best  flocks 
in  our  islands,  is  very  learned  in  bis 
description  of  the  character  and  ha- 
bits of  this  animal,  although  the 
terms  which  it  is  necessaiy  to  em- 
ploy may,  perhaps,  sound  oddly  to 
those  whose  knowledge  of  the  Eng- 
lish tongue  is  drawn  exclusively  from 
Johnson's  Diclimmn.  In  his  ac- 
count of  his  parish,  ne  tells  na,  the 
sheep  are  of  various  colours,  white, 
black,  grey,  as  Shakspeare's  goblins ; 
eatmageea,  browo,  or  tnoorO,  black 
and  white  in  equal  proportions,  or 
iKUah  and  piebald.  Every  ndgh- 
bourhood  has  a  particular  pasture, 
or  tcaihold,  on  wnich  his  sheep  are 
fed ;  and  eve^  person  knows  his 
own  bv  their  lug-mark,  that  is,  one 
has  a  nole  in  the  ear,  another  a  slit 
or  r^  another  a  crook  or  piece  cut 
out  of  the  ear  behind  or  beiore,  &&; 


1846.] 


of  (he  Shettanders. 


643 


and  it  is  a  rule  in  tbe  parish  that  no 
two  persons  are  allowed  to  "lug- 
mark  *  their  sheep  in  the  same  way. 
Each  neij^hbourhood  has  also  a  cndve 
into  which  they  drive  their  sheep, 
for  the  purpose  of  smearing  them, 
taking  off  the  wool,  markmg  the 
lambs,  and  keeping  them  tame.  The 
mode  'of  sheep  -  shearing  here  is 
rude  and  cruel,  for  the  wool  is  not 
clipped  off  as  in  other  places,  but 
is  torn  from  the  animal's  back  by  an 
operation  called  roamg.  For  the 
most  part  two,  and  sometimes  more 
persons,  tear  the  wool  from  the  poor 
tortured  beast  at  one  time ;  and 
though  it  may  not  sometimes  occa- 
sion much  pain,  in  general  it  is  a 
troublesome  and  savage  process.  The 
customs  regarding  the  feeding  and 
ownership  of  this  animal  are  curious. 
When  a  stray  sheep  is  found,  the 
individual  who  finds  it  takes  care  of 
it  for  a  year  and  a  day.  Proclama- 
tion is  then  made  at  difi&rent  churches 
in  order  to  discover  the  right  pro- 
prietor ;  and  if  after  that  no  one  ap- 
pears to  claim  it,  it  is  sold,  one- half 
of  the  price  being  allotted  to  the 
person  who  took  charge  of  it,  the 
other  half  to  the  poor  of  the  parish 
in  which  it  was  found.  The  neigh- 
bours whose  sheep  pasture  together 
are  called  scat'brilher ;  and  those 
who  have  a  few  pasturing  in  any 
place  at  a  distance  from  their  resi- 
dence, or  perhaps  not  in  the  parish, 
are  called  aut'scatkolders,  A  lamb 
may  be  grazed  at  the  rate  of  one 
shilling  and  sixpence  per  annum; 
and  a  cow  or  ox  for  eight  or  ten 
shillings  during  summer  :  in  winter 
the  sum  demanded  for  fodder  is  about 
the  same.  Pigs  and  ponies  compose  a 
material  part  of  our  domestic  animal 
stock.  Almost  every  family  keeps  one 
pig,  many  have  two ;  and  several  keep 
large  herds  of  swine,  which  are  sent 
off  to  the  hill  or  common  pasture  in 
summer,  where  they  contrive  to 
shift  for  themselves,  their  principal 
food  being  earth-worms  and  roots  of 
plants ;  but  occasionally  they  fall  in 
with  a  more  savoury  morsel  in  the 
shape  of  a  young  lamb  or  a  sickly 
ewe,  or  birds'  nests,  of  which  they 
are  as  fond  as  a  Chinese,  or  any  other 
Oriental  gourmand.  The  native 
breed  is  very  small,  with  short,  up- 
right ears,  and  a  long  cartilaginous 
nose,  with  which  he  commits  sad 
bayoc  when  he  steals  a  raid  into  the 


potato-field  or  the  farm-yard,  dig- 
ging, and  ploughing,  and  committing 
every  species  of  destruction.  When 
he  puts  on  his  winter  clothing,  an 
uglier  animal  cannot  be  conceived  to 
exist.  Next  his  body  is  a  close  coat- 
ing of  coarse  wool,  above  which  rises 
a  profusion  of  long  stiff  bristles, 
"  like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcu- 
pine," and  presenting  a  most  formid- 
able, noli'me-iofigere  appearance  to 
every  assailant,  human  or  canine. 
Of  tne  bristles  and  wool  elastic  ropes 
of  great  strength  are  made  for  tether- 
ing  horses  and  cows.  But,  in  spite 
of  his  revolting  appearance,  a  Shet- 
land pig,  when  well  fed,  would  not 
discredit  the  board  of  an  epicure. 
His  pork  is  delicate,  his  ham  deli- 
cious, and  might  contend  for  the 
premium  of  the  old  glutton  monarch 
who  proclaimed  a  reward  for  the  dis- 
covery of  a  new  pleasure.  A  con- 
siderable improvement  both  in  ap- 
pearance and  size  has  been  made  on 
the  native  race  in  consequence  of  the 
introduction  of  a  better  species, 
brought  to  our  islands  in  some  of  the 
Greenland  ships.  A  pig,  in  its  dif- 
ferent sta£;es  of  existence,  has  almost 
as  many  custinctiye  names  with  us  as 
a  lion  or  a  camel  among  the  Arabs. 
When  sucking,  or  in  a  state  of  in- 
fancy, he  is  known  by  the  name  of  a 
rtamy  or  grice;  one  fed  about  the 
fire-side  is  t^  patty ;  one  with  youne  a 
siUk;  a  boar  is  called  a  gaat,  Ihe 
most  prevalent  distemper  to  which 
they  are  liable  is  the  gricifer,  which 
deprives  them  of  the  use  of  their 
hind  legs,  and  is  seldom  curable.  Of 
the  pony  little  need  be  said.  He  is 
well  known,  for  he  is  almost  the 
only  live  inhabitant,  except  the  fish- 
erman, that  visits  foreign  f»rts.  He 
is  of  every  colour,  white,  black, 
brown,  grey,  dun,  cream,  chestnut, 
piebald,  and  of  every  size  on  a  li- 
mited scale,  between  twenty-eight 
and  forty-four  inches.  He  is  hardy, 
docile,  and  capable  of  shewing  high 
mettle.  Like  the  hog,  he  unoergoes 
a  marked  transition  in  the  annual 
aspect  of  his  "  outer  man,"  for  when 
the  shelty  (as  Dr.  Hibbert  remarks) 
"  is  in  his  winter  or  springy  garb  it  is 
difficult  to  suppose  that  his  progeni- 
tors were  the  same  animals  which 
travellers  have  described  as  pranc^ 
over  the  arid  tracks  of  Arabia.  ^ 
Ions  shaggy  hair  with  which  1 

cloUied  has  more  tbe  appearai 


644 


MannerSy  Traditions^  and  Superstitions 


[JuDe, 


a  polar  drew,  or  of  some  arctic  livery 
specially  dispensed  to  the  quadruped 
retainers  of  the  genius  of  llialtland.** 
Instead  of  the  sleek  skin  and  hand- 
some appearance  which  he  displays 
with  so  much  spirit  in  the  summer 
months,  in  winter  his  exterior  is  un- 
couth, his  symmetry  disappears,  all 
his  motions  are  dull  and  languid.  The 
general  torpor  of  nature  seems  to 
freeze  up  his  energies  and  paralyse 
his  whole  frame.  Ilis  food  is  coarse 
and  scanty ;  but,  notwithstanding  the 

Eriyations  he  endures,  he  frequently 
yes  to  a  good  old  age.  I  have 
known  them  live  thirty  years  and 
more,  and  even  at  that  age  able  to 
travel  a  pretty  long  lourney  in  car- 
lying  feals  from  the  nill  to  mix  with 
manure  for  composts.  No  atten- 
tion is  paid  to  the  breed,  which  con- 
sequently is  degenerating ;  and  this 
is  to  be  regretted,  for  the  best  pro- 
portioned is  always  the  one  first  sold, 
and  fetches  the  best  price.  They 
might  easily  be  improved,  and  were 
due  care  employed,  I  am  convinced 
there  would  nowhere  be  found  a 
finer  race  of  animals.  Their  value 
is  from  twenty  or  thirty  shillings  to 
six  pounds  sterling ;  and  their  yearly 
export  to  England  and  Scotland 
forms  a  considerable  traffic.  At  one 
time  the  Orkney  traders  were  in  the 
habit  of  coming  over  and  bartering  li- 
nen for  ponies ;  but  this  practice  ceased 
when  a  regular  packet  communica- 
tion was  establisncd  between  Ler- 
wick and  Leith.  At  that  time,  and 
until  the  introduction  of  steam-navi- 
gation connected  us  with  the  rest  of 
the  world,  we  had  less  intercourse 
with  our  neighbours  the  Orcadians 
than  with  any  other  part  of  Great 
Britain.  A  letter  or  parccd  to  the 
nearest  of  these  islands  had  gener^y 
to  be  sent  to  Edinburgh,  and  thence 
was  returned  to  its  destination  by  a 
voyage  across  the  Fentland  Firth. 
Now,  thanks  to  James  Watt  and  the 
gallant  Sovereign,  taut  cela  est  changL 
We  are,  at  least  nine  months  in  tne 
year,  within  reach  of  civilisation,  and 
fashion  once  a-week. 

Having  said  a  few  words  about 
cows,  it  would  be  an  unpardonable 
omission  to  pass  over  the  dairv  and 
its  management,  which  are  always 
important  matters  in  a  Shetlander's 
household  economy,  and  have  even 
been  sung  in  poetry  and  regulated 
by  ancient  laws.    In  the  article  of 


milk  we  have  nothing  to  complain  of; 
it  is  good  in  quality  and  yielded  in 
greater  quantity  than  coiud  be  ex- 
pected from  the  size  of  the  cow, 
which,  when  put  on  good  deeding, 
will  give  thirteen  or  fourteen  quarts 
per  day  being  more  than  Bums's 
'^dawtet  twal-pint  hawkie**  gave  in 
the  rich  pastures  of  Ayrshire.  It  is 
in  the  proper  management  of  the 
milk  that  we  fail ;  ana  here  our  want 
of  cleanliness,  especially  in  the  olden 
time,  not  only  compelled  the  inter- 
ference of  the  magistrate,  but  afforded 
a  theme  for  the  sarcastic  wit  of  the 
traveller  and  the  poet.  In  the  parish 
of  Sandstin^  the  excellent  and  jie- 
spected  minister  states  that  those 
farmers  who  keep  four  or  more  cows 
chum  once  every  day  in  summer ;  but 
the  quantity  of  butter  is  not  in  pro- 
portion to  the  frequent  churning,  for 
the  cream  is  never  properly  ga- 
thered. An  old  but  abominable  fash- 
ion prevails,  greatly  injurious  to  the 
reputations  of  our  housewives,  for 
when  the  operation  of  churning  is 
advanced  to  a  certain  stage  a  heated 
stone  is  dipped  into  the  chum,  and 
by  this  means  the  labour  is  short- 
ened and  an  addition  is  made  to  the 
quantity^  though  not  to  the  quality 
of  the  butter.  Part  of  the  curd  thus 
becomes  incorporated  with  the  butter, 
which  presents  a  white  and  yellow 
spotted  appearance,  resembliz^  mot- 
tled soap  or  the  ^ease-butter  of  Sir 
Bobert  Peel's  tanff,  with  which  the 
House  of  Ck)mmons  was  made  so 
merry  by  the  premier  during  the 
great  corn-law  debate.  It  must  be 
confessed  that  by  very  few  is  atten- 
tion paid  to  the  dairy,  so  that  one  of 
the  ancient  local  acts  would  still  re- 
quire to  be  enforced,  which  ordains, 
"That  no  butter  be  rendered  for 

Eayment  of  land-rent,  or  for  sale, 
ut  such  as  is  clear  from  Aair«,  and 
claud  and  other  dirtJ**  It  ia  the  cus- 
tom for  landlords  to  have  part  of 
their  rents  made  payable  in  butter ; 
and  probably  this  regulation,  added 
to  the  want  of  proper  milk-houses 
and  due  attention  to  the  milk-ves- 
sels, may  help  to  account  for  the  sad 
neglect  of  cleanliness  in  this  depart- 
ment. Very  little  butter  is  sold ;  and 
no  wonder,  seeing  our  peculiar  stvle 
of  manufacture  is  no  recommenda- 
tion to  the  foreign  market  The 
butter-milk  is  ciuled  bleddtckf  and 
into  this  is  poured  a  quantity  of  boil* 


1 846.] 


of  the  Sheilanders. 


645 


ing  water,  by  which  means  the  curd 
is  separated  from  the  whey  or  serum. 
The  former  is  named  Atm,  and  eaten 
with  sweet  milk ;  the  latter  is  called 
blandy  and  used  as  drink  instead  of 
small-beer.  It  will  keep  for  several 
months,  when  it  acquires  a  strong 
acidity.  The  stigma  of  untidiness  in 
regard  to  the  dairy  attached  in  former 
times  to  the  Orcadians  as  well  as  to 
us,  although  our  neighbours  have 
now  completely  wiped  it  off  (and 
why  should  not  we  ?),  for  their  but- 
ter is  the  finest  that  can  be  eaten, 
and  commands  a  high  price  wherever 
it  is  known.  The  case,  however,  was 
not  always  so;  and  I  have  in  my 
possession  a  curious  poem  entitled 
The  Character  of  Orkney^  printed  in 
1842  from  a  volume  of  miscellaneous 
verses  in  manuscript,  preserved  in 
the  library  of  the  I:  acult^r  of  Advo- 
cates at  Edinburgh,  wherein  the  au- 
thor indulges  his  humour  with  more 
severity  than  justice  I  am  inclined  to 
think,  on  the  slovenly  habits  of  the 
people  in  their  persons,  as  well  as  in 
their  food.  On  the  articles  of  butter 
and  cheese  his  coarse  ribald  wit  is  not 
surpassed  by  that  of  Butler,  whose 
quaint  style  he  seems  to  imitate,  al- 
tnough  he  wrote  in  1652,  when 
Cromwell  was  in  the  north  of  Scot- 
land. I  shall  give  a  short  quotation 
slightly  modifying  the  antiquated 
spelling : — 

"  A  man  may  venture 
la  riding  bootes,  and  well  pull'd  up,  to 

enter 
Their  very  dayries ;  which  being  now  my 

theme, 
Silt  downe  and  supp  a  whin  soure  milk 

and  creame 
While  I  discourse  itt.  Have  you  ever  been 
Downe  in  a  tanner's  yard  1  and  have  you 

seen 
His  lime-pits  when  the  filthy  muck  and 

baire 
Of  twenty  bides  is  washt  and  scrap!  off 

there  7 
Tis  Orkney  milk,  in  colour,  thickness, 

smefl, 

Every  ingredient and  it  eats  as  well. 

Take  from  the  bottome  upp  an  handful! 

on't, 
And    that's    good    Orkney  butter  — fie 

apoD*t7 
This  grease  (for  soe  they  trulty  call  it) 

pleases 
The  eye,  the  taste,  the  smelling,  &c. 
Tbey    use    a    charme,  too,  with  three 

heated  stcmes, 
Wmt  Av9  Maryes,  and  seavea  ill-far'd 

groans. 


To  fetch  their  nasty  butter  upp,  which 

when 
They're  done  the  witches  conjure  downe 

againe 
Through    their   owiie    whems.      Their 

punishment  in  this 
Is  well  proportionM  to  their  wickednesse. 
Then  of  the  aforesaid  butter  take  and 

squeeze 
A  parcell  'twist  two  rotten  board8-.that's 

cheese. 
Judge,  then,  my  friends,  how  much  our 

lime.pits  vary 
In  smell,  taste,  colour,  from  an  Orknay 

dory." 

The  edge  of  this  rough  satire  was, 
doubtless,  whetted  by  the  strong  na- 
tional English  prejudices  of  the  time. 
But  whatever  proximity  to  truth 
there  might  have  been  m  it  at  the 
middle  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
the  description  is  totally  inapplicable 
now,  and  nothing,  even  in  Shetland, 
comes  near  the  overcharged  picture 
of  loathsome  filth  which  this  morose 
critic  has  drawn. 

Before  quitting  the  subject  of  our 
*^  hearths  and  homesteads,"  there  are 
one  or  two  other  customs  which 
ought  not  to  pass  unnoticed.  Our 
principal  articles  of  food  are  oats. 
Dear  (or  &^),  and  potatoes.  Wheat 
has  been  attempted,  but  does  not 
succeed;  turnips,  carrots,  cabbascs, 
and  other  esculents,  are  not  culti- 
vated to  any  extent  in  the  open 
fields,  although  they  thrive  well 
enough  in  the  gardens.  Some  fami- 
lies will  plant  as  many  as  three  thou- 
sand cabbages,  which  they  use  as 
food  both  for  man  and  beast. 

In  raising  the  potato -crop,  a  dif- 
ferent mode  of  culture  is  adopted 
here  from  that  which  prevails  in 
other  parts  of  the  kingdom ;  and,  as 
we  wholly  escaped  the  mysterious 
rot  of  last  year,  probably  we  may 
owe  this  fortunate  exemption  to  our 
peculiar  manner  of  husbandry. 
«Vhen  preparing  the  field  for  the 
seed,  the  manure  is  not  laid  in  the 
furrow  and  the  cut  seedling  stuck 
into  it.  It  is  spread  on  the  surface 
of  the  ground,  and  delved  in  with 
the  spade.  Sometimes  the  potato  is 
planted  in  the  furrow  thus  prepared, 
and  covered  up ;  and  sometimes  the 
earth  is  first  delved  and  the  seed 
dibbled  in  afterwards.  "^^  '  '>f 
spreading  the  manur 
instead  of  buiying  i 
recommended,  I  ob« 
th€  thoosaod  and  oe 


646 


Manners,  Traditions,  and  SmperstUians 


[Jane, 


or  agrieoltonl  fheoristf,  as  they  sre 
caU^  as  an  antidote  to  prerent  the 
reenrrenoe  of  the  disease ;  and  oer- 
tamly  the  experiment  is  worth  tiyin^ 
and  may  plead  our  example  m  its 
fayonr. 

The  oats  in  general  nse  here  are 
the  old  Seotch  or  grey-hearded  kind, 
which  is  pleasant  enough  to  the  taste, 
bat  dark-coloured,  and,  from  the 
▼ery  im|«Tfect  way  of  dressing  it, 
the  meal  is  nerer  entirely  freed  from 
the  chaff  and  dust.  The  w.ay  in 
which  com  is  here  prepared  for  meal 
is  accurately  described  by  my  re- 
verend friend  last  mentioned.  Eyery 
family  has  a  small  oblong  kiln  built 
in  their  bam,  called  a  cinnvj  which 
will  dry  about  a  half  barrel  of  oats 
at  a  time.  This  kiln,  instead  of  an 
iron-plate  floor,  is  furnished  with 
ribs  of  wood ;  and  these  are  covered 
with  layers  of  oat-straw,  called  glay, 
upon  which  the  grain  is  laid.  In  an 
opening  about  a  foot  square  in  the 
end  of  the  kiln,  like  an  oven  or 
boiler,  a  gentle  Are  is  kept  up  till  the 
grain  is  sufllciently  dried.  It  is  then 
taken  off  the  ribs,  put  into  a  straw 
basket  made  for  the  purpose,  called 
a  skeby  and  while  warm,  well  rubbed 
under  the  feet,  an  operation  which 
is  intended  to  separate  the  beard  and 
dust  from  the  grain.  It  is  next 
winnowed  betwixt  two  doors,  or  in 
the  open  air,  if  there  be  a  slight 
current,  put  into  another  straw 
basket  called  a  buddy ,  and  carried  to 
the  mill  to  be  cround.  When  brought 
home  from  tne  mill,  two  sieves  are 
made  use  of,  a  coarse  and  a  finer,  to 
separate  the  seeds  from  the  meal ; 
and  it  is  twice  sifted  carefully  before 
it  is  fit  to  be  eaten.  The  larger  seeds 
taken  out  with  the  coarse  sieve  in 
the  first  sifting  arc  given  to  the 
cows ;  and  the  finer  seeds  taken  out 
with  the  smaller  sieve  are  reserved 
for  sofoetut^  a  sort  of  pottage  made 
fh>m  the  sediment  of  tne  meal  that 
rests  at  the  bottom  of  the  vessel  in 
which  the  seeds  are  steeped  or  soaked 
in  water.  This  is  or  was  a  kind  of 
national  food  in  Scotland,  when 
Ibreign  luxuries  were  not  introduced 
in  such  abundance;  and  it  is  still 
prescribed  to  invalids,  fW>m  its  light- 
ness of  digestion.  Sometimes  com 
is  dried  veiy  hard  in  a  pot ;  the  meal 
prepared  fVom  this  is  called  tenten^, 
and  is  generally  ground  in  the  qmerm 
or  hand-mill,  a  simple^  primitrre 


iusifument,  hut  now  nrdy  found 
except  in  Shetland  and  the  museums 
of  antiquarian  societies.  It  consists 
of  two  hard  flat  stones,  hewn  into  a 
ehiciilar  shape,  the  one  laid  above  the 
other,  and  perforated  with  a  large 
hole  in  the  centre,  through  which 
the  grain  slowly  filters,  and  is  ground 
by  the  rapid  motion  of  the  upper 
stone,  into  which  a  wooden  peg, 
sometimes  a  long  shaft,  is  fixed  and 
turned  by  the  lumd. 

Our  houses  and  cottages,  it  must 
be  confessed,  are  poor  and  mean, 
without  the  neatness  and  accom- 
modation to  be  found  in  the  dwell- 
ings of  the  same  class  in  the  other 
districts  of  the  kingdom.  In  ge- 
nial they  are  mere  huts.  The 
hmdlords  shew  an  aversion  to  bnild- 
ing  farm-steadings,  or  if  they  have 
erected  them  once,  tenant  after  tenant 
must  be  content  to  occupy  them  as 
they  are,  and  when  they  become 
ruinous,  he  must  either  repair  or 
build  anew  for  himself. 

Dr.  Maculloch,  when  he  visited 
the  Western  Isles,  declared  that  he 
often  could  not  distinguish  the  cot- 
tages in  the  remoter  Hebrides  fVom 
heaps  of  rubbish.  He  mentions  that 
when  conversing  with  one  of  the 
natives,  he  had  supposed  the  inter- 
view took  place  on  a  dunghill,  and 
was  not  a  little  surprised  to  leara 
that  they  were  standing  on  the  top 
of  the  house.  Ckittages  in  Shetland 
are  not  much  in  advance  of  those  in 
the  Hebrides,  and  have  something 
of  the  Irish  economy  about  them, 
contrived,  like  Goldnnith's  chest  of 
drawers,  **  a  double  debt  to  pay,"  by 
harbouring  the  quadrupeds  as  well 
as  the  bipeds  of  the  family.  They 
arc  in  general  of  a  rude,  comfortless 
description,  being  usually  built  of 
stone  and  turf,  or  with  dry  mortar. 
The  rafters,  joists,  couples,  &c  are 
nearly  in  their  natural  state,  being 
chopped  and  moulded  to  fit  by  a 
hatchet.  The  luxuries  of  slating  and 
ceiling  are  unknown.  Ch'cr  the  bare 
rafters  is  laid  a  covering  of  pones  or 
dicots  (sods\  and  sometimes  i8bar« ; 
and  above  tnese  is  a  coating  of  straw, 
which  is  secured  by  ropes  of  the 
sam«  material,  or  of  heather,  called 
umnms.  The  floor  is  the  hairdened 
earth,  without  carpets,  boards,  or 
any  other  artificial  mannfiMtnie ;  and 
if  the  weather  be  wel,  which  it  fre^ 
qfoeiitly  is»  the  acoen  Is  foniewliiU 


1846.} 


6f  the  Sheilanderi. 


647 


difficult,  especully  to  thoee  who  hare 
any  regard  for  keeping  their  feet  drv 
And  dean.    This  becomes  a  diffiouft 
matter  even  in  the  interior,  from 
the  moistened  compounds  that  strew 
the  floor.     The  dunghill  occupies 
a  place  as  near  the  door  as  possiole, 
that  it  may  be  enriched  by  the  ac- 
Gumulatioiis  of  every  fertilising  sub- 
stance;  and  frequently  before  the 
door  of  the  mansion  can  be  reached, 
a  passage  must  be  made  through  the 
b^re  (cow-house),  and,  perhaps,  other 
impediments  unnecessary  to  specify. 
The  furniture  is  homely,  and  contains 
nothing  sunerfluous.    It  is  generally 
so  arruiged  as  to  supply  the  want  of 
partitions,  or  divisions  into  rooms, 
the  only  apartments  being  a  btil  and 
a  ben,  that  is,  a  kitchen  and  par- 
lour.    In  the  kitchen  end  of  the 
house,  in  addition  to  the  family,  there 
are  generally  assembled  the  house- 
hold dogs  and  cats,  a  calf,  a  patty 
swine,  and,  perhaps,  some  half-dozen 
cadd^  lambs ;  the  term  beinff  applied 
to  vrmter  lambs  fed  in  the  house,  or 
to  those  which  have  lost  their  dams, 
and  are  reared  on  cow's  milk.    Glass 
windows  are  nearly  as  rare  with  us 
as  they  must  have  been  with  the 
Jews  in  the  wilderness.    When  an 
opening  has  been  left  for  a  window, 
it  is  sometimes  filled  up  with  a  blad- 
der or  untanned  lamb-skin,  stretched 
on  a  frame,  an  invention  rather  su- 
perior to  the  Irish  plan  of  substitut- 
ing rags  and  old  hats.    The  cotta^ 
have  scarcely  vet  got  into  the  fashion 
of  wearing  cnimneys,  or  even  the 
humbler  imitations  called  lums.    In- 
stead of  these,  the  fnual  inmates 
have  from  two  to  mx  holes  in  the 
roof,  to  admit  light  and  allow  the 
smoke  to  escape ;  and  for  the  better 
promoting  the  latter  evacuation,  a 
piece  of /eai  or  divot,  or  two  pieces  of 
board  joined  at  right  angles,  called 
a  skyle,  is  placed  on  the  weather  side 
of  the  hole,  and  performs  the  office 
of  a  can  or  an  old  tcife  on  your  city 
chimneys.    No  doubt  the  sk^le  has 
the  disadvantage  of  being  immov- 
able, and  to  shift  or  open  and  shut  it 
might  appear  a  task  of  some  difficulty. 
But  here  necessity,  it  may  be  in- 
dolence, sharpens  invention ;  for  in- 
stead of  mounting  on  the  roof  every 
time  the  wind  changes,  some  have 
a  long  pole  reaching  down  inside,  by 
which  this  operation  is  performed ; 
and  the  order  for  having  this  done  is, 
VOL.  zzun.  no.  cxcviii. 


^  £atyle  tke  /am.**  These  descriptions 
might  be  further  extended,  but  I 
prefer  giving  a  few  more  lines  from 
the  curious  old  poem  already  quoted, 
which  I  greatly  fear  are,  in  this 
respect,  more  applicable  to  us  than 
to  our  Orcadian  neighbours : — 

«<  Wee  have  but  little  iron  beere,   or 

none, 
But  they  can  make  a  lock  and  key  of 

bone 
Will  serve  to  keepe  the  flesh  i'  th'  ambry, 

UU 
It  creeps  out  or  informs  us  by  the  amell. 
'T  is  eatable  then,  when  neither  ratt  nor 

mouse, 
Nor  doe  nor  cat  will  touch  't,  it  serves 

the  house. 
The  proverbes  say  no  carrion  kills  a  crow, 
That  heaven  sencU  meat,  the  devill  cookea 

—  *t  is  so. 
Would  you  behold  a  true  repesentatioa 
Of  the  world's  method  ere  it  had  creation  ? 
Looke,  then,  into  an  Orknay  ambxy,  see 
How  all  the  elements  confounded  bee 
In  that  rude  chaos  -,  here  a  mesa  of  cream 
That's  spilt  with  casting    shoes    in't, 

makes  a  streame 
Of  fair  meanders,  windio?  in  and  out. 
Bearing  before  itt  every  dirty  clout 
The  nurse  has  throwne'  there*    Are  they 

not  to  blame 
That  say  wee  never  have  got  clouted 

cream? 
There,  att  another  end,  runs  a  whole  sea 
Of  kaile,  and  in*t  a  stocking  cast  away. 
Here  broken  eggs  (it  is  no  matter  whether 
Rotten  or  sound,  or  both)  have  glued  to- 

getlier 
The  bread  and  candles,  and  have  made  o* 

the  sudden. 
By  falling  in  amongst  the  meal,  a  pud- 
ding ; 
And  in  the  deluge  it  would  make  one 

swound 
To  see  how  many  creatures  there  lie 

drowned: — 
As  fleas  and  lice,  and  ratls  and  mice,  and 

worms. 
Of  all  sorts,  colours,  ages,  sexes,  formes* 
Then  in  another  corner  yon  shall  see, 
If  you  are  quarter 'd  in  the  house  with 

mee, 
A  cog  of  sowings  laid  along,  half  gott 
Out  o'  the  ambry  into  the  nearest  pott 
To  meete  the  milke  that's  running  to- 
wards itt 
From  a  crookt  bowie,  wherein  the  good- 
wife  spit 
Butt  yesterday  ;  and  into  that  there  drops 
A  bannock,  whilst  the  wean  g^eetea  for 

the  sopps. 
Their  bandes  are  ladles,  and  th' 

take  out 
The  flesh,  and  serve  to  stir  tV 

about* 

V  V 


Manners,  Traditions,  and  Stiperslilioni,  j-c. 


t,  ihit  were  not  irasbt  aioM 
tbey  spmd 

ID  tbe  barlvy-Geld  vsi  ma- 


et  maydeiiB  dirt;  sluts,  the; 
ley  were  a  putting  in  ibe 
mi^,  before  Ihe  d<^  bad  lickt 
.  cDOngh  of  ibi),  jon  mey  cdo- 

tlte  people  here  are  aomewbiit 


severity  to  be  justified  by 
'  to  be  found  among  the 
our  population.     Forty 

there  certwnly  was  greater 
Ldinc9»  and  comfort  than  at 
Dr.  Patrick  Niell,  an  emi- 
ulist,  who  visited  the  islands 
ays,— 

reiter  part  of  the  Sfaelluid 
leared  to  me  lo  be  ennk  into 
the  most  abject  poverty  and 
fbuod  tbem  eveu  without 
illioot  any  kiod  of  food,  in 
full  and  cabbage ;  tiring  in 
a  under  Ihc  ume  roof  iriiL 
,  and  acurcely  in  cleaner  Bpart- 
iir  lillle  agncultuni  coucerne 
fglecled,  oH'ing  to  ilia  men 
^ri  to  be  abaent  duriug  the 
tbe  ling;  and  tusk  fiahing." 

ter  part  of  this  represenla- 
1  true.  Fishing  uid  &nii- 
ine  to  be  joint  occupations, 
«t  iletriment  of  the  latter ; 


haa  taken  place,  chiefly  though  tt 
liberal  audenteirniaingipiTittfsaDie 
of  onr  principal  iBiidowners.  Fann- 
cottagea  are  odn^  built  on  a  better 
plan,  and  a  spirit  of  emnlatian  ii 
begioninK  to  be  excited.  AmoDg 
the  landed  proprietorB  who  have 
given  encouragement  to  this  ipiii, 
are  Sir  Arthur  Nicolson,  But: 
Messrs.  Mouat,  of  Garth ;  Uiy,  of 
Lexfirth;  Scott,  of  Melby;  Edmond- 
ston,  of  Bnnesa ;  Bruce,  of  Simhster, 
whose  mansion-house  in  Whahvy, 
built  of  eranite,  cost  20,0001.,-  Gif- 
ford,  of  Bnsta ;  Ogilvy,  of  Quarff; 
Bruce,  of  Bunavoe,  and  variom 
others,  whose  fame  Duty  not  have 
reach^  your  great  metropoli),  bet 
-who  are  well  Known  here  for  their 
public  spirit  and  their  hotpulitj. 
We  have  had  improvers,  toc^  is  > 
smaller  way,  who  have  mltivsted 
Scots  barley  and  reared  green  peas. 
An  old  soldier,  Mr.  Jerome  JobiMii, 
who  had  been  with  Gen^  Abei- 


hod  acquired  in  foreign  parts.  ' 
mencing  with  the  hm-gard,  he  gia* 
dually  conrerted  it  into  a  neat,  imill 
garden,  bearing  shrubs,  Aomen,  cur- 
rants, onions,  carrots,  tobacco,  &c; 
and,  as  he  owned  a  few  acnsof  lapd, 
he  became  a  zealous  sgricnltnritt, 
and  had  the  honour  of  beiog  the  finl 
that  introduced  the  culture  of  the  fidd 
turnip  into  FetUr.  It  moat  be  con- 
fessed, howerer,  that  the  patriotini 
of  our  landlords  has  yet  a  wde  iphot 
of  action  for  ita  agricultuial  enlo- 
prise. 


1846.]        Principal  Campaign^  in  tke  Rise  of  Napoleon. 


64d 


PRINCIPAL  CAMPAIGNS  IN  THE  RISE  OF  NAPOLEON. 

No.  VL 
thb  campaign  of  austbbutz. 

ChaptsbIX. 
Commencement  of  the  War,  and  Surrender  of  General  Mack. 


\Vs  regret  extremely  that  the  valu- 
able authorities  on  which  we  were 
enabled  to  sketch  the  campai^ps  al- 
ready published  in  this  series  of 
papers,  fail  us  entirely  for  the  early 
period  of  the  campaign  of  1805. 
The  circumstances  whicn  caused  the 
catastrophe  of  Ulm  are  still,  to  a  ^reat 
extent,  hid  in  the  darkness ;  writers 
have  only  had  French  rhapsodies 
and  a  few  very  prosaic  and  uninter- 
esting German  works  to  guide  them ; 
and  as  the  latter  are  as  feeble  and 
destitute  of  force  and  authority  as 
the  former  are  inflated,  exaggerated, 
and  extravagant,  nothins  like  a  clear 
case  can  yet  be  extracted  from  them. 
"We  must  therefore  pass  briefly  over 
the  flrst  part  of  the  campaign,  inter- 
esting as  it  would  be  to  trace  the  ex- 
act (ktail  of  events  which  caused  a 
powerful  army  to  be  utterly  de- 
stroyed without  striking  a  single 
blow  for  victory  and  honour. 

The  battle  of  Marengo  had  con- 
firmed Kapoleon*s  absolutism  in 
France,  and  the  peace  of  Lune- 
ville  and  tlie  treaty  of  Amiens  fol- 
lowing soon  afterwards,  placed  him 
in  the  highest  and  most  enviable 
position  ever  filled  by  an  individual. 
The  temple  of  Janus  was  closed,  and 
the  nations  of  Europe,  exhausteii  by 
years  of  sanguinary  warfare,  wished 
only  for  continued  repose.  None, 
indeed,  were  in  condition  to  desire  a 
contest  with  France,  naturally  the 
mightiest  of  the  Continental  states, 
and  now  augmented  by  Savov,  Bel- 
gium, and  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhine : 
the  vast  and  valuable  conquest  of 
the  revolution.  Ruling  such  an  em- 
pire at  such  a  time,  it  was  in  the 
Consul's  power  to  become  the  ^atest 
of  mortals ;  but  little  of  mmd  and 
mean  of  character,  he  saw  not  the 


noble  path  which  lay  open  before 
him,  and  no  sooner  found  himself  on 
the  pinnacle  of  power,  than,  inflated 
by  vanitv,  he  immediately  com- 
menced that  course  of  violence,  ra- 
pacity, and  aggression,  which  1^  to 
a  deeper  fall  than  any  recorded  on 
the  previous  page  of  history. 

In  profound  peace.  Piedmont  was 
annexed  to  France,  Switzerland  in- 
vaded, and  military  possession  re- 
tained of  Holland;  and  extending 
his  power  at  every  step,  Napoleon 
caused  himself  to  be  elected  presi- 
dent of  the  Italian,  and  mediator  of 
the  Swiss  republics.  Such  gigantic 
strides  towards  universal  dominion 
had  never  been  known  since  the 
days  of  ancient  Rome,  and  were 
rapidly  destroying  every  vestige  of 
the  balance  of  power — of  that  ba- 
lance which  prevents  any  one  mem- 
ber of  the  general  community  of 
European  states  from  exercising  ab- 
solute control  over  the  others,  and 
for  which  so  many  sacrifices  had 
been  made.  The  English  govern- 
ment remonstrated  agamst  these  acts 
of  unexampled  aggression,  and  re- 
fused to  surrender  Malta  till  satisfac- 
tion should  be  obtained.  The  Con- 
sul replied  by  threats  and  taunts, 
and,  irritated  by  the  attacks  of  the 
English  press,  resorted  to  vulgar 
railing,  and  demanded  the  suppres- 
sion of  its  freedom.*  French  offi- 
cers called  upon  the  British  com- 
manders at  Alexandria  and  Malta^ 
demanding  the  evacuation  of  these 
posts,  Napoleon  believing  that  the 
time  had  come  when  the  nations  of 
Europe  were  to  bend  asimplicitlv  to 
the  mandates  of  the  French  ambas- 
sadors as  the  trembling  kings  of 
Asia  once  bent  before  the  heralds 
that  announced  the  mandates  of  the 


*  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  the  absolute  consul  of  France  actually  sent  an  age 
one  FieT^,  to  England,  to  negotiate  a  treaty  of  peace,  of  alliance,  perhaps,  with 
English  press ;  and  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  details  of  the  corious  mission  h* 
not  transpired. 


650 


Priiuitpal  CampaigM  in  the  Bise  of  tHaf^HmofH.        [Jane, 


Roman  people.  But  in  nothing  was 
the  captiYe  of  St.  Helena  destined  to 
act  "  tne  Roman's  part." 

War  with  England  was  the  first 
consequence  of  these  overbearing  ag- 
gressions ;  and  as  the  Consul  had  no 
means  of  assailing  hiq  insular  foes, 
he  turned  his  arms  against  the  feeble 
and  defenceless  more  within  his 
reach.  In  the  north,  the  neutrality 
of  Germany  was  violated,  and  Hano« 
ver  occupied ;  in  the  south  a  French 
army  took  possession  of  Naples: 
both  countries,  strangers  to  the  war 
between  France  and  England,  were 
heavily  taxed. 

Nor  did  the  march  of  violence 
cease  here.  The  neutralitv  of  Ger- 
many was  again  violated  by  the 
seizure  of  the  Duke  of  Enghien,  and 
whenever  it  suited  the  convenience 
of  the  French,  who  also  levied  con- 
tributions on  the  Hanse  towns  and 
the  Duchy  of  Mecklenburg.  In  Italy, 
Parma,  Flacentia,  Lucca,  and  Fiom- 
bino,  were  added  to  the  grand  em- 

Eire,  the  crown  of  which  Napoleon 
ad  now  placed  upon  his  head.  Genoa 
and  its  dependencies  soon  followed, 
and  by  causing  himself  to  be  crowned 
king  of  Italy,  the  French  emperor 
assumed,  in  fact,  the  absolute  so- 
vereignty of  the  peninsula.  The 
balance  of  power  was  thus  completely 
destroyed,  and  it  was  only  by  force 
of  arms  and  a  combination  of  the  in- 
dependent states  of  Europe  that  it 
could  be  restored,  and  security 
against  continued  aggression  firmly 
established. 

To  effect  this  purpose  a  treaty  of 
alliance  was  entered  into  by  England, 
Sweden,  Russia,  and  Austria.  Tliere 
was  still,  indeed,  a  strong  party  at 
Vienna  inclined  for  peace;  and  the 
Archduke  Charles,  who  was  at  the 
head  of  it,  actually  resigned  the  pre- 
sidency of  the  war-department  in 
consequence  of  the  prevalence  of  ad- 
verse sentiments.  It  is  probable, 
nevertheless,  that  this  opposition  was 
rather  to  the  time  for  entering  on  the 
contest  than  to  the  war  itself  for  we 
now  know,  contrary  to  former  asser- 
tions, that  the  Austrian  army  wbjs 
in  a  very  inefficient  state,  the  cavalry 
deplorably  so,  and  the  finances  in 
the  worst  possible  condition.  The 
English  subsidies  were  no  doubt  ex- 
>ected  to  remedy  part  of  the  evil ; 
'Ut  no  sums  furnished  by  a  foreign 
>untry  can  ever  cover  eyen  a  mo« 


derate  portion  of  the  expense  ren- 
dered necessary  for  carrying  on  a 

like  Fj 


war  against  a  power 
And  it  shews  the  falsehood  and  folly 
of  which  the  French  writers  are 
guilty— and  Bignon  among  the  rest 
— woen  thejT  tell  us  that  foreign 
states  were  lured  into  the  war,  not 
by  the  ambition  of  France,  bat  by 
the  gold  of  England,  and  that  mon- 
archs  aold  the  blood  of  their  subjects 
for  foreign  pay,  instead  of  sheddiqg 
it  in  defence  of  national  honour  and 
independenoe. 

Ifthe  Austrian  armies  were  feeble, 
those  of  France  were  in  the  bluest 
state  of  efficiency  ever  attained  by 
Continental  troops.  For  nearly  two 
years  they  had  been  assembled  in 
camps  along  the  coast  of  the  Chan- 
nel, constantly  kept  together,  and 
trained  and  exercised  under  the  most 
distinguished  of  their  officers.  Frond 
of  former  victories,  tired  of  their  in- 
active lifb,  and  anxious  for  change, 
spoil,  war,  and  excitement,  they  were 
better  prepared  for  deeds  of  daring 
than  any  host  that  ever  left  the  sou 
of  France.  At  this  time,  also,  their 
departure  would  bring  relief  to  the 
national  treasury,  for  Napoleon's 
boasted  finances  were  at  their  lowest 
ebb,  and  the  bonds  of  the  bank  of 
France  had  fallen  to  ten  per  cent  of 
their  actual  value.  The  oppression 
of  foreign  states  was  to  remedy  this 
evil,  and  the  moment  the  troops 
passed  the  fVontier  their  support  was 
to  be  defrayed  at  the  expense  of 
strangers.  "Nothing  could  come 
more  conveniently  for  Napoleon 
than  this  new  war,  as  foreign  con- 
tributions filled  his  exchequer,  and 
the'  march  into  Grermany  freed  him 
from  the  pledge  of  invading  England, 
an  enterprise  the  prospect  of  which 
had  so  long  been  held  out  to  France 
and  Europe. 

Two  Russian  armies  of  50,000 
men  each,  and  commanded  in  chief 
by  General  Kutusoff,  were  in  full 
march  to  join  the  Austrians,  who, 
on  their  part,  took  the  field  with 
three  armies,  amounting  in  all  to 
about  170,000  men.  Cn  these  the 
Grand  Army  in  Germany  counted 
80,000  men,  and  was  nommally  un- 
der the  orders  of  the  Archduke  Fer- 
dinand, but  commanded  in  nadity 
by  General  Mack,  an  officer  whose 
melancholy  fate  has  rendered  his 
veiy  name  a  term  of  reproach.  Uack 


1846.} 


The  Campaign  o/Amierliiz. 


651 


had  raised  himself  from  the  rank  of 
a  private  horseman  by  distinguished 
bravery  and  by  talents  as  a  staff- 
officer,  and  understood  most  per- 
fectly every  thing  connected  with  de- 
tail, drill,  and  organisation  of  troops, 
but  was  well  known  to  be  totally 
destitute  of  the  qualities  reouisite  for 
command.  He  had,  shortly  before 
the  commencement  of  hostilities,  been 
placed  at  the  head  of  the  war-de- 
partment; and  Gentz  and  MQller, 
then  in  correspondence,  speak  with 
great  satisfaction  of  his  appointment 
to  a  situation  in  which  he  was  calcu- 
lated to  render  important  services ; 
and  both  foretell,  with  a  too  pro- 
phetic spirit,  the  certain  ruin  of  the 
cause,  should  evil  fortune  give  him 
the  command  of  armies.  'Never  was 
a  prophecy  so  truly  fulfilled,  and 
never  was  a  clearer  proof  furnished 
to  shew  the  facility  with  which  men 
of  real  talents  can  estimate  charac- 
ter and  the  fitness  of  individuals  for 
the  duties  of  professions  to  which 
they  do  not  themselves  belong. 

Sixty  thousand  men  formed  the 
army  of  Italy,  and  were  placed  under 
the  orders  of  the  Archduke  Charles, 
who  not  bein^  very  popular  with 
the  Russians,  m  consequence  of  the 
battle  of  Zurich  and  his  difierence 
with  Savaroff,  was  thus  removed  to 
a  secondary  position :  30,000  men, 
led  by  the  Archduke  John,  were 
destined  to  act  in  the  Tyrol.  An 
army  composed  of  Russians  and 
Swedes,  amounting  to  30,000  men, 
were  to  assemble  m  Pomerania,  and 
advance  through  Mecklenburg  into 
Hanover,  where  it  was  to  be  joined 
by  26fi00  British  troops,  destined 
to  land  on  the  banks  of  the  AVeser^ 
while  an  Anglo-Ruasian  armv  was, 
at  the  same  tune,  to  effect  a  descent 
on  the  coast  of  Naples  and  operate 
in  Italy. 

This  was,  no  doubt,  an  admirable 
plan  on  paper,  and  one  on  which 
cabinet  ana  ministerial  strategists 
greatly  prided  themselves.  Three 
hundred  thousand  men  were  to  be 
hurled  against  France :  from  north, 
east,  and  south,  mighty  armies  were 
to  rush  on  to  battle,  and  avenge,  by 
their  strength  and  justness  of  com- 
bination, so  many  vears  of  defeat, 
resulting  from  feebleness  and  wan^ 
of  concert.  The  hopes  of  the  allied 
sovereigns  were  high,  but  they 
rested  on  a  slender  foundation ;  no* 


thing  had  been  done  to  improTe 
the  training  or  condition  of  troops 
so  often  vanquished,  nothing  to 
restore  the  morale  of  the  officers 
and  soldiers  shaken  by  ten  disastrous 
campaigns;  and  as  to  the  skilful 
combinations  so  loudly  vaunted,  it 
entirely  escaped  the  strategists,  that 
their  forces  were  broken  into  differ- 
ent bodies,  separated  from  each  other 
by  the  whole  breadth  of  Europe,  and 
could  hardly,  when  the  difficulty  of 
combining  the  operations  of  armies 
acting  in  the  same  province,  or  even 
battle-field,  is  consiaered,  be  expected 
to  strike  in  together,  unless  by  mere 
miracle.  And  so,  indeed,  the  result 
proved,  for  the  powers  who  put  this 
vast  force  in  motion  fought  their 
main  battle  with  less  than  80,000 
men. 

Austria  had  invited  Bavaria  to 
join  the  alliance,  and  the  Elector  had 
actually  consented  to  do  so,  and 
only  requested  that  his  declaration 
might  be  delayed  till  the  return  of 
his  son,  who  was  travelling  in  France. 
The  messenger  who  carried  this 
written  promise  to  Vienna  could 
hardly  have  crossed  the  frontier, 
before  the  faithless  sovereign  left 
Munich,  and  set  out  for  WUrzburg, 
where  all  his  troops  were  ordered  to 
follow  him,  and,  as  now  appears, 
according  to  arrangements  already 
entered  into  with  France.  This  un- 
princely  breach  of  word,  the  deser- 
tion in  the  hour  of  bitter  need  from 
the  cause  of  honour  and  of  true 
German  feeling  and  patriotism,  casts 
a  dark  stain  on  the  reputation  of  the 
Bavarian  ruler,  and  has  only  es- 
caped deep  and  deserved  reproba- 
tion by  having  been  perpetrated  at 
a  period  of  general  dereliction  from 
all  the  principles  of  action  which  men 
had  hitherto  looked  upon  as  great, 
just,  and  noble. 

But  the  sword  is  drawn,  and  on 
the  8th  September  the  Austrians 
cross  the  Inn  and  occupy  Bavaria, 
and  advance  as  far  as  the  Iller,  be- 
hind which  General  Mack  takes  up 
his  position,  his  right  wing  resting 
on  iJlm,  the  left  on  Memmingen, 
and  his  light  troops  extending  as  far 
as  Stockash,  on  the  Lake  of  Con- 
stance, thus  throwing  open  his  ri^t 
flank  to  the  very  roads  hy  which  the 
French  were  advancing. 

Before  the  20th  of  August,  Na- 
poleon, then  at  Boulogne,  had  al- 


65^ 


Principal  CampoMgns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.        [June, 


ready  dictated  to  Count  Dara  the  plan 
ofhis  German  campaign.  Themmi^- 
ter  himself  was  to  work  out  the  de- 
t^8  and  prepare  the  neeesBary  in- 
stmctions ;  not  a  angle  office  clerk 
was  to  he  employed  on  the  duty. 
As  this  was  at  least  eighteen  days 
before  the  Anstrians  crowed  the  Inn, 


it  is  not  easy  to  see  how  the  Em- 
peror could  already  have  formed  the 
"•  gnat  conceptions,*'  as  historians  tell 
us,  of  turning  their  right  flank,  while 
they  were  still  more  than  a  hundred 
miles  distant  from  the  scene  of  future 
disaster:  for  Dam  assures  us,  thai 
the  ordinal  pUm  did  not  under^  the 


MAYENCC 


^5J1*JV 


ANSnVCH 


hK^RDUNCEN 
o 


RAT18B0N 


DONAU 


L«48 


sUghiest  aUeration!  Had  they  re- 
mained behind  the  Inn,  as  was  first 
intended,  and  where  they  were  when 
Napoleon's  ]>lan  was  drawn  up  and 
projected,  his  march  would  have 
placed  him  and  his  army  exactly  in 
their  front ;  and  this  was,  no  doubt, 
so.  meant ;  but  by  advancing  to  the 
Hier,  by  crossing  the  French  proposed 
line  of  march,  they  left  that  line  in 
their  rear,  caused  themselves  to  be 
turned  by  an  enemy  who  came  to 
seek  a  front  battle;  and  enabled  a 
vauntinff  adversary  to  boast  of  ffreat 
and  skilful  strat^cal  plans,  which, 
as  dates  and  distances  prove,  had 
never  for  one  moment  entered  into 
contemplation. 

Early  in  September,  all  the  French 
troops  stationed  from  Brest  to  the 
bsnks  of  the  Elbe  had  been  put  in 
motion.  Five  corps,  under  Murat, 
Lannes,  Key,  Souit,  and  Marmont, 
crossed  the  Rhine  at  different  points 
between  Strasburg  and  Mayenne, 
while  Bernadotte,  with  the  army  of 
Hanover,  reached  Wttrzbuiv,  where 
he  joined  the  Bavarians.  The  army 
counted  nearly  190,000  men,  and  at 
theheadofsucn  vast  forces,  Napoleon 
heeded  the  laws  of  nations  as  little 
91^  his  princely  all^  had  before  heeded 


aCHlNGEN 
UIM 


the  laws  of  honour.  The  sovereigns 
of  Baden  and  Wurtemburg  were  not 
only  obliged  to  give  a  free  passage 
to  the  French  armies  through  their 
territories,  they  were  forced  to  join 
their  troops  with  those  of  France, 
under  pain  of  having  their  domin- 
ions treated  as  conquered  countries. 
In  the  north  the  Elector  of  Hesse 
was  forced  to  throw  open  the  very 
gates  of  his  capital,  to  facilitate  the 
advance  of  Marshal  Bernadotte,  who, 
at  the  head  of  his  combined  corps  of 
French  and  Bavarians,  immediately 
afterwards  infringed,  without  even 
the  courtesies  of  a  request,  the  terri- 
tory of  Anspach,  belonging  to  Prus- 
sia, an  act  of  arrogance  which  ex- 
cited the  indignation  of  the  whole 
country,  and,  as  we  shall  see,  threat- 
ened the  most  serious  consequences. 

On  the  25th  of  September,  the 
first  French  columns  passed  the 
Rhine,  and  the  whole  army,  extend- 
ing in  a  vast  semicircle  from  Stras- 
burg, by  Mayence  and  Wdnbuiv, 
to  Bambeig,  a  distance  of  nearly 
800  mileSy  advanced  towards  the 
central  points  of  Nordlingen  and 
Donawerth. 

General  Mack,  aeeinf  the  storm 
gathering  in  the  north,  £rew  in  some 


1846.] 


The  Campaign  of  Ausierliiz. 


653 


of  the  corps  of  his  left  wing  towards 
Ulm,  but  took  no  other  measures 
for  checking  the  progress  of  the 
enemy,  who,  from  various  points  of 
the  vast  semicircle  they  covered, 
were  graduaUv  drawing  together  in 
rear  <»  his  rignt  flank. 

On  the  6th  of  October,  the  French 
seized  Donawerth,  which  was  de- 
fended only  by  a  single  regiment, 
and  the  capture  of  whidi  hardly  cost 
the  victor  a  loss  of  sixty  men.  Thus 
masters  of  the  passa^  of  the  Danube, 
division  after  division  was  poured 
across  the  stream;  troops  were  sent 
forward  to  occupy  Augsburg  and 
Munich,  while  tne  main  army,  as- 
cending the  ri|i;ht  bank  of  the  river, 
took  ute  position  of  Ulm,  where 
Mack  still  stood  motionless,  com- 
pletely in  reverse.  On  the  8th, 
a  corps  of  twelve  Austrian  battalions 
and  iour  squadrons  were  encountered 
at  Watingen,  and  defeated,  by  Murat, 
with  a  loss  of  4000  men;  on  the 
following  day  another  division  was 
beaten  at  GUnzburg  by  Marshal 
Key ;  here  2000  men  were  lost. 
On  the  11th,  General  Dupont,  the 
same  who  was  afterwards  taken  at 
Baylen,  repulsed,  as  he  says,  with 
his  single  division  of  6000  men, 
a  body  of  24,000  Austrians,  who  at- 
tempted to  sally  from  Ulm  on  the 
left  bank  of  the  river.  Disaster  fol- 
lowed disaster  in  rapid  succession. 
On  the  Idth,  Memmingen,  with  a 
garrison  of  5000  men,  surrendered 
to  Marshal  Soult,  after  a  single  day*s 
resistance.  The  victor  next  advanced 
to  Biberach,  and  thus  cut  off  all 
communication  between  Uhn  and 
Switzerland.  General  Werneck,  se- 
parated with  his  corps  from  the  main 
body  of  the  Austrians,  was  forced  to 
lay  down  his  arms.  On  the  14th, 
Aurshal  Ney  carried  the  bridge  of 
£lchingen,  and,  after  a  sharp  com- 
bat, established  himself  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  river.  Post  after  post 
was  taken,  detachment  after  detach- 
ment defeated,  while  Mack  still  re- 
mained motionless  behind  the  walls 
of  Ulm. 

In  no  army  are  the  just  princi- 
ples of  subordination  better  under- 
stood and  more  perfectly  acted  upon 
than  in  the  Austrian;  but  on  this 
occasion  the  incomprehensible  be- 
haviour of  the  commander-in-chief, 
who  would  neither  fall  upon  the 
separate  Fremch  corps  thi^t  aav^kncecl 


against  him  from  so  many  different 
points,  nor  yet  attempt  to  break 
through  the  iron  circle  which  had 
been  flowed  to  gather  around  him, 
g^ve  rise  to  loud  and  open  dissatisfac- 
tion. Prince  Schwartzenberg,  who 
afterwards  acted  so  important  a  part 
in  the  events  which  we  shall  have 
to  relate,  was  at  the  head  of  this 
militarjr  opposition.  Remonstrance 
was  vain ;  at  a  council  of  war  Gene- 
ral Mack  produced  an  order  from 
the  emperor  by  which  absolute 
authority  was  conferred  upon  him. 
The  Archduke  Ferdinand,  indignant 
at  the  fate  certain  to  await  the  army 
of  which  he  found  himself  but  the 
nominal  commander,  left  the  fortress 
during  the  night,  at  the  head  of 
twelve  squadrons  of  cavalry,  deter- 
mined to  cut  his  way  through  the 
enemy  or  to  perish  in  the  attempt. 

The  gallant  prince  broke  the  bar- 
rier of  surrounding  foes;  fifteen 
squadrons  of  Wemecks  corps,  who 
had  refused  to  submit  on  the  sur- 
render of  the  general,  joined  him  in 
his  progress,  and  he  bore  down  all 
confronting  opposition.  Murat  and 
Kellerman,  with  the  best  of  their 
cavalry,  followed  fast  and  close  upon 
the  retiring  Austrians,  and  charged 
the  flanks  as  well  as  the  rear  of  their 
column;  still  the  daring  band  of 
horsemen  moved  onward  in  sallant 
course.  Their  front  had  to  be  cleared; 
on  right,  on  left,  blows  had  to  be 
dealt  against  constantly  augmenting 
numbers;  but  their  courage  wss 
high,  and  equal  to  the  task.  On 
every  occasion  Schwartzenberg  set 
them  a  noble  example,  and,  after 
a  trying  and  toilsome  march,  the 
prince  reached  £gra  in  Bohemia 
with  a  reduced,  but  still  unbroken 
and  unvanquished  band.  Ten  squad- 
rons belonging  to  Jellachich*s  corps 
performed  a  still  longer,  more  darine, 
and  equally  successful  march,  uL 
proving  how  much  courage  and  re- 
solution can  achieve  even  in  the 
most  perilous  situations. 

Berore  daybreak,  on  the  15th  Oc- 
tober, the  French  attacked  the  hill 
of  St.  Michael,  which  commands  the 
town  of  Ulm,  and  on  which  the 
Austrians  had  erected  a  few  ill-con- 
structed and  half-finished  redoubts. 
The  works  were  as  badly  defended 
as  constructed,  and  were  carried  at 
the  first  onset  and  with  hard^ 
any  Igss  to  the  asss^lants.    In  p* 


1  of  tbcM  beigliCi,  Napoleon 
Dued  the  town;  bat  Uack 
refnaed  to  listen  to  ^e  proponl, 
and  istoed  the  following  order, 
conbuninc  as  main  "  brave  words" 
n*  FiatoT  himielf  ever  uttered : 
"  The  conuoander-in-cbief,"  Mid  this 
strange  doeunient,  "holds  generals 
and  officers  responsible,  on  their 
honour  and  duty,  never  to  nwntion 
the  word  mtrtiider;  for  the  ad- 
vanced troops  of  two  mi^ty  armies, 
-  the  one  Austrian,  the  other  Ruamaa, 
are  within  a  fbv  days' march  of  Ulm, 
ready  to  relieve  us.  We  have  3000 
horses  that  will  serve  oa  for  fbod, 
and  I  will  be  the  first  to  eat  hone- 
itesh." 

On  the  following  morning  some 
batteries  of  flehl-artillery,  iot  the 
French  had  no  heavy  ordnance  with 
them,  opened  upon  the  Vnvn,  and,  at 
the  end  of  two  nours'  firing,  all  a/o- 
petite  for  horse-flesh  had  alpeaay 
vanished,  and  Prince  Licfatenst^n 
was  sentoutto  treat  with  the  emperor  I 
After  some  delay,  it  was  agreed  that 
the  garrison  were  to  suirender  aa 
the  setb,  if  not  relieved  by  midnight 
on  the  2Sthi  but  General  Mack, 
bavins  on  the  1 9th  hsd  an  interview 
with  Napoleon,  was  perniaded  to 
ffive  up  tne  plaM  on  the  veiy  next 
day,  and  that  without  obtaining  by 
this  sacriflce  any  better  terms  tot 
the  troops,  who  were  still  to  be 
prisoners  of  war.  At  a  moment 
when  the  fate  of  centuries  might 
depend  upon  mlnntea,  six  days  were 
AuB  gratuitously  cast  away  for  no 
object  liut  to  hasten  on  the  hoar  of 
shame.  Though  advised  to  put  an 
end  to  hinuelf,  Uack  lived  to  perf^t 
tbe  aetof  dishoDonr,  aDd,Bt  tiiB  time 
ftKed,  muxdied  out  at  the  head  of 
SS,e00  men,  who,  after  rawing  Na- 
poleon with  bands  playing  and  eo< 
umn  flying,  laid  down  their  arms 
and  surrendered  prisoners  of  war. 
Sbtty  pieces  of  artillerr  and  forty 
stand  of  colours  were  delivered  up 
to  the  victors.  The  eropeiDr  spoke  in 
friendly  terms,  as  well  he  ought,  to 
the  Austrian  officars,  who  bv  th» 
artictes  of  the  treaty  were  allowed 
to  retnm  home.  "  This  is  the  mo- 
ment," be  said,  "for  the  emperor, 
yonr  master,  to  tbisk  of  making 
peace.  The  idea  that  all  empires 
Dave  a  term  mnstalarm  him  i  I  want 
nothing  on  the  Continent,  I  only 
want  ships,  colonies,  and  «onnneTCe. 


These  meraoiable  words  were  nttend 
on  the  20th  of  October,  and  on  the 
21st,  on  the  very  next  day.  Fortune, 
as  if  to  shew  how  weak  was  the  con- 
quenw,  even  in  the  midst  of  hi* 
triumphs,  whelmed  all  these  as- 
piring hopes  and  wishes  beneath  tin 
waves  of  Tra&lgar. 

The  reader  need  not  be  told  that 
wa  could  fill  entile  yolumes  with 
the  praise  lavished  on  the  great  mi- 
liloiy  skill  displayed  by  Napcdcon 
on  thia  occasion ;  but  unless  we  snp- 
poss  that  a  direct  and  stiaight&r- 
waid  advance  upon  an  enemy,  by 
the  nearert  and  best-beaten  road,  be 
in  itself  a  proof  of  great  skiU,  which 
it  certainly  may  be,  we  cannot  find 
the  slightrat  evidence  that  any  par- 
ticular Keneialahip  was  dinilayad 
here.  We  are  told,  indeed,  that 
Mack  was  deceived  by  Napoleon 
himselfhitothefbiae  messores  which 
be  adopted— that  he  was  led  to  be- 
lieve the  French  would  advance 
wainst  him  through  the  dctiea  of 
the  Black  Forest,  would  make  a  long 
— a  cirotutons  route,  to  advance 
through  a  different  country,  instead 
of  advancing  by  a  short  road  throngh 
aa  easy  and  open  one.  If  Mack  did 
believe  these  things,  there  could  be 
no  great  honour  in  defeating  him. 

We  are  further  told  that  the 
march  of  the  French  columns  waa 


not  change  his  position  in  time  to 
meet  them.  Those  who  know  bow 
dowly  the  anwietdy  masses  of  a 
hurge  army  must  necesearily  advance, 
will  know  what  to  think  of  this 
boasted  lapidi^.  Any  mssssnger, 
even  on  fbot,  marahi^  through  the 
friendly  eountriei  of  Ganoany,  could 
soon,  with  the  graatest  ease,  have 
left  tiie  best  of  thaae  eoluBins  ttr 
behind.  Besides,  had  the  Austtiana 
no  emissaries  even  on  the  right  bank 
of  the  Rhine,  and  what  became  of 
the  patroles  of  an  army  that  counted 
thounnds  of  light  cavalry  in  its 
ranks  f  The  great  strategical  skltl 
displayed  in  calciilatiDg  the  march 
of  the  different  columns  fTom  the 
shores  of  the  Channel  to  the  banks  of 
the  Danube,  hss  of  eouiae  fiimiriwd 
another  theme  for  deelamatitm ;  bnt 
when  all  care  ftir  tbe  supply  of  the 
troops  is  set  aside,  when  tney  are 
left  to  eat  their  way  throagh  as  best 
they  may,  and  when  tho  etwoiy  re- 


1846.] 


The  Campaiffn  ofAUiterlitz. 


655 


mains  per^Bctiy  passive,  it  is  then  as 
efuy  to  tnee  out  the  march  of  ar- 
xnies  on  a  map  as  to  trace  out  an 
ordinary  postcnaiae  journey.  Nor 
i¥as  the  skill  displayed  very  remark- 
able, even  with  these  advantages; 
for  the  columns  of  Marshals  Key 
and  Lannes  crossed  each  other,  and 
much  confusion  took  place,  and  the 
latter,  as  well  as  Murat,  remained  in 
the  Yis-Thal,  exposed,  without  sup- 
port, to  the  attacks  of  the  whole 
Austrian  army,  had  any  forward 
movement  heen  made  against  them. 
Dupont  was  assailed  by  vastly  su- 
perior forces,  and  only  escaped  utter 
destruction  by  the  bravery  of  his 
own  troops  and  the  timid  and  va- 
cillatmg  conduct  of  the  imperial  com- 
mander. 

It  seems  that  Mack  was  about 
to  avail  himself  of  the  unconnect- 
ed position  of  the  French  troops, 
and  was  actually  engaged  with  Dii- 
pont,  preparatory  to  striking  a  de- 
cisive blow  at  the  detached  and  un- 
supported corps,  when  Baron  Stein- 
beer,  a  nobleman  holding  a  high 
official  situation,  brought  tidings 
that  the  English  had  landed  at  Bou- 
logne, and  that  Prussia  had  declared 
war  against  France.  The  Austrian 
commander,  believing  ^m  other 
communications  he  had  received,  that 
the  information  was  really  correct, 
arrested  the  movement  in  progress, 
certain  that  victory  would  then  be 
his  without  further  loss  or  danger. 
Whether  Greneral  Mack  possessed 
the  energy  requisite  for  carrying  the 
first  intended  project  into  effect  is 
a  question  which  need  not  be  dis- 
cussed here,  as  we  only  mention  the 
froposed  plan  to  shew  that  the 
'reneh  arrangements  were  not  so 
perfect  as  those  who  judge  only 
from  results  would  have  us  believe. 
That  the  Austrian  army  was  cut 
off  by  Napoleon's  march  is  perfectly 
true,  but  so  was  the  French  army 
also;  and  had  Mack,  instead  of 
remaining  planet-struck  in  Ulm, 
wheeled  to  the  right-about^  and 
taken  post  at  Wiirzburg^  he  would 
have  thrown  himself  in  the  rear  of 
Kapoleon,  imitated  the  vaunted  ma- 
nosuvre,  and  left  the  chances  of  battle 
exactly  where  they  were  before.  A 
strategical  movement  is  only  de- 
serving of  praise  where  it  augments 
the  fiur  prospects  of  victory,  or 
heightens,  without  a  proportionate 


risk,  the  results  likely  to  be  gained 
by  success;  as  already  statra,  the 
doubling  of  the  stakes  alone  is  no 
proof  whatever  of  skill.  That  Na- 
poleon himself  only  contemplated  a 
battle  is  certain  from  the  proclama- 
tion issued  to  his  soldiers,  for  he  tells 
them,  that  they  are  to  '' encounter 
the  troops  who  deprived  tiiem  of 
the  conquest  of  England,  and  pre- 
vented them  from  avenging  in  Lon- 
don six  centuries  of  insult."  The 
compliment  paid  to  the  **  Great  na- 
tion in  so  long  submitting  to  in- 
sult is  not  indeed  a  very  brilliant 
one. 

Of  itself,  the  surrender  of  Mack 
cannot  of  course  settle  the  question 
in  favour  of  his  adversary,  for  ge- 
nerals may  surrender  at  the  mere 
shadows  of  danger,  and  we  shall  un- 
fortunately have  to  record  instances 
of  commanders  sending  out  patroles 
to  seek  for  enemies  before  whom  to 
lay  down  their  arms  and  prostrate 
their  honour.  It  will  be  for  the 
reader  to  decide  whether  the  cata- 
strophe of  Ulm  was  produced  by  the 
genius  of  Napoleon  or  the  inability 
of  his  adversary.  If  we  look  upon 
the  surrender,  without  fighting,  of  a 
whole  army,  as  sufficient  proof  of 
the  feebleness  and  incapacity  of  its 
leader,  then  we  have,  for  that  point 
at  least,  ample  evidence  before  us ; 
but  the  proof  of  the  genius  displayed 
by  the  conquering  party  is  not  so 
easily  obtained,  and  unless  we  con- 
sider mere  success,  and  that  constant 
risking  of  all  for  all,  which  after- 
wards led  to  so  many  disasters,  as 
proofs  of  genius  or  great  military 
skill,  we  shall  be  totuly  unable  to 
find  them  in  the  countless  pane- 
gyrics written  to  celebrate  the  victory 
of  Ulm. 

It  was  long  the  fashion  to  assert 
and  believe   that   Mack  had  been 
bribed  and  that  French  gold,  and  not 
arms,  had   effected  his  overthrow. 
The  accusation  is  totally  destitute 
of  foundation.     Having  been  cash- 
iered by  the   sentence  of  a  court- 
martial,  the  unfortunate  general  was 
reduced  to  great  penury,  and  only 
supported  his  latter  days  on  a  small 
pension  allowed  him  by  the  Emperor 
Francis.    His  ikte  was  altoge* 
very  siuffular  one.    He  was  o 
ble  birtn  and  had  risen  f^< 
rank  of  a  private   trooper 
command  of  an  army,  thougl 


656 


Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon,        [Jane, 


then  a  thing  almost  nnheard  of  in 
the  Austrian  service  for  a  private  to 
rise  even  to  the  rank  of  a  sub-lieute- 
nant. He  had  been  distmguished 
for  personal  bravery  and  for  high 
talents,  and  he  yet  ended  by  being 
thought  dtttkute  alike  of  courage 
and  ability!  His  reputation  stood 
at  one  time  so  high  that  he  was 
offered  the  command  not  only  of  the 
Neapolitan  army,  which  he  accepted, 
but  of  the  Portuguese  army  also. 
This  last  offer  wns  made  at  the  re- 
commendation of  England,  as  he  was 
an  especial  favourite  with  the  Duke 
of  York  and  the  government  of  the 

Seriod.  He  had  served  with  the 
uke  in  Flanders  and  negotiated 
some  treaty  with  the  ministry  in 
London.  He  died  in  1828  at  the 
age  of  seventy-six. 

The  great  advantage  gained  by 
the  French  had  cost  them  only  a 
loss  of  2000  men  in  killed  and 
wounded ;  60,000  prisoners,  of  whom 
twenty -eight  were  generals  and 
2000  officers  of  inferior  grades  had 
fallen  into  their  hands,  and  they  had 
captured  upwards  of  100  pieees  of 
artillery  and  sixty  stand  of  colours. 
The  trophies  were  sent  to  France, 
and  the  people,  rendered  vrild  with 
joy  by  so  ricn  a  harvest  of  victory, 
**  ibrgot,"  as  one  of  their  writers  says, 
"all  their  former  fanaticism  of  li- 
berty in  tlie  new  fanaticism  of  mili- 
tary glory." 

The  first  barrier  of  opposition 
thus  overthrown,  the  storm  of  war 
rolled  rapidly  on  towards  the  centre 
of  the  Austrian  dominions.  The 
van  of  the  Russian  army,  aided  by 
some  Austrian  divisions,  amounting 
in  all  to  about  45,000  men,  had  al- 
ready, by  forced  marches,  reached 
the  right  bank  of  the  Inn  on  their 
advance  towards  Ulm ;  hearing  what 
had  happened,  they  immediately  fell 
back,  fiercely  pursued  by  the  exult- 
ing victor,  who  was  unable,  however, 
to  impede  their  retreat  or  to  make 
any  impression  upon  them. 

On  the  7Ui  November  Napoleon 
reached  Lintz,  and  here  gave  audi- 
ence to  Count  Giulai,  despatched  by 
the  Emperor  of  Austria  to  propose 
'  armistice  and  negotiation  for  peace. 
>  conqueror  demanded  the  imme- 
1  surrender  of  the  Tyrol  and  the 
etian  States,  and  the  ambassador 
ng  no  power  to  accede  to  such 
IB,  this  irst  attempt  at  pacification 


led  to  nothing.  In  a  prodamation 
issued  a  few  days  afterwards  the 
Emperor  of  Austria  made  kiunni 
what  the  demand  had  been,  and  de- 
clared that  he  would  ^  rely  on  the 
love  of  his  people  and  the  aid  of  bis 
magnanimous  allies  the  Emperor  of 
Kussia  and  Rin^  of  Prussia;  for  the 
latter,  justly  imtated  by  the  flagrant 
violation  of  the  neutrality  of  his  do- 
minionsy  had,  in  fact,  joined  the 
league  and  had  already,  on  the  3d 
of  November,  signed  a  trea^  with 
Austria  and  Russia.  Every  hour 
now  became  of  additional  value  to 
the  French,  and  every  step  in  ad- 
vance was  attended  with  increased 
danger. 

But,  nothing  daunted,  Napoleon 
still  pressed  forward,  and  here  For- 
tune crowned  his  bold  resolve.  We 
shall  see,  however,  that  the  fickle 
goddess  was  not  always  to  be  de- 
pended upon,  and  that,  deprived  of 
ner  aid,  the  once  mighty  victor  was 
as  powerless  as  those  over  whom  he 
now  triumphed  in  his  pride. 

Sharp  actions,  in  which  both  par- 
ties clauned  the  victory,  were  fought 
at  Lampach,  Amstetten,  and  Diem- 
stein,  between  the  leading  divinons 
of  the  French  and  the  rear-ffuard  of 
the  allies ;  and  on  the  13th  Napoleon 
entered  Vienna,  the  proud  capital  of 
the  Hapsbui^,  and  which  had  not 
seen  a  hostile  banner  within  sight  of 
its  walls  since  the  haughty  Otmnans, 
more  Justly  haughty  in  their  time 
than  Napoleon  in  his,  had  come  to 
fatten  the  surrounding  soil  with  the 
bones  of  the  bravest  of  their  war- 
riors. The  first  business  of  the 
victor  vras  to  seize  all  military  stores 
in  tlie  arsenals  and  impose  a  contri- 
bution of  a  hundred  millions  of 
francs  on  the  conquered  provinces. 
The  state  of  his  boasted  finances  ren- 
dered this  necessary  at  a  moment 
when  the  obligations  of  the  bank  of 
France  had  fsulen  to  ten  per  oent  of 
their  real  value. 

The  bridge  over  the  Danube, 
which  was  ready  to  be  destroyed  as 
soon  as  the  last  of  the  Austrian 
troops  should  have  withdrawn,  was, 
by  the  strange  fatality  which  at- 
tended all  the  events  of  this  cam- 
paign, allowed  to  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  French.  Murat  deceived 
Prince  Auersberg,  who  was  intrusted 
with  its  destruction,  by  pretendi^ 
that  an  armistice  had  boen  condudeiL 


1846.] 


The  Campaign  of  Autierlitz. 


657 


and  that  negotiations  for  peace  were 
already  in  progreas.  Marstial  Lannes 
and  General  Bapp  ayonched  the 
tmth  of  the  statement,  and  an  old 
superannuated  Austrian  general,  who, 
in  full  uniform,  had  followed  the 
party,  lent  a  sort  of  confirmation  to 
the  statement.  While  the  conver- 
sation was  in  progress,  a  hody  of 
French  infantry  rushed  forward  in 
donhle-quick  tmie,  and  though  the 
Austrians  sprung  to  their  guns,  they 
were,  i»rtly  hy  threats,  partly  hy 
persuasion,  prevented  from  firing 
uiem.  One  gunner  only  lifted  a 
match,  and  Lumes  had  the  resolu- 
tion and  iiresence  of  mind  to  strike 
it  out  of  his  hand  before  the  priming 
liffhted.  The  loss  of  the  bridge  of 
Vienna  was  a  severe  blow  to  the 
allies,  who  were  not  yet  assembled, 
and  totally  unprepared  for  battle. 
That  this  stratagem,  if  so  it  can  be 
called,  was  boldly  executed  is  cer- 
tain ;  but  then  how  feeble  must  have 
been  the  enemies  against  whom  such 
devices  could  succeed ! 

The  allies  fell  back  rapidly  and 
concentrated  their  troops  as  they  re- 
tired exactly  in  proportion  as  the 
French  forces  were  extended  bv  their 
continued  advance.     Marshal  Ney 


wasdespatehedinto  thel^rd,  whence 
the  Archduke  John  was  obliged  to 
retire  ;  Davoust  and  Marmont  were 
sent  into  Hungary,  and  the  divisions 
of  Wrede  and  Hillaire  directed  to- 
wards Ifflau  in  Bohemia  to  watch 
the  Archduke  Ferdinand,  who  had 
assembled  about  20,000  men,  com- 
posed of  new  levies  and  wrecks  of 
Mack*s  army. 

In  Italy  some  severe  fighting  had 
taken  place.  Marshal  lifiissena  had 
attacked  the  Archduke*s  army  at 
Caldiero  on  the  28th  October;  the 
action  was  renewed,  without  decisive 
results,  on  the  29th,  and  only  ended 
on  the  30th  with  the  complete  re- 

Sulse  of  the  French.  The  Arch- 
uke,  already  informed  of  the  re- 
verses sustained  in  Germany,  deter- 
mined to  fall  back  and  aid  in  the 
defence  of  the  hereditary  states.  He 
kept  Massena  in  check,  effected  his 
junction  with  the  Archduke  John, 
and  harried  forward  to  the  banks  of 
the  Danube,  where  the  real  fate  of 
the  contest  was  to  be  decided.  He 
came  only,  as  we  shall  see,  to  aug- 
ment the  deep  regret  which  the 
hasty  adoption  of  ill-judged  mea- 
sures had  already  occasioned. 


Chafteb  X. 
Battle  of  Austerlitz,  and  Tenninttion  of  the  War. 


At  sea,  also,  great  events  had 
taken  place :  the  battle  of  Trafalgar 
had  b^n  fought,  and  the  tricolor  had 
eeued  to  vrave  upon  the  ocean.  Na- 
poleon was  at  Vienna  when  tidings 
of  these  reverses  reached  him;  and 
as  it  was  impossible  to  conceal  the 
disasters  and  silence  the  voice  of 
fame,  every  effort  was  made  to  efface 
in  the  fields  of  Germany  the  dark 
blot  the  French  arms  had  sustained 
in  naval  warfare. 

Murat  and  Lasnes  had  followed 
the  retiring  Russians  into  Moravia ; 
at  HoUabrun  and  Guntersdorff  sharp 
actions  were  fought ;  and  the  allies, 
anxious  only  to  gain  time,  here  de- 
ceived Murat  by  a  pretended  armis- 
tice, even  as  he  had  deceived  Prince 
Auersberg  at  Vienna.  French 
writers,  and  Bignon  in  particular, 
overlooking  altogether  the  false  as- 
sertion by  which  their  countrymen 
had  gained  possession  of  the  brid^ 
over  the  Diuiube,  are  loud  in  their 
Renunciations  of  what  they  t«im  the 


treachery  practised  upon  them  on 
this  occasion. 

On  the  18th  November  the  second 
Russian  army,  under  Count  Bux- 
hoden,  joined  General  Kutusoff  at 
Wishau,  and  was  soon  followed  by 
10,000  men  of  the  Russian  guards 
commanded  by  the  Grand-Duke  Con- 
stantine.  Another  corps  of  similar 
strength,  under  the  orders  of  Grene- 
ral  iSsen,  also  arrived,  and  was  sta- 
tioned at  Kremser  on  the  March, 
where  it  took  no  share  in  the  sub- 
sequent operations.  On  the  20th 
Napoleon  readied  Brttn,  a  fortress  of 
some  strength  which  the  allies  had 
abandoEMsd,  by  what  BQlow  terms 
**  an  act  of  gigantic  cowardice.**  The 
armies  were  tnus  almost  in  presence. 

The  allies,  now   commanded   in 
chief  by  the  Russian  general  Kutu- 
soff, amounted  to  83,000  men,  not 
includmg  General  £8sen*s  coips ;  ar 
it  was  the  opinion  of  many  omoers 
head-quarters  that  they  should  i 
mediately  resun^  the  offensive^ 


658 


Principal  Oampaigm  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.         [June, 


the  French  were  weakened  hy  their 
rapid  advance  and  by  the  many 
troops  they  had  detached.  The  en- 
tire corps  of  Ney,  Marmont,  Bema- 
dotte,  and  Davoust,  were  absent  at 
this  time.  This  counsel,  whether 
good  or  bad,  was  overruled ;  and  as 
the  troops  had  been  greatljr  ex- 
hausted by  their  long  marches,  it  was 
resolved  to  give  them  some  rest. 
They,  therefore,  took  up  a  strong 
and  almost  unassailable  position  in 
front  of  Olmiitz,  where  tlie  French 
could  certainly  not  attack  them,  but 
whence  a  more  formidable  enemy 
was  soon  to  dislodge  them. 

Events  had  followed  each  other  so 
rapidly  during  this  short  campaign, 
that  no  proper  arrangements  had 
been  made  for  suppl3dng  the  armies 
with  provisions,  so  that  want,  fol- 
lowed by  great  irregularities,  was 
experienced  before  tne  troops  had 
been  three  days  in  their  new  posi- 
tion. The  inability  to  remedy  this 
evil  in  time  is  put  forward  by  those 
who  defend  the  conduct  of  the  allies 
for  rushing  into  a  battle  when  delay, 
without  the  risk  of  a  single  blow, 
was  alone  certain  to  turn  the  scale 
in  their  favour.  On  one  side  the 
Archduke  Charles  was  marching  on 
Vienna  with  the  unbroken  army  of 
Italy;  on  the  other,  the  Prussians 
had  engaged  to  cross  the  frontier  on 
the  15th  of  December.  A  Russian 
and  Swedish  army  had  already  en- 
tered Hanover,  an  English  division 
had  landed  at  Stadt,  another,  under 
Lord  Cathcart,  was  immediately  ex- 
pected, and  an  Anglo-Russian  army 
had  arrived  at  Naples.  A  fearful 
web  was  closing  round  Napoleon; 
nothing  but  a  decisive  victory  seemed 
capable  of  saving  him,  and  his  ad- 
versaries hastened  to  offer  him  battle 
with  all  the  fair  chances  of  combat 
in  his  favour.  Never  had  fortune 
done  so  much  for  one  individual.  At 
Ulm  his  enemies  surrendered  with- 
out fighting  when  great  success  was 
within  their  reach ;  in  l^loravia  they 
rush  Into  battle  with  almost  certain 
defeat  before  them,  at  the  very  time 
when  perfect  inaction  would  have 
ensurea  victory. 

Some  courtesies,  or  attempts  at  a 
reconciliation,  took  place  before  the 
parties  came  to  blows.  When  the 
Emperor  Alexander  joined  the  army, 
Napoleon  sent  Savary  to  compliment 
'tint;  and  historians  assert  tnat  the 


messenger  found  the  Russian  itaff 
fVtll  of  presumptuous  hopes,  confident 
of  success,  and  easily,  therefore,  led 
into  some  act  of  rashness — a  hint  on 
which  French  writers  assert  that  Na- 
poleon acted  with  much  skill,  support- 
ing their  statements  by  puexilities  not 
even  deserving  to  be  repeated.  To 
return  the  compliment  paid  him,  the 
Czar  sent  Prince  Dolgoruskie  on  a 
similar  visit  to  the  French  emperor. 
Count  Haugovitz  also  arrived  with 
the  Prussian  ultimatum,  but  as  the 
armies  were  alread  v  in  presence,  the 
mmister  thought  ne  was  acting  a 
good  diplomatic  part  in  allowing  the 
battle  to  be  fought,  and  then  trim- 
ming his  sail  according  to  circnm- 
stances— a  fatal  and  iMoble  line  of 
conduct,  for  which  nis  unhappy 
country  had  soon  to  pay  a  temble 
penalty. 

After  some  days  lost  in  waiting  for 
a  supply  of  provisions,  the  allied 
army  broke  up  from  the  position  of 
OlmUtz  on  the  27th  November, 
and  advanced  by  slow  and  cautions 
marches  towards  the  enemy,  of  whose 
strength  and  position,  though  in  a 
friendly  country,  they  knew  rery 
little.  The  French  outposts  having 
been  pressed  back,  the  allies,  on  the 
Ist  December,  took  up  their  ground 
on  a  range  of  hills  in  advance  of 
Austerlitz,  where  they  might  easily 
have  arrived  three  days  sooner,— 
that  is,  before  the  corps  of  Davoust 
and  Bemadottc  had  jomed  Napoleon. 
The  French  army  amounted  to 
72,000  men,  and  was  thus  numeri- 
cally mferior  to  the  allied  one;  in 
every  other  respect  it  was  vastly  su- 
perior. The  troops  were  all  of  one 
nation,  many  were  old  soldiers,  ana 
the  whole  army  had  been  lon|  to- 
gether; they  were  conunajidal  oj 
experienced  officers,  and  placed  tne 
most  unbounded  reliance  on  them- 
selves and  their  leaders. 

The  reverse  of  this  was  the  case 
on  the  opposite  side.  The  Austrian 
troops  in  the  allied  army,  monni- 
ing  to  about  20,000  men,  were  new 
levies,  the  reserve  battalions  of  tne 
regiments  lost  at  Ulm,  and  ^}^Jr^ 
heard  only  of  the  defeats  sustained  oy 
their  countrymen.  The  Bussiftiw, 
though  bold  and  resolute  8oIdiers,were 
unacquainted  with  European  warfare, 
unless  the  few  who  might,  perh^^ 
have  served  in  Italy  under  Su^^'^J"" 
They  were  no  doupt  comm»n<led  pJ 


1846.] 


The  Campaign  o/AuiterliU. 


659 


their  own  officers,  but  the  chief  of 
the  staff  was  an  Austrian,  and  the 
vrhole  of  the  head-quarter  staff  was 
(composed  of  Austrian  officers,  who 
served  under  a  Russian  commander- 
in-chiei^  totally  unknown  to  his  new 
allies — ample  causes  for  jealousies 
and  want  of  confidence. 

As  if  every  stage  of  this  unfortu- 
nate camnaign  were  to  be  distin- 
guished Dy  misfortune,  General 
Smith,  the  quartermaster-general  of 
the  army,  and  an  officer  of  great 
skill,  courage,  and  firmness,  was 
killed  in  the  action  of  Erems.  He 
was  succeeded  by  General  Weyrotter, 
a  brave  and  able  man,  but  greatly 
inferior  to  his  predecessor,  and  want- 
ing that  calmness  and  composure  so 
necessary  in  his  situation,  for  it  ap- 
pears that,  at  this  period  of  the  war 
at  least,  the  quartermaster-^neral  in 
the  Austrian  and  allied  armies  was  al- 
ways the  projector  of  the  movements, 
which  the  generals  commanding  seem 
only  to  have  approved  of  and  carried 
into  effect ;  and  here  we  sec  some  of 
the  'consequences  of  so  Strang  a 
system,  it  was  at  eight  o*cIock  in 
the  evening  of  the  1st  December  that 
General  Weyrotter  dictated  to  two 
staff-officers  the  disposition  for  the 
next  day*s  battle,  at  the  very  time 
when  the  adjoining  room  was  already 
filled  with  officers  and  orderlies  wait- 
ing for  their  instructions.  Between 
nine  and  ten  o'clock  he  carried  the 
plan  to  General  Kutusoff,  the  com- 
mander-in-chief, who,  before  he  even 
read  it,  observed  "  that  it  would  be 
better  to  defer  the  battle,  as  they 
were  but  indifferently  informed  of 
the  strength  and  position  of  the 
enemy,  bad  received  no  late  intelli- 
gence of  the  Archduke  Charles*s 
movements,  were  uncertain  as  to  the 
ground  on  which  the  French  stood, 
though  it  seemed  to  offer  consider- 
able difficulties.** 

General  Weyrotter  met  these  ap- 
parently very  judicious  objections 
by  statmg  that  the  emperors  thought 
a  battle  necessary;  adding,  that  he 
was  perfectly  well  acquamted  with 
the  ground,  some  manoeuvres  having 
been  executed  there  the  year  before 
under  his  own  direction.  On  going 
over  the  disposition  itself,  Kutusoff 
expressed  a  wish  that  a  more  com- 
pact order  of  battle  and  less  compli- 
cated operation  might  be  adopted, 
as  the  Btr^ogth  of  the  Bossian  troops 


lay  more  in  their  fighting  than  ma- 
noeuvring. "  They  did  not  mind," 
he  said,  '^  being  turned  or  taken  in 
fiank,  as  this  often  happened  to  them 
when  contending  against  the  Turks, 
but  it  might  be  dangerous  to  attempt 
complicated  operations  with  them,  as 
they  had  not  yet  acquured  the  facil- 
ity of  moving  possessed  by  the  sol- 
diers of  many  other  armies."  Wis- 
dom spoke  in  vaiu,  for  time  was  fiy- 
ing,  all  were  waiting  for  orders ;  and 
the  disposition  had  to  be  translated 
into  Russian.  This  occasioned  fur- 
ther delay,  so  that  many  of  the 
generals  only  received  their  orders 
at  seven  o*clock  in  the  morning, 
others  not  till  nine,  when  the  action 
had  already  commenced,  while  most 
of  the  commanders  of  brigades  and 
divisions  never  received  theirs  at  all. 
Prince  Bagration  augured  ill  of  the 
result  the  moment  ne  read  his  in- 
structions. '*  I  do  not  like  these 
separate  attacks,"  he  said  to  the  Aus- 
tnan  staff-officer  who  brought  them; 
*'  and  if  we  fight  in  this  unconnected 
manner,  I  fear  that  we  shall  be  de- 
feated ."  We  have  given  these  details 
not  merely  to  shew  how  affairs  on 
which  the  fate  of  nations  may  depend 
are  sometimes  managed,  but  also  to 
expose  the  mass  of  fables  advanced  by 
so  many  historians  in  the  face  of  the 
works  of  Stutterheim  and  Schonhals, 
the  excellence  and  authenticity  of 
which  can  never  be  questioned. 

The  2d  of  December  was  the  an- 
niversary of  Napoleon*s  coronation, 
and  the  **  sun  or  Austerlitz,"  which 
so  long  figured  in  his  history,  al- 
ready ^one  brightly  in  the  momino^ 
sky,  while  the  lower  ground  was  stiu 
covered  with  a  den^  wintry  mist, 
that  cleared  and  closed  again  on 
different  parts  of  the  field  as  the  day 
advanced.  The  French  army  were 
collected  in  ready  masses  between  the 
village  of  Tellnitz,  where  their  ex- 
treme right  was  posted,  to  the  heights 
of  Dwarashna,  a  little  to  the  north 
of  the  road  leading  from  Brlinn  to 
Olmlitz ;  they  had  fortified  this  post 
and  armed  it  with  twenty  pieces  of 
artillery.  Another  strong  battery 
was  stationed  on  some  elevated 
flpround  behind  the  village  of  Ko- 
belnitz.  Their  right  wing  was  co- 
vered by  the  villafies  of  Tellnitz, 
Sokolnitz,  and  KoBelnitz,  and  b 
the  Rizedkerback,  or  rivulet,  wh 
from  north  to  south  trayersed 


660 


Principal  Campa\gn$  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.      [June, 


'whole  plain  as  well  as  the  hamlets 
mentioned.  The  reserve  also  stood 
hehind  the  rivtilet  on  the  heights  of 


Schlappamtz,  but  the  centre  aad  left 
wing  were  in  its  front.  The  extent 
of  position   from   Tellnitz  to  the 


PRELATTrrZ 
o 


MIUJE€CHOWITZ 
o 


LAKE  or  MONITZ 


t 


IMiLE 


Dwarushna  or  Santon,  as  the  French 
termed  the  point,  was  aboat  three 
miles. 

Of  the  allied  army,  the  left  wing, 
composed  of  three  columns  of  10,000 
men  each,  were  intended  to  cany 
the  villages  of  Tellnitz  and  Sokol- 
nitz,  to  form  on  the  plain  beyond 
the  rivulet,  wheel  to  the  right,  and 
fall  upon  the  centre  and  left  of  the 
enemy.  Prince  Bagration,  with  the 
right  %ving,  was  to  advance  along 
the  BrUnn  road  and  attack  their  left 
wing,  and  Prince  John  of  Lichten- 
stein,  with  sixty  squadrons  of  ca- 
valry, was  to  connect  this  movement 
with  the  advance  of  the  fourth  or 
centre  column  from  the  heights  of 
Pratzen.  The  Russian  guard,  under 
the  Grand-Duke  Ck)nstantine,  formed 
the  reserve,  and  was  ordered  to  move 
upon  Blasewitz.  By  this  arrange- 
ment the  right  centre  of  the  ames 
was  composed  exclusively  of  cavalry, 
and  the  whole  army  had  only  a  re- 
serve of  9000  men,  which,  as  the 
movement  to  the  right  was  a  di- 
verging one,  soon  found  itself  in 
front  line,  so  that  on  the  first  turn 
of  fortune  a  host,  counting  80,000 
men  present  in  the  field,  had  not  a 
sinde  battalion  in  reserve. 

At  seven  o*clock  in  the  morning, 

Greneral    Kienmeyer,    commanding 

the  advanced  guard  of  the  first  co- 

-^d  the  battle,  by  attack- 

Mse  of  Tellnitz,  strong 


by  position,  as  well  as  by  the  style 
of  building,  usual  in  the  countiT. 
The  French  resisted  bravely,  and, 
though  driven  from  some  surround- 
ing heights,  held  the  main  post;  the 
mSt  thickened,  and  Kienmeyer,  see- 
ing nothing  of  the  supporting  column, 
delayed  the  onset.  At  the  expiration 
of  an  hour  they  arrived,  when  the 
attack  was  renewed,  and  the  village 
carried  after  a  severe  ^™ff^®' ,1, 
troops  having  passed  the  defile, 
formed,  according  to  order,  on  the 
opposite  plain,  and  waited  t^J^»i" 
the  disposition  prescribed,  till  the 
second  and  third  columns  sbouW 
force  Sokolnitz,  and  arrive  on  the 
same  alignment.  But  these  troop 
started  still  later  than  the  first  co- 
lumn, and,  finding  the  village  bravely 
defended,  opened  a  fire  of  artillf7 
upon  it,  which  the  French  answerea 
fiercely  from  their  heavy  battery  on 
the  opposite  bank  of  the  nnieu 
The  mist  hung  heavily  in  ^^}^ 
ground,  and  the  smoke  of  a  hundrea 
guns  and  thousands  of  musketj  ««• 
able  to  rise  in  the  thick  and  W 
air,  fell  back  upon  the  combatants, 
and  augmented  the  darkness  and  con- 
fusion of  the  scene :  death  flew  pn)- 
nuscuously  from  band  to  band,  ana 
struck  almost  at  random.  The  ume 
for  the  forward  movement  was  IoSh 
but  the  troops,  disp^;ardinff  wh^^J^ 
now  passing  on  their  right,  ruswa 
at  last  into  the  rained  Tillage*   ^'^^ 


1846.] 


The  Campaign  of  Avsierliii. 


661 


mist  was  thick  and  heavy  in  the 
rayiae,  and  the  columns,  in  passing 
the  defile,  crossed  each  other  and  got 
into  utter  and  inextricable  disorder, 
and  only  reached  the  opposite  bank 
to  be  overthrown  with  loss  and  shame 
by  a  comparative  small  number  of 
foes. 

In  the  centre  more  decisive  events 
were  in  progress.  The  fourth  co- 
lumn of  the  allies  had  delayed  its 
march  to  give  the  third,  which  had 
bivouacked  in  its  front,  time  to  take 
^ound  to  the  left.  No  sooner  had 
Its  advanced  guard  reached  the  high 
ground  near  Pratzen,  than  General 
Kutusoff,  who  accompanied  the 
column,  discovered  a  large  body  of 
the  enemy  moving  slowly  and 
steadily  towards  the  village;  an- 
other and  another  followed;  the 
foe,  not  waiting  for  the  onset,  was 
advancing,  and  an  attack  had  now  to 
be  met  instead  of  being  made :  it 
was  an  hour  of  peril,  and  quick  re- 
solve was  necessary.  The  heights  of 
Pratzen  had  at  once  become  the  key- 
stone of  the  allied  position ;  they  were 
commanding,  and  formed  the  point 
of  union  between  the  right  and  left 
wing  of  the  army :  the  fate  of  the 
day  depended  on  their  possession. 
A  battalion  was  instantly  thrown 
into  the  village,  and  the  advanced 
guard  was  ordered  to  occupy  the 
heights ;  the  rear  brigade  of  the  third 
column  was  recalled,  the  main  body 
of  the  fourth  hurried  on,  and  four 
regiments  of  cavalry  called  in  to  aid. 
The  French,  however,  carried  the 
village;  the  troops  pushed  on,  the 
heights  made  little  resistance,  and 
the  enemy  ascended  the  hill  in  firm 
and  compact  order.  But  they  were 
not  to  remain  in  undisputed  pos- 
session of  the  prize;  brave  efforts 
were  made  to  retake  it  by  the  Aus- 
trian and  Russian  brigades  as  they 
came  successively  into  action.  The 
combat  was  long  and  stem;  both 
parties  repeatedly  lost  and  gained 
ground.  On  this  point  the  French 
were  greatly  superior,  and  their 
numbers  were  au^ienting  fast ;  the 
allies  had  no  aid  to  look  for,  all 
their  disposable  troops  had  been 
drawn  into  action,  and  the  battle 
raged  fiercely  along  the  whole  line, 
and  it  became  evident  that  a  prompt 
home-charge  of  bayonets  could  alone 
drive  the  foe  fjrom  the  lon^-disputed 
hill.     The  order  was  giv^n,  the 


troops  levelled  their  anns,  the  Rus- 
sians raised  their  war-cry,  and  all 
rushed  on  with  loud  shouts  towards 
the  enemy.  But  here  tiie  influence 
of  modem  tactics  was  quickly  made 
aj^parent ;  the  soldiers  no  sooner  came 
within  telling  reach  of  the  French 
fire,  than  they  halted  to  return  it, 
never  dreaming  that  rickety,  zig- 
zag bayonets  were  to  be  used  m 
close  combat.  Hie  wild  fire  of  mus- 
ketry was  continued,  the  French,  by 
superior  numbers  and  discipline,  con- 
stantly gaining  ground,  till,  after  a 
two  hours*  severe  struggle,  the  broken 
battalions  of  the  allies  were  forced  to 
leave  the  fiital  hill.  Protected  by 
the  cavalry,  they  fell  back  unpursued 
towards  Austerlitz. 

On  the  right  fortune  was  not  more 
favourable.  The  Grand-Duke  Con- 
stantine,  on  reaching  the  heights  of 
Blasowitz,  found  himself  in  front  of 
Bemadotte*s  corps,  which  was  ad- 
vancing towards  the  same  point. 
The  parties  met  on  open  ground,  on 
which  all  arms  could  act,  and  here, 
too,  the  battle  was  sternly  contested. 
Grape  and  canister  swept  the  plain 
with  unresisted  fury.  Infantry  met 
infantry  in  Ime,  and  hostile  thou- 
sands brought  the  whole  power*  of 
musketry  fire  to  bear  upon  each 
other,  while  on  both  sides  the  cavalry 
Btmck  bravely  in  for  victory.  A 
corps  of  Russian  lancers  charsed  and 
threw  the  light  horsemen  of  General 
Kellermann,  but  carried  away  by  the 
ardour  of  success,  they  became  ex- 
posed to  the  fire  of  infantry  masses, 
and  attacked  in  their  turn  by  Murat*s 
cuirassiers,  were  completely  routed. 
The  cavalry  of  the  French  guard 
broke  and  trampled  under  hoof  the 
left  battalions  of  the  Grand-Duke 
Constantine*s  division;  the  fugitives 
were  taken  up  by  the  cavalry  of  the 
Russian  guard,  who  again  drove 
back  the  assailants,  and,  in  following 
up  their  success,  charged  and  dis- 
persed the  fourth  French  infantry, 
taking  their  eagle,  the  only  trophy 
that  crowned  the  Russian  efibrts  in 
this  sanguinary  field.  Bravely  as 
the  French  were  met  on  this  point, 
they  were  successful  nevertheless;  for 
the  Russian  guard  gave  way,  but 
retired  unpursued  to  the  hekhts  in 
front  of  Austerlitz.  Prince  <F' 
Lichtenstein*s  cavalry  prote^ 
movement,  kept  the  Frenc 
ptetely  ia  check,  and  made 


M2 


Principal  Campaigfu  in  the  Rise  of  Napoleon.       [Juoe, 


briilmnt  and  (niecettftil  charge 
though  none  of  a  nature  capable  of 
ehan^g  the  fate  of  the  day :  the 
most  important  was  executed  against 
General  Schinner's  brigade  of  in- 
Ikntry,  which  was  entirely  dispersed. 

On  the  extreme  rifht,  Bagration 
had  &red  no  better  tnan  the  rest  of 
his  countr^en.  He  had  advanced 
by  HoUubitz  and  Kruh  towards  the 
heights  of  Dwarashna,  but,  attacked 
by  Marshal  Lannes,  he  was,  after 
long  holding  the  ground  near  Pasa- 
rits,  obliged  to  fall  back  to  the 
heights  of  Baushnitz,  at  the  same  time 
that  the  Grand-Duke  Constantine 
withdrew  from  Blasowitz.  The  cen- 
tre and  right  wing  of  the  allies  were 
thus  defeated ;  the  troops  had  fought 
bravely  though  unsucosssfuUy,  and 
had  effected  at  least  an  orderly  re- 
treat; but  on  the  left,  shame  and 
disaster  were  at  their  height. 

It  has  been  shewn  that  the  first 
column  of  the  allies  had  captured 
Tellnitz,  and  formed  on  the  plain 
beyond  the  rivulet ;  and  that  the 
heads  of  the  second  and  third  columns 
had  forced  their  way  through  Sokol- 
nitz,  and  also  reached  the  n^ht  bank 
of  the  streamlet,  though  m  utter 
confusion.  The  ground  vras  here 
defended  only  by  the  French  divi- 
sions of  Friant  and  Le  Grand,  sup- 
ported by  a  brigade  of  cavalry ;  but 
they  were  prompt  and  resolute,  gave 
the  Russians  no  time  to  reform  their 
order,  attacked  them  in  front,  while 
a  division  of  Soult's  corps,  which  had 
passed  beyond  the  rivulet,  fell  upon 
their  right  flank.  The  Russians, 
unable  to  make  a  coimter-movement, 
were  soon,  from  front  to  rear  of  the 
column,  in  such  utter  confusion  that 
their  chief.  General  Preybyschewsky, 
of  unpronounceable  name,  surrender- 
ed himself  prisoner  with  6000  men. 
The  second  column,  mixed  up  with 
the  fragments  of  the  third,  attempted 
to  fall  back  upon  Augets,  and  in 
doing  BO  threw  itself  upon  the  iirst 
column,  the  only  corps  that  still  re- 
tained its  formation. 

When  the  Emperor  Alexander, 
who  was  with  the  fourth  colunm, 
saw  the  unfavourable  torn  the  com- 
bat was  taking  on  the  heights  of 
Pratzen,  he  despatched  an  order  to 
Count  Buxhoden,  commanding  the 
■ft  wing,  directing  him  to  send  the 

"St  column  to  the  aid  of  the  fourth. 
ese  troops  no  sooner  b^gan  their 


march   for  this  purpose,  than  the 
French  resumed  the  offenave,  retook 
the  village  of  Tellnitz,  and  haimed 
the  rear  of  their  retiring  advemries. 
Manhal  Soult's  division  had  alretdy 
extended  themselves  from  the  beigbts 
of  Pratzen  to  those  of  St  Anthooy, 
but  were  not  yet  in  force  or  in  firm 
position ;  and  it  seemed  posdUe  that 
a  bold  attack  executed  by  the  whole 
of  thecollecteddiviaion  might  ha?e  re- 
gained the  hills  and  re-established  the 
conununication  between  the  left  and 
the  centre.    But  instead  of  wheeling 
to  the  left  and  making  this  on§et  while 
the  fragments  of  the  second  and  third 
cc^umns  formed  behind  the  fint,  the 
whole  mass,  broken  and  unbickeo, 
poured  along  the  low  ground  towards 
the  village  of  Augetz,  trusting  thus 
to  regain  the  rest  of  the  army  before 
renewing  the  combat.    The  French 
were    gathering    strength    oa   the 
heights,  and  rushing  down  &oni  the 
hilU  where  stands  the  Chapel  St. 
Anthony,  from  whence  the  Rossians 
had  descended  in  the  mornings  they 
attacked    and    carried   the  village, 
taking  about  4000  more  prisoner*. 
Count  Buxhoden,  with  a  few  of  the 
leading  battalions,   passed  through 
and  reached  the  main  army;  the 
remnants  of  the  three  columna  were 
placed  on  the  very  brink  of  nun. 
Before  them,  the  hills,  covered  with 
victorious  foes  and    bristling  with 
cannon ;  behind,  the  lakes  of  Satacban 
and  Moenitz,  with  only  a  narrow 
causeway  between,  on  which  not  more 
than  four  men  could  pasa  »l"^ 
and  even  these  liable  to  be  tamed  by 
the  enemy  from  Aug:etz :  never  were 
troops  in  a  more  perilous  situation. 
But  here,  at  least,  there  waa  conr- 
age  and  presence  of  mind  on  the  sioc 
of  the  allies,  and  some  want  of  ener^ 
on  the  part  of  the  French,  though 
Napoleon  himself  brought  the  arta- 
lery  of  the  Imperial  Guard  U)  the 
spot.    Giving  way  before  the  m 
hail  that  poured  upon  them  from  tnc 
heights,  the  confused  and  hnm 
mass  of  Austrian  and  Russian  w 
fantry  rolled  back  towards  the  laktf  i 
the  soldiers  attempted  to  pass  upon 
the  ice,  but  it  broke  beneath  them, 
and  some  were  drowned,— »c?*°?' 
stance  that  gave  rise  to  the  i«ncjr^ 
published  .in  the  bulletin,  deBcnbing 
whole  divisions  as  having  ^^^Jt 
wateiy  grave.    TheAustnaacavwy 
alone  preserved  th^  order :  one  itg>' 


1 846.] 


The  Campaign  of  AusterlUz* 


663 


xnent  passed  the  defile  and  formed  in 
front  of  the  outlet  of  Augetz,  so  as  to 
prevent  the  French  from  taming  it ; 
the  other  regiments,  aided  hy  a  sin- 
gle remaining  brigade  of  artillery, 
interposed  between  the  mass  of  help- 
less infantry  and  the  French  horse- 
men who  strove  to  break  in  upon 
them;  and  though  exposed  during 
this  trying  service  to  the  plunging 
fire  of  the  French  artillery,  they 
bravely  maintained  their  ground  till 
the  perilous  retreat  was  completely 
effected.  It  was  ovring  to  the  courage 
and  energy  of  General  Stutterheim 
that  the  remnants  of  the  left  wing 
were  thus  preserved;  reduced  to 
1 0,000  men,  to  one-third  of  their  origi- 
nal number,  they  joined  the  rest  of 
the  army  in  the  position  of  Hodijetz, 
and  with  their  passage  of  the  defile 
ended  what  the  French  soldiers  long 
termed  ^'  the  battle  of  the  three  em- 
perors." The  cavalry  under  Prince 
John  of  Lichtenstein  continued  to 
occupy  the  position  in  front  of  Aus- 
terlitz.  From  three  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  both  armies  remained  tran- 
quilly within  half  cannon-shot  of 
each  other,  and  separated  only  by  a 
narrow  valley.  After  nightfall  the 
allies  began  their  retreat  towards 
Goring,  unpursued  by  the  enemy. 

The  disaster  of  Austerlitz,  the  most 
fatal  ever  before  experienced  by  a 
modem  army,  cost  the  allies  30,000 
men  in  killed,  wounded,  and  prison- 
ers ;  eighty  pieces  of  artillery  were 
left  on  the  neld,  and  forty  stand  of 
colours  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
conquerors :  the  vanquished  were 
not  merely  defeated,  they  were  com- 
pletely routed,  and  rendered  for  the 
moment  totally  unfit  for  further 
operations.  "  The  sun  of  Auster- 
litz "  had  shone  upon  a  scene  of  ruin 
which  the  annals  of  ages  could  not 
equal ;  but  "  events  were  on  the 
gale  **  destined  to  reduce  even  this 
giant  combat  to  an  action  of  second- 
ary importance. 

The  loss  of  the  French,  if  we  be- 
lieve their  official  bulletins,  did  not 
exceed  2500  men ;  but  as  the  battle 
w^as  severely  contested  along  the 
whole  line,  from  the  heights  of 
fratzen  to  those  of  Dwarashna,  they 
must  evidently  have  suffered  a  great 
deal  more,  and  it  is  known  that,  soon 
after  the  armistice,  the  hospitals  of 
Briinn  contained  no  less  than  14,000 
sick  and  wounded  French  soldWn* 
TOL.  xxxm.  no.  cxcyin. 


When  we  consider  that  the  army 
had  marched  from  the  camp  of  Bou- 
logne into  the  heart  of  Moravia,  and 
b^n  there  engaged  in  military  ope- 
rations during  Uie  depth  of  winter, 
w^  can  easily  understand  that  the 
number  of  sick  must  have  been  con- 
siderable ;  but  making  every  allow- 
ance for  them,  the  state  of  the  hos- 
pitals still  shews  how  little  reliance  is 
to  be  placed  on  Napoleon's  official 
reports. 

General  Stutterheim  tells  us  that 
the  Austrian  soldiers  fought  during 
this  ill-fated  day  with  a  degree  of 
gallantry  which  amply  acquitted 
them  from  all  charge  of  having  occa- 
sioned the  disaster  of  the  campaign : 
the  Russians,  he  says,  also  fought 
with  great  bravery  at  the  conunence- 
ment  of  the  action,  but  slackened  in 
their  efforts  and  energy  as  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  contest  augmented: 
the  French,  he  allows,  disjuayed  the 
most  admirable  soldiership  from  first 
to  last.  And  it  is,  in  nict-,  to  this 
superior  soldiership  and  to  nothing 
else  that  the  whole  of  this  splendid 
victory  must  be  ascribed ;  for  it  is 
due  as  little  to  any  want  of  skill  dis- 
played by  the  allies,  as  to  the  ^reat 
skill  supposed  to  have  been  evmced 
by  Napoleon.  The  attempt  to  turn 
the  right  of  the  French  was  in  itself 
deserving  of  no  great  praise  or  blame. 
If  executed  with  promptness  and 
energy  it  m^ht,  when  the  French 
advanced  to  Inratzen,  have  led  to  the 
most  brilliant  results,  because  it 
would  have  taken  in  reverse  the 
troops  engaged  with  the  right  and 
centre  of  the  allies ;  had  the  latter 
held  their  ground  long  enough  to 
admit  of  the  movement  being  duly 
executed.  The  French  reserve  would, 
no  doubt,  have  interposed ;  but  12,000 
or  15,000  men — twenty  battalions — 
could  not  have  arrested  the  mass  of 
30,000  opponents,  well  provided  with 
cavalry  and  artillery,  unless  we 
ascribe  to  the  French  soldiers  so  great 
a  superiority  over  their  adversaries 
as  to  render  totally  needless  all  fur- 
ther proofs  of  our  present  proposi- 
tion. 

The  sudden  advance  of  the  centre 
and  left  of  the  French  army  has  been 
described  as  a  movement  that  evinced 
the  highest  military  genius,  anc^ 
cided  tne  fate  of  the  day.    Bu' 
as  on  all  occasions  on  which  i 
excess  of  praise  8o  lavishly  be 

XX 


664 


Principai 


igm  M  ike  Sine  of  Napoleon.        [Jane, 


on  the  skill  of  the  French  enq^eror, 
the  proofs  in  rapport  of  the  declarft- 
tions  are  totally  wanting ;  for  if  we 
are  to  receive  mere  results  as  evidence 
of  genius,  we  shall  soon  come  to 
times  when  those  results  tell  exactly 
the  other  way.  The  advance  oftfa« 
French  rather  endangered  than  se- 
cured the  victory,  for  the  line  of  the 
rivulet  was  extremely  strong,  and  by 
crossing  it  they  plac^  themselves  on 
equal  ground  with  their  adversaries, 
and  offered  their  ri^ht  flank  to  the 
left  winff  of  the  aUies  then  moving 
upon  Sdkonitz,  had  the  latter  been 
able  to  make  a  corresponding  move- 
ment. As  General  Kutusoff  told  the 
quartermaster-general,  the  Russian 
troops  were  not  quick  at  mancsuvring, 
and  here  they  not  only  neglected  to 
fdl  upon  the  flank  of  the  advancing 
French,  but  seem  to  have  offered 
little  resistance  when  assailed  them- 
selves. Against  other  enemies,  an 
attack  on  uie  right  flank  of  a  column 
moving  by  its  left  led  to  a  very  dif- 
ferent result  At  the  battle  of  Tou- 
louse, Marshal  Beresford's  division, 
moving  in  column,  left  in  front,  was 
attackol  by  the  division  of  General 
Taupin,  and  the  French,  recollecting 
AusterHtz,  perhaps,  thought  that  the 
onset  was  of  itself  to  prove  decisive  of 
the  fate  of  the  day ;  but  the  British 
wheeled  simply  to  the  right,  received 
and  defeated  the  assailants,  pursued 
them  up  the  hiU,  and  gained  the 
victory.  Though  the  battle-ground 
on  which  these  actions  were  fought 
was  very  different,  the  principle  was 
exactly  the  same ;  and  nad  the  Rus- 
sians been  able  to  form  up  and  meet 
the  French  front  to  front,  the  boasted 
advance  of  Uie  latter  would  have  been 
to  their  profit,  whatever  the  ulti- 
mate result  might  have  proved,  for 
they  would  stm  have  fought  with 
more  chances  of  success  on  level 
ground,  than  after  forcing  their  wf^ 
through  the  ravine  and  defile  of  Sol- 
konitz.  It  may,  perhaps,  be  said  that 
Napoleon  knew  nis  adversaries  and 
acted  accordingly :  any  thing  may  be 
said ;  but  what  proof  have  we  that  he 
knew  them  here,  when  we  shall  find 
that  he  knew  l^em  not  at  a  later 
period  and  after  greater  experience  ? 
The  allied  army  had  experienced 
so  much  difliculty  in  fiodmg  pro- 
visions on  their  advance,  that  it  was 
resolved  to  relinquish  the  road  to 

oimutz,  and  tetiie  by  Godiog  into 


Hnngair^.    Th^  coofleqaeutly  left 
the  position  of  Ho^egist  after  mid- 
night, and  reached  Czeitch  early  in 
the  morning  \  and  on  the  followiitf 
day  the  main  body  crossed  the  Mai^ 
at  Goding,  and  arrived  at  Holiileh  in 
«  very  weak  and  reduced  atate,  and 
with  few  men  in  the  ranks.    A  ascK 
look  at  the  map,  and  a  compaiiaonof 
distances,  will  shew  how  liule  foun- 
dation there  is  for  Napoleon's  a^ 
sertion,  that  their  retreat  was  already 
cut  off^— unless  we  suppose,  indeed, 
that  the  French  could  march  moeh 
faster  by  deep  and  miry  cnMs-roads 
than  the  allies — already  maoy  faoois 
in  advance  of  them — could  do  by  a 
direct  highroad.     Count  Bagxiatioo 
having  been  withdrawn  from  Bans- 
nitz  in  the  evening  after  the  battle, 
necessarily  left  the  Olnuits  road  open 
to  the  I«rench,  who,  sending  aome 
light  cavalry  to  soour  it,  cantoied  a 
great  quantity  of  baggage,  wnich  had 
followed  the  allies  in  their  advance. 

On  the  morning  of  the  3d  of  De- 
cember, Prince  John  of  lichteustein 
— a  brave  soldier  in  the  field,  but 
from  first  to  last  the  advocate  cf 
France  in  the  Austrian  council — 
already  arrived  at  Ns^ioleon's  head- 
quarters, with  a  message  firom  the 
£mperor  of  Austria,  propoong  an 
armistice,  as  well  as  an  mterview, 
preparatory  to  a  negotiation  for 
peace.  The  gratified  victor  gladly 
acceded  to  the  overture.  The  amis- 
tice  was  to  commence  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  4th,  and  the  interview  to 
Ui&  place  immediately  afterwards. 

The  two  emperors  met  in  the  open 
air  at  a  mill  near  the  village  of 
Niskowitch,  and  Nuoleon,  if  we  be- 
lieve his  assertion,  told  the  Austnan, 
in  conducting  bun  to  the  fire,  "I 
receive  3rou  in  the  only  palace  I  have 
inhabited  these  two  months.**  The 
other,  in  reply,  said,  **You  have 
turned  your  residence  to  such  good 
account  that  you  ought  to  be  satis- 
fied with  it.**  If  Napoleon  made 
this  speech,  he  forgot  the  palace  of 
Schonbriin  and  the  noblest  palaces 
of  which  southern  Germany  csa 
boast,  which  had  been  his  habitationB 
since  he  crossed  the  Rhine.  Tbc 
commander  of  an  army  need  rarely 
bivouac,  and  his  duty  rather  calu 
upon  him  to  avoid  needless  personal 
hardship,  as  the  mental  hardahips 
he  has  to  undergo  are  amply  suifieient 

fiw  him.    The  speech  ims)  no  doo^ 


1846.] 


The  Campaign  of  Austeriitz, 


665 


devised  afterwards  for  effect,  and  re- 
peated for  the  same  purpose  by  his 
credulous  biographers.  At  the  in- 
terview, Napoleon  makes  the  Empe- 
ror Francis  say  of  the  Eng^sh, "  They 
are  a  nation  of  merchants  who  would 
Bet  the  Continent  on  fire  to  aeeore  for 
themselves  the  commerce  of  the 
world.'*  Bignoa  himself  has  evi- 
dently  some  misgivings  on  the  sub- 
ject of  these  words,  and  asks  why  they 
should  not  have  been  uttered.  Tlie 
reason  seems  a  plain  one ;  the  Empe- 
ror Francis  was  a  gentleman  in  the 
best  aooeptation  of  the  word,  at  no 
time  likely  to  make  a  vulgar  speech, 
and  least  of  all  to  assert  of  his  late 
allies  what  he  knew  to  be  a  falsehood. 
The  pretended  qieech  beu»,  besides,* 
the  full  impress  of  the  Napoleon 
manufactory. 

The  interview  of  the  two  empe* 
xors  lasted  a  considerable  time,  and 
at  its  termination,  Generals  Savary 
and  Stutterheim  were  sent  to  ac- 
Quaint  the  Emperor  of  Bussia  with 
the  arrangement,  and  were  ordered, 
in  the  event  of  obtaining  his  accession 
to  the  armistice,  to  arrest  all  further 
movements  of  the  troops,  particu- 
haly  of  Davoust*s  corps,  which  was 
moving  in  the  direction  of  Goding, 
where  General  Meerfeld's  Austrian 
division  was  stationed.  The  two 
generals  found  the  Czar  at  the  castle 
of  Hollitz  in  the  night  between  the 
4th  and  ^th,  and  obtained  his  ready 
assent  to  the  armistice.  The  time 
and  place  of  this  interview  shew  the 
falsehood  of  Napoleon's  statement, 
when  he  says  that  the  Emperor 
Alexander  asked  General  Savary 
whether  he  could  retire  in  safety, 
and  was  told  by  the  French  general 
that  he  could  do  so,  on  pledging  his 
w<nrd  to  retire  immediately  with  his 
army  into  Russia.  General  Stutter- 
heim, a  man  of  high  honour  and 
veracity,  does  not  say  a  single  word 
of  such  a  conversation  having  taken 


place;  besides  which,  the  emperor 
and  his  army  had  already  crossed 
the  March  on  the  morning  of  the 
4th,  had  all  Hungary  open  to  them, 
and  were  already  far  in  advance  of 
the  French.  From  Hollitz  the  mili- 
taiy  emissaries  went  in  seurch  of 
Davonst,  who  was  only  at  Josephs- 
idorp,  a  march  from  Goding,  where 
he  could  only  arrive  on  the  5th, 
after  fighting  General  Meerfeld,  who 
occuped  the  strong  pass  of  Ludschutz. 
It  is  a  painfUl  ta»  for  a  writer  thus 
to  dedicate  page  after  pa^  to  the 
exposure  of  gross  and  ffianng  false- 
hoods, insulting  to  ordinary  ju^- 
ments,  and  which  the  worl((  in  de- 
ference to  some  new-fangled  doctrines 
of  liberality,  deem  themselves  bound 
to  receive  with  the  most  implicit 
faith  and  without  the  slightest  ex- 
amination. 

On  the  very  day  on  which  the 
armistice  of  Austeriitz  was  signed, 
the  Archduke  Ferdinand  defeated 
the  Bavarians  under  General  Wrede 
at  Ifflau  in  Bc^emia,  and  was  already 
on  Uke  French  line  of  communication 
on  one  side,  while  the  Archduke 
Charles,  having  defeated  and  dis- 
tanced Massena,  was  rapidly  advanc* 
ing  on  the  other  with  an  unbroken 
army  of  85,000  men,  easer  to  aven^ 
the  disasters  which  had  oefallen  theur 
country.  At  Goding  and  Kremsir 
were  15,000  men  under  Essen  and 
Meerfeld,  who  had  taken  no  share  in 
the  battle;  but,  by  this  hasty  sub- 
mission, all  the  advantages  that 
might  have  been  derived  from  time 
anS  the  resources  of  a  ^eat  empire, 
and  the  dangerous  position  in  wnich 
Napoleon  h^  placed  himself,  were 
wholly  sacrificed;  and  the  baseness 
of  Prussian  diplomacy  soon  com- 
pleted the  full  measure  of  calamity, 
which  the  inabilitv  of  Austrian  and 
Bussian  commanoers  had  brought 
upon  Germany. 


666 


On  Beggars* 


[Jane, 


ON  BEOOAUS. 


«i 


Beggars  all,  beggars  all,  Sir  John." 


This  planet  of  ours,  which  is  a  beg* 
gar  of  light  from  the  sun  and  moon, 
18  peopled  with  beggars  of  love  from 
one  another.  "  Give,  give,  ^ve !"  is 
still  the  cry,  from  the  wealthiest  who 
cannot  count  their  worth,  to  the 
'*  puling  petitioner  of  HalloMrmass," 
who  is  equally  unable  to  do  so,  for 
he  has  no  worth  to  count. 

"  All  the  world's  a  poor-house. 
And  all  the  men  and  ^'omen   merely 
beggars," 

from  the  sovereign  who 

"  Craves  fit  disposition  for  himself, 
Due  reference  of  place  and  exhibition. 
With  such  accommodation  and  besort 
As  levels  with  his  breeding," 

to  the  condemned  culprit,  who,  in 
precisely  the  same  words  (havine 
nrst  taken  his  exception  to  capital 
punishment),  may  beg  for  the  more 
convenient  arrangements  of  trans- 
portation. 

Beggars  are  of  three  kinds :  those 
who  l^g  for  themselves  only,  those 
who  beg  for  themselves  and  others, 
and  those  who  beg  for  others  alone. 

Beggars  for  themselves  only  are 
either  stationary,  locomotive,  or  epi- 
stolary. The  most  obtrusive  of 
stationary  beggars  are  those  suppli- 
cating impertmences  on  the  walls — 
those  mural  disfigurements  of  the 
bill-sticker,  which  ''he  who  runs 
may  read,*'  and  many  of  which  he 
who  regards  may  rue.  Ere  now 
walls  have  really  spoken,  as  all  may 
remember  who  were  wont  to  tra- 
verse old  Fleet  ^Market  some  years 
back,  when  a  voice  used  to  accost 
them  with,  "I*ray  remember  the 
poor  debtors!"  That  voice  is  si- 
lenced now,  though  the  debtor  still 
lives  in  the  memory  of  his  grateful 
creditors,  and  is  daily  becoming  a 
more  interesting  claimant  on  the 
sympathies  of  those  who  have  lost 
nothmg  by  him.  The  particular 
locality  to  which  we  have  referred 
is  also  associated  with  another  beg- 
gar of  the  stationary  class.  We  al- 
lude to  the  celebrated  holder  of  that 
lucrative  "  crossing"  which  connects 
the  extremities  of  Fleet  Street  and 
Ludgate  Hill,  the  sweeping  argument 


of  whose  brooni  rendered  the  way 
dear  to  the  apprehensions  of  the 
most  delicate  shoe-leather,  and,  by  a 
peculiar  process  of  alchemy,  con- 
verted the  soil,  which  was  obnoxious 
to  the  foot-passenger,  into  gold-dust, 
most  productive  to  himself.  With 
his  hat  in  one  hand  and  his  broom 
in  the  other,  he  apUjr  proclaimed  his 
"  suit  and  service,  ms  submission  to 
the  ''voluntary  principle,**  and  his 
determination  to  deserve  its  pro- 
duce. At  all  events,  he  manifested 
his  worthiness  as  a  philanthropic  la- 
bourer "in  the  way  of  common 
tread^  and  his  right,  after  having 
brushed  through  the  jostling  day,  to 
retire  to  the 

"Broom  grove,  whose  shadow  the  dis- 
missed iiceeper  loves," 

there  to  change  his  hat  for  a  jug,  his 
besom  for  a  pipe,  and  certain  of  his 
coppers  for  brown  ale  and  a  savoury 
supper.  The  crossing-sweeper  is  the 
best  of  beggars,  for  ne  is  of  all  the 
least  a  swmdler.  There  can  be  no 
deception  in  the  cleanliness  of  his 
crossing  or  the  wear  and  tear  of  his 
broom.  He  only  begs  you  to  a^ 
predate  the  value  of  dry  feet,  and  is 
therein  but  an  honourable  rival  of 
the  apothecary^  who  ma^  be  called 
in  to  cure  the  cold  which  he  pre- 
vents. There  is  something  touching 
in  seeing  him  often  absorbed  in  the 
self-imposed  duties  of  his  calling — 
if,  indeed,  that  can  be  called  a  oill* 
ing  which  is  more  distinguished  by  a 
ready  will  than  slavish  obedience. 
He  who  does  the  work  of  a  slave 
without  a  slave*s  compulsion  is  the 
worthiest  (because  the  most  practi- 
cal) advocate  of  the  slave*s  eman- 
cipation. We  say,  then,  there  is 
something  touching  in  the  devo- 
tional, untiring,  and  confiding  per- 
severance with  which  he  follows  up 
his  adopted  labour,  sweeping  away 
right  and  left,  and  backwards  and 
forwards,  while  "  herds**  of  "  fat  and 
greasy  citizens  sweep  on**  in  their 
selfisn  pursuits  as  heedless  of  his  in- 
dustry as  he  of  their  neglect  Dan- 
dyism, with  its  patent  shining  boot, 
and  Beauty,  mth  her  thin-aoled 


1846.] 


On  Beggars, 


667 


sandal  shoe,  bid  hini,  unrewarded, 
get  out  of  the  way  which  he  has,  as 
it  were,  carpeted  for  their  comfort. 
Hob-nailed  Rusticity,  independent  of 
any  care  for  picking  its  way,  only 
stamps  from  its  feet  the  dirt  it  has 
collected  from  other  quarters;  and 
the  equipage  of  Fashion  rattles  over 
it,  contemptuously  flinging  the  off- 
cast mud  into  the  eyes  of  the  sweeper, 
who  is  only  left  to  recover  his  sight 
and  sweep  away  again. 

Contrasted  with  him  is  the  still 
more  stationary  besgar,  who  is  aa 
fixed  by  the  road-sioue  as  a  milestone. 
He  is  of  two  kinds — the  loquacious 
and  the  silent.  The  loquacious,  more 
especially  if  he  be  blind,  ceases  not 
from  mom  till  night,  from  day  to 
day,  to  cry  down  one*s  rising  pity 
with  most  monotonous  unpersuasive- 
ness.    There  be  of  these  who  have 
often  preserred  to  our  pockets  the 
penny  which  we  have  really  wanted 
to  get  rid  of;  fellows  who  cannot  see 
even  with  their  mental  vision,  and 
who  therefore  cannot  apprehend  the 
repulsiveness  of  their  complainings 
in  the  ears,  at  least,  of  the  romantic 
pitiful,  who  are  ever  most  touched 
by  the  "  silent  sorrows.**    The  vent- 
ing of  loud  and  continuous  plaints, 
like  murky  smoke  issuing  from  a 
chimney,  only  shews  the  working  of 
an  artificial  woe-manufactory,  whose 
eloomy  wares  are  produced  by  the 
habitual    movements  of  mechanical 
utterance :  whereas  your  silent  beg- 
gar, lik^  a  chimney  smokeless,  in- 
dicates   the    desolate    hearth    and 
*Hhe  keen  grate  unconscious  of  a 
fire.**    The  one  only  suffocates  the 
nicer  sense  of  compassion,  while  the 
other,  flattering  the  imagination  by 
the  respect  which  allows  its  inde- 
pendent exercise,  leaves  us  to  throw 
in  a  pennyworth  of  the  sympathy 
which  xDAj  or  mav  not  have  been 
rightly  excited.    Tue  knowing  beg- 
gar will,  therefore,  not  be  ^^  taxed  for 
speech.**  As  "  silence  is  the  perfectest 
herald  of  jov,"  so  is  it  of  grief.    Si- 
lence, as  Snakspeare  says,  is  "gra- 
cious.** "  My  gracious  Silence,  hail  !*' 
^'With   silence   (beggars)  be  thou 
politic.**     "Your  silence  and  your 
patience  speak  to  the  people  and  they 
pity  thee.** 

But  there  is  a  variety  of  this  class 
of  beggar,  whidi,  though  not  loqua- 
cious, IS  not  UteraUy  silent,  since  he 
shews  his  accomplished  penmanship 


upon  the  pavement  in  chalks  black, 
white,  red,  and  blue,  telling  us  iu 
flourishes  which  make  writing-mas- 
ters despair  how  stones  may  be  made 
to  speak, — 

"  The  ocean  l*ve  cross'd, 
My  limb  I  have  lost." 

Not  unfirequently  a  portrait  of  his 
ship  wins  a  copper  from  a  passing 
brother  tar,  who  would  fain  engage 
him  as  an  amanuensis.  Or  he  fasci- 
nates the  fishmonger  with  the  profile 
of  a  salmon,  so  true  to  nature  that 
suggestion  can  add  nothing  further 
than  a  garnish  of  fennel.  Authority 
is  unusually  lenient  in  respect  to 
this  fashion  of  stopping  up  the 
queen*s  highway.  In  no  other  ex- 
ample is  the  public  respect  for  ge- 
nius so  indulgently  shewn.  The 
perishability  of  the  work  is  perhaps 
Its  safeguard  during  the  passing 
hour.  Its  assured  destruction  even 
by  the  hand  which  has  effected  it, 
gives  interest  to  its  temporary  exist- 
ence. We  believe  this  to  be  a  thriv- 
ing branch  of  beggary.  "  The  very 
stones  prate  of  its  whereabout.** 

Another  sample  of  the  silent  beg- 
sar  is  afforded  in  the  case  of  him  who 
displays  a  neatly-written  record  of 
his  history  in  detail.  But  brevitv  is 
the  soul  of  woe  as  of  wit,  and  he  does 
best  who  hangs  to  his  chest  a  simple 
ticket  of  pasteboard  whereon  are  m- 
scribed  the  stirring  words, — 

"l  Atl  HUNGRY." 

And  not  only  is  he  "  hungry,**  but 
withal  most  patient  under  its  un- 
relieved endurance;  for,  pass  him 
again  and  again,  and  drop  m  a  cop- 
per each  time ;  go  famished  to  your 
luncheon,  and  return  in  your  walk 
to  revive  an  appetite  for  dinner; 
there  he  and  hunger  still  sit,  throned 
on  the  self-same  stone,  or  reclining 
against  the  same  road-side  bank, 
bidding  the  passengers  do  homage. 
"  I  am  hungry,**  says  his  ticket ;  "all 
but  starved,**  says  his  famished  as- 
pect; yet  he  rushes  not  with  the 
S'ven  twopence  to  the  bakehouse! 
e  is  no  Otway;  but,  perhaps,  he 
has  heard  of  him.  He  dreads  the 
chance  of  choking,  and  feeds  upon 
thought  till  supper-time,  when  the 
appetite  being  sobered  by  reflection, 
and  the  digestive  faculties  braced  by 
the  open  air,  he  sits  down  to  a  steam- 
ing msh  of  tripe  and  onions  with  a 


joy  that  TOW  laadeonen  know  no- 
thing of  If  the  reader  faaTe  any 
doubts  as  to  th«  jtutice  of  onr  iDsin- 
uations  let  hira,  when  he  next  sees  ■ 
knave  of  this  kind,  try  the  experi- 
ment  of  throwing  a  loaf  into  hia  lap 
instead  of  a  penny,  eo  that  he  may 
obserre  the  method  by  which  the 
act  of  allaying  the  appetite  con  be 
reconciled  witn  the  continued  an- 
nouncement of  "  hunger."  We  only 
know  that  when  our  pet  spaniel  bega 
at  the  dinner-table  he  is  ever  "  hun- 


and  onlynt 


r,  which  is  mounted 


like  the  cap  of  liberty  on  the  pole  of 
associated  Indigence,  makes  him 
skulk  off,  with  a  combined  feeling  of 
riiame  and  disKutt,  to  his  bawet. 
Let  not,  then,  the  pitying  passenger 
BO  deceive  himself  or  insult  a  b^;gar 
B  to  nippoee  that  the  brief  intuna- 


petile.  If  you  are  I o  be 
diatc  in  your  supply  of  relief  in  an 
eatable  form,  pray  consult  the  niage 
of  good  society,  aid  uk  yonr  friend 
"what  he'd  like  to  take!"  You 
need  not  trouble  yourself  about  the 
mace ;  he  bat,  doubtles,  plenty  of 
bis  own. 

Onr  next  example  of  the  sta- 
tionary b^gar  Is  interesting,  in 
s[dte  of  all  that  snmcion  of  im- 
nosture  which  b  confirmed  know- 
ledge of  the  world's  deceit  may 
have  awakened.  The  system  of  way- 
ride  snnnng  bas  its  advwitages  to 
certain  yonng  mothers,  who  wilajr 
tbdr  "  bluest  veins,"  Uiat  the  cBild 
ma^  imbibe  the  nutriment  of  lift 
while  the  Mreat  ftedt  &t  upon  eom- 
pasmon.  There  is  adimmaticintcra^ 
B  pictorid  beauty,  a  statneeqne  re- 
pose, a  scriptural  eflfiect,  a  Mcredneai 
of  sentiment,  in  the  group  to  which 
we  now  reftr,  which  especailly  touch 
the  beholder,  mots  particularly  if  be 
bearHMxi.  Anociationi  connecting 
the  mind  with  the  paintings  of  tbe 
old  niMtcrt  and  witn  tbe  works  of 
certain  modem  seulptora,  give  to 
the  h«^[^  "mother  and  child"  ■ 
holy  induence  upon  the  heart ;  and 
tbe  imagination  of  the  charitable  and 
sensitive  passcngw  ptcturu  tbe  nro- 
cen  of  man's  beartleisnese  or  hWt 
cruelty,  fWim  the  home  of  maiden 
innocence  or  tbnner  happiness  tu  the 
Male  of  houseless  sorrow  and  aban- 


donmeirt  which  now  presents  itself. 
Gallantry,  snbdiied  by  pity,  prorapta 
tbe  rise  of  feelings  which  oblHemte 
fbr  the  moment  all  remembrance 
that  there  is  a  le^  provision  fbr  the 
poor,  and  that  beggary  is  the  con- 
se<]neuae  of  impmdenoe — if  not  of 
^ilt.  It  may  be  that  the  pooT-bonse 
IS  the  well-deserved  end  of  a  mo- 
ther's folty;  bnt  it  nag  be  that  ten- 
der compankm  is  the  more  flttii^ 
appliance  to  a  mother's  destitution. 
At  all  events,  one  of  the  b^gara  in 
this  group  is  nndeniably  interestii^. 
The  child  a  yet  incompetent  to  ex- 
cite a  wrongly- placed  pi^,  and  may 
bereailer  prove  the  corrector  of 
guilty  peniu^— the  founder  of  a  hos- 
pital for  distressed  innocence,  the 
protector  of  woman's  lovely  weak- 
nets,  the  scourger  of  man's  hateful 
selllshness.  Throw,  then,  thv  ^Iver 
fourpence  into  her  lap.  Snouldat 
thou  be  wrong  in  doing  so,  God  will 
forgive  thee — doubt  it  not  The  un- 
conscious encouraoemsnt  of  impoa- 
tnre  is  amMU  guilt. 

If  the  last  be  the  mojf  interesting 
of  the  class  of  way^e  fixtures,  your 
begging  shoiAeepers  are  the  leaM  so. 
We  refer  to  the  Jew  tribes,  who  in 
certain  old  clothes'  alleys  of  London 
are  constant  to  their  door-step,  where 
they  stand,  like  anglers  by  the 
streaming  "  flnx  of  company,"  trying 
to  "book"  yun  as  you  pass  with 
lines  of  importnnity  and  baits  of 
deceit.  He  who  ben  yoa  to  bnv 
has  most  likely  obtained  tbe  goom 
bo  would  aelt  n^her  by  begging  nor 
by  pnnhase.  Tbe  forfeits  of  tbe 
pawn-sbop  constitute  his  stock  in 
naad,  and  tile  purchaser  who  pMs  on 
a  niit  of  amuel  ftom  his  waieroom 
may  regard  bimself  u  doUied  from 
top  to  toe  tn  materials  obtained  ftom 
tbe  workings  of  gin  and  beer  upon 
the  yielding  abandonment  of  vice  and 
misery. 

Let  ns  quit  this  oninviting  variety 
of  the  stationary  beggar  for  one  oif 
the  silent  order — the  bnraUest,  the 
most  constant,  yet  tbe  most  unas- 
suming, and  we  fear  the  most  unat- 
tended to — Ibe  FooB-Box.  It  mat- 
ter«  little  where  it  is,  by  the  chnrch- 
door  or  on  the  private  msntetshelf, 
— we  wish  it  mattered  more ;  but  it 
is  generally  a  "poor  box,"  and 
a  etty  poor  box,  in  more  aemex 
than  one.  It  is  "poor  even  in 
thanks,"  and  that  is  perhaps   the 


1M6.] 


On  Beggan* 


fi69 


xeupn  why  it  enriclietii  sot  it- 
self in  receipts.  Whether  a  golden 
soyereiffn  or  a  brass  farthing  are 
dropped  through  its  ever  open  but 
in^cpressive  mouth,  its  acoeptanee  of 
the  gift  is  unmarked  by  any  thinff 
more  than  seems  to  say,  ^  Sk>  mw£ 
for  Hud.  What  nextr  If  evra 
some  inarticulate  sound  of  admow- 
le^^inent  could  be  yidded,  which 
mi^t  seem  to  imi^  its  sense  of 
benefit  conferred,  tne  giver's  ikncy 
would  at  least  be  tackled  into  a  vague 
idea  of  instincli ve  liife  in  the  reedver ; 
ani,  therelbre  of  giateftil  suscepti- 
bility. We  thiiac  a  little  beU  ndu^t 
be  80  hung  upon  a  spiing  within  its 
body,  as  to  give  a  smart  utterance  of 
tittkliog  joy,  foiling  on  the  ear  of  the 
almsgiver  Uke  re8i>0D8ive  echo  on 
that  of  the  soliloqniser.  It  would  act 
like  the  Vfknt  of  chuity  gladdened 
by  a  deed  of  benevolence.  ^*  Thank 
'e,  thank  *e,  thank  *e!'*  would  the 
little  almoner  say;  and  the  donor 
would  retire,  to  come  affain,  be  it 
only  for  the  purpose  of  listening  to 
the  sweet  chime  of  gratefulness,  not 
to  be  awakened  without  an  active 
deed  of  goodness  on  his  own  part. 
It  is  impossible  to  leave  this  subject 
without  allusion  to  Ho{;arth*8  satire 
on  the  Charity  wMch,  if  it  "-  vaunteth 
not  itself,*'  doth  not  shew  itsdf. 
Never  was  there  a  mwe  masterly 
stroke  of  ready  genius,  and  of  acute, 
bitter-biting  sarcasm,  than  his  throw- 
ing a  cobweb  over  the  aperture  of 
the  church  poor-box.  It  is  not  less 
dedaratory  than  suggestive.  There 
is  comic  power  in  the  exhibition, 
but  deep  tragic  reflection  is  the  result. 
Our  imaginatl«m  sees  the  pale  fi^ro 
of  despcmding  Charity,  wearied  mto 
abstractiim  by  long  watching,  shmnk 
at  lei^gth  into  heart-sickness  by  hope 
defermi,  while  the  sjMder  has  woven 
the  web  of  his  filmy  mansion  in  the 

Eermanent  fixedness  of  her  ''  open 
and/' 

Let  us  try  the  fortune  of  another 
b^ear  of  tne  inanimate,  and  of  the 
road-aade  stationary  class.  We  mean 
that  imposing  feuow  of  mass  and 
substance,  who  rears  his  frcmt  amid 
the  *^  proud  ones  of  the  dty,**  and 
with  his  many  eyes,  seen  of  as  many 
thousands,  locks  far  and  near,  humbly 
asking  nothifig,  but  announdng  his 
readiness  to  receive  any  thing, — a 
noMe  beggar  of  the  first  order,  who 
solidts  money  as  CorioUmus  did  votes, 


Mying,  <<Ifyoia  isiQ^w;  IfiMxe^pass 

on  1**  His  smoking  ensigns  '^  nout 
the  sky;*'  his  corniced  bonnet  shades 
his  expanded  brow ;  p<»ticoed  pomp 
sentinels  his  presence ;  mighty  wings 
extend  on  dther  nde  his  portly  body ; 
he  sits  enthroned  on  the  eminence  of 
many  steps ;  a  broad  and  mmple  beauty 
gives  ^;race  to  his  solid  majesty :  his 
name  is  Astiam,  and  he  h&axti  upon 
his  fi>rehead  the   emphatic  w<»ds, 

"  SVFPOKTED  BT  VoLUHTABT  COR- 

TBiBunoNs.**  No  cobweb  stoppeth 
Aw  mouth,  for  he  speaketh  in  golden 
words  the  ever  -  increasing  fist  of 
volunteers.  Upon  black  boards  do 
ikuning  letters,  like  stars  on  the  dear 
depth  of  night,  announce  the  donors 
of  ^*  twentj,  for^,  fif^,  an  hundred 
ducats  a-pieoe.**  Here  Charity  holdeth 
levee.  She  is  ^  at  hiMne.**  C<»nmit- 
tees  of  gentlemen  and  committees  of 
ladies  are  busy  in  their  consultations, 
and  issues,  and  canvassings ;  and  even 
rivalry  and  jealousy,  yea,  enmity 
itsdf  worketh  for  the  aid  of  the  sick 
and  the  maimed,  the  widow  and  the 
orphan.  There  is  evil,  and  there  is 
gem ;  but  good  cometh  to  the  needy, 
who  receive  that  which  might  not 
have  been  theirs,  had  Charity  been 
too  asoetie  in  her  purity  to  recdvo 
any  but  the  gifts  of  the  nameless. 

We  now  come  to  the  consideration 
of  the  beggar  locomotive. 

One  would  suppose  that  the  best 
reason  for  a  beggar  beinc  stationary 
would  be  the  loss  of  both  legs ;  but 
it  may  be  asserted,  that  a  beggar  with 
one  leg  is  idways  more  locomotive 
than  a  beggar  with  two ;  and  that  a  beg- 
mr  with  no  legs,  is  more  locomotive 
QianaU.  Take  we,  then,  as  our  first 
spedmen,  the  bemr  l^less.  Every 
Londoner  must  ¥ave  seen  that  little 
imp  of  ubiquity,  who  was  wont  to 
Muffle  alonff  the  pavement  in  a  box 
on  four  small  wheels,  to  the  no  small 
peril  of  the  diins  of  those  hasty  people 
who,  in  their  headlong  impetuosity, 
are  apt  to  overlook  all  such  obstacles 
as  lie  below  the  level  of  thdr  horizon. 
In  the  most  crowded  hours  of  morn- 
ing and  afternoon  might  this  little 
impediment  be  seen,  moving  in  a 
counter-direction  to  the  thronging 
currents  of  Fleet  Street  and  Cheap- 
side,  oaring  himself  along  with  a 
couple  of  hand-dogs,  and  arresting 
the  attention  of  all  who  seemed 
likely  to  step  into  his  lap,  with  a 
toiicn  Which  staitled  them  as  it  had 


670 


On  Beggan* 


[June, 


been  the  deetrie  ihodc  of  a  torpedo. 
Many  are  the  Bhnfflen  in  this  iliifUi^ 
woiid  of  oon ;  but  tbii  little  devu 
upon  four  whttls  was  aaBoredly  the 
most  remarkable  of  shuffleri.  He 
certainly  pfot  oat  his  mirfortones  to 
the  best  adTantige>  and  gained,  by 
the  loss  of  his  legs,  foil  employment 
ibr  his  hands,  plen^  of  air  and 
ezerase,  the  enjoyment  of  emolu- 
ment whhout  senriee,  and  the  privi- 
lege of  keeping  his  carriage  mthoat 
the  cost  of  norses.  He  hML  as  much 
right  to  the  income  derived  firom  the 
dntitation  to  which  he  was  con- 
demned, as  my  Lord  So-and-so  to 
those  hereditary  rents  to  which  he 
was  bom.  The  arrogant  demands 
for  tribute  which  Beggary  makes  on 
the  ground  of  its  deprivations,  are 
just  as  defensible  as  the  homage 
which  Bank  desires  on  the  strength 
of  its  superfluities. 

The  one-legged  b^gar  either 
adopts  a  wooden  substitute  for  his 
lost  1^,  or,  if  he  be  prone  to  rapid 
movement,  hangs  himself^  as  it  were, 
on  the  pivot  centre  of  two  crutches 
under  his  shoulders,  and  swings  for- 
ward in  vast  segments  to  the  wonder 
of  the  pavement  beneath  him.  His 
body,  from  the  chest  downwards,  is 
a  pendulum  between  two  staUdns 
standards  (if,  indeed,  we  may  so  caU 
what  does  not  always  stand  still). 
He  presents,  in  fact,  a  most  lively 
instance  of  a  moving  tripod  of  two- 
to-one-proffressive-power ;  and  of  an 
activity  only  matched  by  those  sur- 
prising monkeys  which  make  a  fifth 
limb  of  their  tail ;  or  that  celebrated 
hero,  the  Devil  upon  two  Sticks, 
who  made  wines  of  nis  crutches,  and 
carried  Don  Cieofos  from  the  sill  of 
a  earret- window  to  the  weather- 
cocK  on  St.  Saviour*s  steeple.  He  is 
not,  like  the  legless  beggar,  con- 
tinuous in  his  pro^fression,  and  we 
have  admitted  he  is  not  altogether 
so  locomotive.  He  rests  for  long 
periods  at  the  comers  of  streets,  for 
the  time,  as  fixed  as  a  tripod  of  the 
antique.  It  is  the  occasional  rapi^ty 
with  which  he  transfers  himselr  firom 
one  street -corner  to  another  that 
moves  one*8  wonder.  Like  the  ghost 
of  old  Hamlet,  "  'tis  here,  *tis  there, 
'tis  ffonel**  The  legless  be^agar,  in 
his  nttle  carriage,  runs  a  steady 
course  from  east  to  west,  like  the 
sun;  but  the  subject  of  our  present 
remarks  is  uncertain  as  a  meteor, 


and  yon  are  never  tare  that  yon 
have  gotten  rid  of  him. 

But  who  comes  here?  Two  legs 
entire,  and  yet  a  wooden  one.  Ue 
has  a  stidL  m  each  hand.  One  leg 
does  full  duty ;  the  other  only  half 
duty,  for  it  kneels  on  a  wooden  shin, 
and  sticks  out  its  }mx^  moiety  as 
though  it  were  withered  and  uadess. 
We  presume  it  may  not  be  cut  off. 
He  enaritably  retains  it  like  a  ^  poor 
reUtion,"  and  gives  it  oomfbrt  in 
bandage  of  soft  linen.  He  receives 
twopence  firom  the  twelve  outside 
paasc'iigers  on  top  of  the  stage-coach, 
'^whid,*'  says  a  "e^  old  fellow 
among  them,  '^  is  twopence  too 
much. 

Who  goes  there?  Actively,  but 
**  with  stealthy  pace,**  he  is  seen 
hastening  across  tne  field,  dooe  under 
the  hedge,  from  one  branch  high- 
road to  anoUier.  Crood  u^  mues 
he  of  as  sound  a  pair  of  Im  as  ever 
bore  a  healthy  body.  But  what 
carries  he  under  his  arm?  He  hugs 
it  as  it  were  some  precious  but  stolen 
treasure.  In  truth,  the  *cute  old 
gentleman  was  ri^ht.  It  is  the 
wooden  shin  aforesaid,  and  the  bearer 
the  very  rogue  who  wore  it !  Would 
he  were  the  only  vagabond  who  walks 
on  a  false  footing;  the  only  hypo- 
crite who  kneels  to  practise  a  ue; 
the  only  rascal  who  bandages  his 
powers  of  industry,  and  nukkes  in- 
dolence productive.  He  should  be 
sent  to  tne  treadmill,  and  compelled 
to  work  it  with  his  wooden  shin. 

Your  armless  beggar  is  truly  in  a 
deplorable  condition,  and  has  a  right 
to  such  benefit  as  he  may  obtain  by 
the  use  of  his  legs  and  the  wagging 
of  his  tongue.  He  should  be  the 
very  pink  of  verbal  messengers ;  the 
ticketed  porter  of  social  compliment, 
privileged  to  kick  at  passage-doors, 
and  to  kiss  as  many  pretty  house- 
maids as  he  can  catdi ;  a  pedestrian 
carrier-pigeon ;  a  human  ostrich  flap- 
ping the  air  with  his  stumpy  wings; 
harmless  as  armless ;  eloquent  in  ap- 
peals on  behalf  of  his  waistcoat- 
pocket,  and  having  a  tnuned  pet 
spoonbill  to  feed  him.  Perhaps  the 
oeggar  with  one  arm  is  more  highly 
favoured,  since  he  has  a  limb  too 
many  for  helplessness,  and  a  limb 
too  few  for  employment.  He  may 
pick  a  pocket  or  even  cut  a  throat, 
yet  no  one  shall  say  he  comes  into 
court  with  "  foul  hands.** 


1846.] 


On  Beg^ari. 


671 


Tonr  beggar  epistolary  is  a  living 
commentary  on  the  evil  of  edncation. 
It  enables  the  vagabond,  when  per- 
sonal admission  were  sure  of  oppo- 
sition, to  get  his  petition  into  your 
house  edgewajrs  through  a  crack  in 
your  door.  (Jominff  in  the  guise  of 
some  messenger,  or.  interest  at  least, 
if  not  of  good  to  yourself,  it  is  opened 
only  to  prove  to  you  that  the  ad- 
vocacy of  Sunday-schools  has  been 
short-sighted.  At  the  same  time,  the 
epistolary  mode  of  begging  has  its 
eonvenienoe,  since  we  can  give  direc- 
tions that,  ^  when  Mr.  James  Mon- 
tague calls,  he  be  informed  there  is 
no  answer.**  It  will,  however,  some- 
times hapoen  that  the  b^;gar  is 
bearer  of  nis  own  epistle — a  com- 
position in  which  the  personal  pro- 
nouns dance  a  very  intricate  kind  of 
polka,  intermingling  tiie  graces  of  a 
certificate  with  the  movements  of 
a  petition;  confounding  the  world 
in  ffeneial  with  yourself  in  particular, 
and  with  hinmelf  as  the  epitome  of 
aU.  Thus,  an  exceedingly  greasy 
paper,  signed  by  certain  names  which 
nave  no  persons  belonging  to  them, 
is  put  into  our  hands,  under  the  im- 
pression that  "  seeing  is  believing,** 
and  that  he  who  will  but  put  his  spec- 
tacles on  his  nose  is  sure  aftersrards 
to  put  his  hands  into  his  pockets. 
The  following  is  a  sample : — 

"  This  is  to  certify,  that  the  bearer  is 
in  great  distress,  having  occupied  for 
mtojTears  a  highly  respectable  station 
in  soctetVt  where  the  leading  merchants 
of  New  York  gave  me  much  emplovment 
and  dismissed  your  unfortunate  petitioner 
on  aoeount  of  ilUiess,  which  the  doctors 
advised  me  to  return  to  England*  and 
sold  the  last  shirt  for  the  passage,  which 
be  has  relations  in  Newcastle  to  pay,  if 
the  lady  or  gentleman  of  the  house  will 
be  so  good  as  to  give  some  charity  and  a 
pair  of  old  shoes  to  go  home,  and  I  will 
ever  remain  your  grateful  debtor, 

"  MoNTAOvz  James." 

We  must,  however,  anticipate  the 
reader  in  the  recollectk>n  of  the  beg- 
gar sentimental,  whose  epistle  smacks 
of  the  boarding-school,  and  at  once 
seeks  to  dazzle  the  brain  and  take 
the  heart  prisoner : — 

"  HoMOURKD  Sm,— Nothing  but  cir- 
cumstances the  most  cruel,  and  distress 
the  most  poignant,  could  reduce  me  to 
tbe  bamiliatiog  necessity  of  making  this 
appeal  to  your  feelings  of  compassion. 


and  to  your  means  of  benevolence ;  nor 
would  any  thing  but  a  full  confidence  in 
those  feelings  have  induced  me  to  ad<* 
dress  you.  Born  to  comparative  wealth, 
and  nursed  in  tbe  lap  of  luxury,  I  have 
been  reduced  by  the  improvidence  of  one 
(in  whom  I  trusted)  to  a  state  of  desti. 
tution,  which  leaves  me  to  solicit  as  a 
boon  the  crumbs  which  fall  from  the  table 
of  the  more  fortunate — the  threadbare 
garment  which  is  discarded  from  his 
person*  Pardon  me  if,  from  motives  of 
Christian  forbearance,  I  abstain  from 
mentioning  the  namea  of  those  relatives 
who  have  discarded— of  those/ri^iKii  who 
have  disowned  me.  The  accompanying 
trifles  are  sold  at  a  shilling  a-pieoe  ;  but 
any  price  your  willing  ability  may  a£ford 
will  be  thankfully  received  by  one  who 
prays  that  the  losses  of  the  unfortunate 
may  be  the  gain  of  the  good. 

**  I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
"  &c.  &c." 

We  received  such  a  letter.  We 
returned  the  "  trifles  **  with  a  ticket 
for  delivery  to  the  Mendicity  So- 
cietv.  The  Mendicity  Society  saw 
nothing  of  him,  and  we  saw  no  more. 

And  now  as  to  b^gars  for  them- 
selves and  others.  Oi  this  class  the 
most  troublesome  are  the  travelling 
suitors  for  subscribers  to  books  (whicn 
are  to  be  published  in  numbers),  and 
whose  qualification  for  their  task 
seems  to  be  a  ^lib  tongue  backed  by 
imperturbable  mipudence,  a  firee  and 
easy  manner  which  utterly  imposes 
on  the  servant  who  lets  them  in,  and 
a  courteous  perseverance  which  pre- 
vents the  master  firom  kicking  them 
out,  holding  as  it  were  a  feather-bed 
on  impatienoe,  till  upheaving  wrath 
subsides  into  a  ver]^  civil  condition  of 
calm  despair.  It  is  the  same  with 
your  paper,  pen,  and  pencil  venders ; 
spectacle  ditto;  travelling  mission- 
aries, who  advocate  the  virtue  of  old 
articles  reconstructed  on  '*  new  prin- 
ciples,** and  which  ^*no  gentleman 
should  be  without;**  myrmidons  of 
the  wholesale  manufacturer,  who, 
fearing  the  scrutiny  of  *'  the  trade,** 
sends  forth  his  agents  at  once  to  the 
unprepared  customer,  and  makes  his 
income  by  the  payments  which  poor 
worried  souls  arord  to  get  rid  of 
teasinff  importunity.  iHie  art  of 
one  of  these  beggars  is  to  get  fiurly 
into  your  presence  by  the  fiuniliar 
mention  oi  your  name,  uttered  in  a 
tone  which  rather  seems  to  imply  a 
favour  to  be  granted  than  a  favour 
asked.    The  door  is  shut. 


672 


CM  utgjfortt 


[J 


^  Mr.  Hopkins,  I  fadJere  P*' 
«*  The  flune,"  sa^f  poor  Hopkins. 
••  I  hare  been  induced,  Mr. — a- 


Hopkins,  to  call  upon  you  from  the 
circumstance  of  jour  name  having 
been  mentioned  by  several — ^by  se- 
veral— parties,  who,  knowing  your 
pursuits  as  a  man  of  literary  tastes, 
have— -(beautifiil  little  dog  I  this  is  a 
pet  of  yours,  I  suppose,  mr  ?)— have 
anticipated  your  apjprobation  of  this 
work  on  the  statistics  of *" 

«'  My  good  sir,  I  can  assure  vou 
those '  pwties  *  have  much  mistsken 
the  nature  of  my  pursuits ;  and "^ 

"  The  arrangement  is  perfectly 
novel,  and  so  clear,  that 

**  But,  sir,  I  know  nothing  of  the 
old  arrangements,  and  therefore——^*' 

"  B^  pardon,  sir,  but  you  may  at 
once  inform  yourself  of  the  number 
of  any  class  of  occupants  of  any  class 
of  dwelting  in  any  class  of  town,  a 
rhi 


fkeility  whidi — --but  allow  me  to 
shew  you  a  oopy  of  the  book,  with  the 
durt  which  accompanies  it!** 

**•  Pray,  sir,  do  not  trouble  your- 
self 

**  Oh,  no  trouble,  arl  I  do  not 
ask  you  to  purchase ;  I  only  ask  you 
to  kx>k  at  it.  Your  name,  sir,  as  an 
approver,  will  be  of— of  oonsequenoe 
to  me.  By  tiie  wa^,  I  see  your  walls 
covered  with  beautiM  drawings,  sir. 
One  c^  them  represents  the  Coliseum, 
I  see,-— the  amphitheatre  of  Flavins, 
which,  curiously  enousfa — and  here 
we  oome  to  statistics— ^Id  precisely 
the  population  of  your  town,— eu* 
rioascoinddence,  that!  Here  is  the 
book.** 

^  Doubtless,  sir,  it  is  valuable  to 
those  who  are  interested  in  numotal 
oapaoity,  but—** 

^  Excuse  me,  sir;  and  this  is  the 
chart,  full  of  information  at  a  glanee, 
and  beautifully  mounted  on  doth 
with  leather  edgings.** 

'<  Tes,  the  bind^  is  neat." 

**  And  the  contents,  I  assure  you, 
worthy  of  the  binding.  I  see,  sir,  by 
your  books,  and  that  oust  (the  Strata 
ford  bust,  I  think?— Ah,  I  thought 
so!),  that  you  are  a  Shakspearian ; 
and  you  will  agree  with  me  in  wri 
applying  the  great  poet*8  words  to 
the  obj^  of  my  reooramendation,— - 

'  Was  «vir  book  oontMning  sack  vil« 
natter 
So  fairly  bonod  1  * 

No,  sir,  here  we  have  the  outer  gar- 


ment and  the  inner  snbsbmee  alike 
in  qnaiity.  You'll  allow  me  to  put 
down  your  name  P  Only  seven  and 
sixpence!" 

To  shorten  the  matter,  he  got  our 
seven  and  upence.  His  quotatioQ 
from  Borneo  etnd  JuUet  hit  us  on  a 
weak  pcMnt,  and  for  Shakspeare's 
sake  we  h<^  to  stand  forgiven. 

The  most  unwelcome  imT  this  daas 
of  beggar,  but  the  most  qualified  to 
present  themselves,  are  th^  who 
collect  the  amounts  of  their  masters* 
outstanding  bills.  No  matter  how 
llie  debt  was  incurred,  whetiier  by 
undue  oersuasiveneflB  on  the  part  of 
the  seller,  or  impnident  coneessioa 
on  that  of  tiie  purchaser;  the  debt- 
ooUeetor  is  a  legally  authorised  a|[pent, 
however  he  may  be  an  unquestion- 
able nuisance.  But  still  be  does  not 
**bore  *'  you,  as  the  former  man  did. 
It  is  not  his  wish  to  lose  time,  any 
more  than  it  is  yonrs.  He  begs  yoa 
to  settle  a  "*  little  account;*'  and  if 
you  ean*t  do  it  at  once,  you  must 
humble  yoursdf  to  become  a  bemr 
in  turn.  To  seduce  a  man  nUo  debt 
may  be  **  beautifol,**  but  to  make 
him  /My  his  debt  is  *' sublime.** 
There  is  a  stranse  mixture  of  respect 
and  dislike  in  tne  reception  of  an 
agended  dun.  The  respect  attaches 
to  his  poverty,  as  the  necessitated 
b^garror  another;  the  dislike  refers 
to  his  pride,  as  authorised  to  ask  for 
**  payment  on  demand.** 

Missionaries  are  beggars,  who  may 
produce  an  awkwardness  in  the  feel- 
ings of  the  partv  applied  to ;  but 
there  is  a  kind  of  reverence  tmr  their 
object,  and  one  must  be  cML,  at 
least.  Of  course  they  only  b^"*  for 
Heaven*s  sake,**  although  aomeiiow 
they  have  suggested  themsdves  as 
belonffin^^  to  this  section  of  our 
dassincation. 

Players,  with  equal  certainty  (at 
least,  so  the  devout  would  have  it), 
only  beg  for  the  devil*s  sake ;  though 
here  again  we  obey  an  impulse  which 
places  them  in  the  same  class  with 
the  former.  Whether  men  ^ould 
"  serve  Heaven  if  the  devil  bid  them,** 
is  an  open  Question  to  be  argued  by 
higher  au^iorities  than  oursdvea. 
If  the  player  who  begs  you  to  take  a 
box  at  his  benefit  means  any  thing 
better  than  dissipation,  he  is  doubt- 
less  as  mndi  a  hypocrite  as  the  nus-> 
monaiy  who  means  any  thing  more 
than  ocvotion. 


1846.] 


On  Beggart* 


673 


Rich  men  beg  for  poor  men,  as 
one  man  begs  another  to  help  him  in 
bearing  the  burden  which  Christian 
dnty  imposes.  Poor  men  beg  for 
rich  men,  as  faint  arguers  "  b^  the 
question.*'  When  poor  men  beg 
rich  men  to  accept  a  little  ^ft,  they 
aim  at  a  great  benefit  to  then:  own — 
conscience.  When  Poverty  begs  us 
to  gire,  we  give,  and  obtain  '^beg- 
garly thanks.  When  Poverty  begs 
us  to  receive,  we  are  taught,  as 
Juliet  would  say,  "  to  lose  a  winning 
matdi.'* 

Lawyers  who  solicit  the  taking  of 
shares  in  railroads  are  beggars  for 
the  "common  good  of  the  public;*' 
of  which  public  they,  of  course,  form  a 
part — and  that  is,  doubtless,  all  they 
mean.  Selfish  and  over-cunning 
men  say,  that  these  said  lawyers  play 
in  a  lottery  which,  to  them,  is  all 
prises  and  no  blanks.  We  say — 
nothing.  The  man  who  only  begs 
hire  is  worthy  of  it.  Who  says  the 
lawyer  looks  for  more  ?  "  Who 
says  not  truly,  lies.*'  We  mean  no- 
thing personal.  Beggars  of  votes 
for  election  candidates  are  fearful 
intruders  on  the  time  of  simple- 
minded  men.  Do  they  beg  far  the 
candidate  only  P  Are  tbey  not  beg- 
ging something  yrom  the  candidate, 
f .  e,  prospectivdy  ?  Or,  at  the  best, 
are  they  not  b%ging  for  the  mere 
jK>litical  triumph  of  the  party  iden- 
tified with  their  own  personal  ambi- 
tion ?  They  are  awkward  customers 
to  any  but  the  most  independent. 
When  the  beggar  has  notning  to 
gain  from  you  personally,  though  you 
sain  nothmg  by  giving,  you  may 
tose  by  refusing  to  give.  When 
Power,  Pride,  or  Beauty,  come  beg- 

S*ng  into  your  house,  Oppression, 
[>ntempt,  and  Scorn,  wait  behind 
them  in  the  porch  ;  and  the  reluctant 
eiver,  be  it  of  his  vote,  his  money,  or 
nis  refusal,  has  acted  with  not  more 
reference  to  the  object  professed 
than  to  the  satisfaction,  apwoval,  or 
offence  of  the  solicitor.  We  have 
not  yet  been  forgiven  by  a  very 
pretty  young  lady,  who  once  plantd 
ner  ^inty  foot  in  our  vestibule,  and 
with  "most  petitionary  vehemence " 
begged  half-a-crown  towards  a  Bible 
for  a  pet  parson.  We  certainly 
thought  it  the  most  gratuitous  piece 
of  benevolence  we  ever  heara  of. 
We  offered  the  mone^  as  a  tribute  to 
her  beauty;  but  this  offended  her 


pride.  It  was  for  her  to  patronise 
clerical  sufficiency  by  giving  it  more, 
but  not  for  us  to  increase  v>e  abun- 
dance of  her  good  gifts  even  by  so 
much  as  thirty  pence. 

Beggars  for  others  only.  Where 
are  they?  We  fear  a  very  brief 
paragraph  will  include  them  all. 
There  kneels  one :  a  poor  vietim  of 
love,  begging  Heaveirs  forgivenesa 
for  the  villain  who  has  abandoned 
her !  There  another :  a  culprit,  in 
the  hangman's  hands,  begging  Hea- 
ven's blessing  on  the  jury  who  found 
him  ^nty !  Thirdly,  a  dying  widow 
beggmg  for  her  child!  Lastly,  a 
drunken  man  begging  his  hearers  to 
"  love  one  another." 

We  conclude  by  the  l»ief  enu- 
meration of  a  dass  of  b^Qgars  to 
whom  no  reference  has  yet  been 
made,  we  mean  beggars  verbal,  whose 
petitions  seek  nothing,  and  are,  there- 
fore, rarely  disappointed.  Your  beg- 
gars of  "  pardon^  are  multitudinous 
as  Heaven's  mercy.  They  swarm 
and  overspread  the  earth  "as  thick 
as  autumn  leaves  in  Vallombrosa." 
We  find  in  Shakspeare  the  thriving 
nature  of  pardon, — 

"  Ad  if  I  were  tby  narse  tby  tongae  Co 

teacbf 
'  Pardon '  should  be  the  first  word  of  tby 

Bpeecb." 

The  school  feems  to  have  flourished 
since  his  day,  "  for  we  have  pardons, 
being  asked,  as  firee  as  words  to  little 
purpose."  How  they  are  valued  ap- 
pears in  another  pertinent  quotation 
from  the  same  treasure-house  of 
Imowledse :  "  Pardon  me,  if  yon 
please ;  if  not,  I,  pleased  not  to  be 
pardoned,  am  content**  A  man  begs 
your  pardon  when  be  contradicts 
your  tacts.  He  again  begs  yoar 
pardon  when  you  contradict  his.  Oft- 
times  begging  "  pardon  "  is  equivalent 
to  giving  the  "  lie."  **  I  beg  your 
pardonf"  says  A.,  in  a  pet;  "and, 
d —  me,  I  beg  yours  /"  says  B.,  in  a 
passion.  "  I  heg  yam  pardon ! "  says 
C. ;  meanine,  ifyou  don't  get  out  of 
the  way  he?l  kiiock  you  down.  "  I 
beg  jour  pardon!"  sa3rs  the  gallant 
Mr.  D.,  as  he  takes  the  point  of 
Mrs.  E.'s  umbrella  out  of  nis  eye ; 
and  Mrs.  E.  kindly  allows  of  the 
removal,  which  is  tantamount  to  par- 
don granted.  *^  Pardon  me  I"  savs 
F.,  when  havine  been  stripped  by 
the  bandit  of  all  his  garments  save 


674 


A  Letter  to  Oliver  Yorke 


[J  roe, 


one,  he  '*int»<  decline  being  stripped 
of  that  also."  The  French  thie^  in 
justification  of  theft,  said,  "  I  must 
live."  "  Pardon  me ! "  said  the  judge, 
"I  don't  see  the  necessity  for  that." 
But  unq^uestionably  the  best  instance 
of  gratuitous  importunity  is  afforded 
in  the  weU-known  anecdote  of  an- 
other judge,  who  having  received  the 
verdict  of ''  Guilty ! "  m  the  middle 
of  a  long  story  ne  was  whispering 
into  the  ear  of  a  lady  close  by,  still 
proceeded,  until  long  after  the  clerk 
of  arraigns  had  called  on  the  prisoner 
to  hear  sentence,  when,  suddenly  re- 
collecting himself,  he  ''be^ed"  of 
the  unhappy  culprit  ^*a  thousand 

Srdons,"  and  dismissed  him  without 
rther  delay  to  the  condemned  cell. 
Your  b^igars  "  to  say  "  are  almost 
equally  plentiful,  for  they  are  alike 
beggars,  whether  they  have  to  com- 
municate pleasant  or  disagreeable  in- 
telligence. Whether  they  have  to 
say  that  you  are  utterly  abandoned 
by  hope,  or  triumphantly  crovmed 
with  success,  they  "  beg  to  say "  it. 
In  the  same  class  are  the  beggars 


'^  to  inform,"  "  to  commanieate,*'  ^to 
apprise,"  "  to  acknowledge,"  "  to  fiw- 
ward,"  "  to  encloae,"  "  to  state,"  **  to 
refer,"  "  to  assure,"  &c.     Men  *"  UAe 
the  liberty  "  "  to  deny,"  "  to  coned," 
'^  to  doubt,"  "-  to  renel,"  and  to  prac- 
tise many  other  sucn  terms  affemnre, 
when  the  tone  of  supplication  mi^t 
be  graceful  at  least ;  but  when  they 
have  to  promote  your  hap^nenby 
information  which  rather  usves  yon 
their  debtor,  they  follow  in  the  per- 
verseness   of  fashion,  and  hmnUy 
''beg"  to  afford  it.    That  a  pm 
scrivener  should  *'beg"  to  apprise 
his  client  that  the  latter  is  richer  by 
10,000/.  is  as  paradoxical  as  that  a 
wrathful  foe,  wtio  threatens  to  blow 
your  brains  out,  should    ^*bcg   to 
subscribe  himself  your  humble  and 
obedient  servant."    With  true  ear- 
nestness, however,  we  beg  to  make 
to  our  reader  such  a  subscription, 
and  most  imploringly  beg  from  him 
that  charitable  indulgence  of  which 
this  b^^rly  paper  stands  so  greatly 
in  need/ 


A  LETTER  TO  OLIVER  TORKE 

OK  FRENCH  NEWSPAPERS  AND  NEWSPAPER  WRITERS, 

FRENCH  FARCEURS  AND  FEUILLETONISTS,  FRENCH  DUELLISTS, 

FRENCH  ACTRESSES,  ETC. 

BT  BENJAMIN  BLUNT, 

FOBMEBLT  A  BBNCHSRMAN  AND  TBENCHEBMAN  IN  THE  INNER  TSMPLE, 

NOW  A  BBNTISB  OF  THE  BUE  BIVOU  IN  FABIB. 


My  deab  Oliveb, — I  have  not  for- 
gotten the  promise  made  to  you  at  the 
close  of  the  autumn  in  the  past  jear, 
when  we  had  that  pleasant  dinner 
together  at  Verdier  Olivers  in  the 
Rue  de  la  Poterie^  in  the  Quartier  des 
Holies  aux  Drops.  Verdier  OUve^ 
as  you  well  know,  calls  himself  a 
gargotkr  only ;  yet  how  much  better 
did  we  dine,  my  excellent  friend,  on 
that  merry  Tu^ay  for  fifteen  francs, 
wine  included,  than  for  the  eight-and- 
thirty  it  individually  cost  us  on  the 
foUovring  Thursday  at  the  Maison 
JDorie,  in  the  Boulevard  des  ItaUensI 
The  thousands  of  readers  in  whom 
you  delight,  sweet  Oliver,  and  who 
still  more  delight  in  you,  will  ask 
touching  the  nature  of  the  promise 
to  which  I  advert.  Be  it  known  to 
them,  therefore,  that  I  then  pledge 


m3r8elf,  in  all  the  sincerity  of  wine,  to 
give  you  some  sketches  of  French 
newspapers  and  French  newspaper 
writers,  the  which  promise  to  the 
present  writing  I  have  not  been  able 
to  redeem.  Observing,  however,  that 
our  common  friend,  who  has  in  the 
last  month  addressed  you  on  a  late 
French  trial,  has  broken  this  fre^ 
ground,  perhaps  I  cannot  do  better 
than  follow  in  his  wake.  In  a  great 
many  of  his  observations  I  do  most 
full^  and  unreservedly  concur ;  but 
I  wish,  nevertheless,  ne  had  so  ex- 
tended his  pa^r  as  to  discriminate 
between  the  nff-raff  and  rouirie  of 
newspapers  and  the  very  superior 
men — superior  not  merely  intel- 
lectually, but  morally  and  sociaUy 
superior — who  are  wont  to  ¥rrite  in 
the  French  newspapers.    The  scan- 


1846.] 


On  French  HewspapefB^  S^c. 


615 


dalous  habits  and  manners  disclosed 
on  the  trial  of  BeauvaXUm  are  as  little 
chargeable  on  the  learned  and  respect- 
able men  of  the  French  press  as  the 
practices  of  the  Satirist  and  Age  are 
chargeable  on  the  editors  of  the 
Chronicle  and  the  Times.  I  will  not 
go  the  len^h  of  saying  that  the  press 
of  France  is  as  respectable  and  well- 
conducted  as  it  was  eighteen  or  twenty 
years  aco,  when  you  were  better  ac- 
quainted with  its  details  personal, 
literary,  and  ^htical,  than  you  are 
now ;  but  I  will  say,  without  fear  of 
contradiction,  that  the  men  who  ap- 
pear at  once  so  shameless  and  ridicu- 
lous at  the  late  trial  at  Rouen,  as 
little  represent  the  newspaper  litera- 
ture of  Paris  as  they  represent  French 
science  or  French  commercial  or 
manufacturing  industry. 

In  your  own  early  days  at  Paris, 
dear  Oliver,  you  remember  the  Moni- 
ieuTj  enrichea  by  the  contributions  of 
Maret^  Duke  of  Bassano,  Berquin^ 
La  Harpe^  OuingnenS,  and  Oarat^ 
and  in  later  times  by  the  labours  of 
Tourlet,  Jomard^  ChnmpoUiont  Kera* 
try.  Petit  Eadel,  David  Aubert  de 
Viiry^  and  Champagnac,  The  most 
democratic  or  Napoleonic  of  these 
-writers  in  the  worst  days  of  the  Con- 
stituent, or  the  most  slavish  season  of 
the  Consulate,  the  Empire,  or  the 
Eestoration,  would  never  in  the  most 
unbridled  season  of  festive  ^ety  so 
far  have  forgotten  the  sentiment  of 
what  the  French  call  convenanee,  as 
in  familiar  and  outspoken  phrase,  in 
a  company  of  twenty  persons,  to  ad- 
dress an  actress  of  tne  VaudevUle, 
who  was  sitting  opposite  to  him,  and 
tutoytng  her  blurt  out  that  he  would 
enjoy  the  last  favour  conferred  by 
woman  within  six  months,  and  for 
money  too, — than  he  would  have  cut 
off  his  hand  at  a  dinner-table,  or  un- 
bandaged  a  green  wound,  and  tearing 
off  the  diachylon  plaster,  place  it  on 
the  cloth,  and  proceed  to  dress  his 
festering  sore  afresh  in  the  presence 
of  the  prandial  public  around  and 
about  bun. 

As  to  the  Journal  de  Dibats  it  has 
always  been,  as  you  are  aware,  con- 
ducted by  gentlemen  and  men  of  let- 
ters in  the  oest  sense  of  both  words. 
In  your  early  days  in  Paris  the  two 
brothers,  Francois  and  Louis  Bertin, 
one  the  father  and  the  other  the  un- 
cle of  the  present  proprietor,  elevated 
journalism  into  a  great  politic(|l>  80« 


cial,  and  moral  instrument.  Fran- 
cois, the  elder,  was  a  eentleman  by 
education,  by  birth,  and,  what  is  bet- 
ter than  all,  by  nature,  and,  till  the 
period  of  his  death,  continued  editor 
of  the  Dihats,  His  brother  Louis, 
after  having  been  for  fifteen  years  a 
member  of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies, 
was  in  1830  sent  ambassador  to  Hol- 
land and  elevated  to  the  Chamber  of 
Peers.  The  greater  number  of  the 
earlier  contributors  to  this  journal, 
as  you  well  know,  were  men  not  only 
of  the  ripest  scholarship  but  over- 
flowing with  learning.  Oeoffroy  had 
been  professor  of  rhetoric  at  the  Col- 
lege of  Mazarin,  where  for  three  years 
he  successively  obtained  the  prize  for 
Latin  prose ;  Dussautt  was  a  man  of 
immense  erudition,  as  criticallyleamed 
as  Porson  or  Parr ;  De  Feletz  was  a 
fine  eentleman  and  a  man  of  the 
world ;  and  Hofinawn^  a  person  of  as 
varied  attainments  and  as  profound 
learning  as  was  to  be  found  in  the 
realm  of  France.  This,  it  is  true, 
was  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  since 
which  men  and  manners  nave  some- 
what changed.  But  even  down  to 
the  instant  moment  at  which  I  write, 
I  deny-^  most  emphatically  deny — 
that  any  writer  in  the  DSliats  would 
countenance,  tolerate,  or  permit  in 
his  presence  such  insufferable  black- 
guudism — much  less  practise  it— as 
appears  to  have  been  tolerated  and 
practised  at  the  IVois  Frhres  PrO" 
venqaux  by  the  femUetoniat  writers 
and  managers  of  the  Presse,  the 
Globe,  and  the  JEpo^.  Duvicquet, 
the  exquisite  and  rigid  classic,  the 
diner-out  of  the  first  magnitude,  the 
man  courted  by  the  great  and  cul- 
tivated by  the  polished,  with  his  fine 
sense,  exquisite  tact,  and  innate  good- 
breeding  and  calm  good-nature,  is 
retired  to  his  native  Ckmeci;  Charles 
Nodier,  the  gay,  the  gentle,  the  sport- 
ive, yet  solid-headed,  is  no  more; 
Chateaubriand,  the  chivalrous  and 
bizarre  statesman  and  man  of  genius, 
is  fallen  into  the  ^^sere  and  yellow 
leaf.*'  But  these  great  newspaper 
writers — for  they  were  all  such  — 
would,  even  in  their  maddest  and 
wildest  days  of  youth,  as  soon  have 
thought  of'pickine  a  pocket,  or  break- 
ing into  the  curtilage  of  a  dwelling- 
house  and  stealing  Uierefrom,  as  con- 
ducting themselves  after  the  fashion 
of  Bmemond  de  Beauvallon,  the 
Sieur  Ptyarrier,  and  the  Sieur  Bo- 


676 


A  Letter  to  Oliver  Yorke 


[Jaoe, 


gerdeBeauToir.  Some  of  vour  read- 
en,  dear  Oliver,  may  say  that  I  am  a 
Icaidaior  temporis  acH — that  I  can  see 
no  virtue  but  in  the  past  But  that 
18  not  so.  The  livmg  and  actufd 
writers  in  the  DibaU  would  as  little 
countenance  such  monstrosities.  Ar- 
mand  Beriin^  the  editor  and  proprie- 
tor of  the  paper,  is  a  scholar,  and  a 
gentleman  moving  in  the  very  first 
circles  of  the  Parisian  metropolis; 
M.  Salvand^j  a  v^  recent  writer  in 
the  paper,  is  Minister  of  Public  In- 
struction ;  M.  Si.  Marc  Oirardin,  one 
of  its  ablest  contributors,  is  one  of 
the  most  learned  professors  of  the 
Sarbonne,  and  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinffuished  members  of  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies ;  and  M.  de  Sacy^  perhaps 
its  most  celebrated  politioU  writer, 
was  bred  an  advocate,  now  holds 
a  high  situation  at  the  Institute  of 
France,  and  is  one  of  the  personal 
friends  of  Lovis  PhUimie.  As  to 
PhUarete  ChasUs  and  Michel  Chtvo' 
Uer^  the  one  has  too  much  taste  and 
learning,  and  the  other  too  much 
common  sense,  to  demean  himself 
after  the  fashion  of  the  detestable 
ckque  of  the  Trois  Frhre9,  Nay, 
even  the  fewUetomU  of  the  Dibals 
would  loa&ie  such  company.  TA^ 
phile  GoMHer  has  written  some  good 
articles  in  La  France  LUterairey  and 
an  excellent  book  on  Spain ;  and  as 
to  Jules  Janin,  though  an  insufferable 
coxcomb,  and  a  species  of  French 
Malvolio,  walkinff  cross-gartered  and 
wearinjpf  motley,  he  is  incontestably  a 
man  of  talent^  and  has  greatly  raised 
himself  in  the  estimation  of  all  inde- 
pendent men  by  the  publication  of 
his  letter  to  Madame  GHrandin^  on 
her  comedy  entitled  L'Ecok  des 
Jounudistea. 

As  to  the  ancient  Constitutionnel — 
that  is  to  say,  the  CongtituHonnel  firom 
1818  to  1835— it  would  have  shewn 
no  quarter  to  such  despicable  and 
disreputable  vauriens  as  congr^ted 
at  our  friend  CoUot^a  in  the  p€dai8 
Eoyal,    Charles  WUUatn  Etiennej  the 
late  editor,  was  a  scholar,  a  gentle- 
man, and  a  man  of  wit,  and  author  of 
some  of  the  best  comedies  in  the 
French  language.    For  forty  years 
of  his  life,  during  fifteen  or  sixteen  of 
which  he  was  a  member  of  the  Cham- 
OT  of  Deputies,  he  lived  in  the  very 
»t  French  society ;  and  though  a 
Mtical  writer  lively  and  piquant, 
%U  of  9ti«ngth  aii4  spirit^  he 


was,  as  Coimi  MM  well  sod  trolv 
remarks  in  that  sconiging  speech 
which  he  recently  made  to  Alfrtd  it 
Vigny  on  his  reception  at  the  Aca- 
demy, above  all,  a  gentleman  sad  a 
man  of  the  world,  full  of  tsct  and 
good  breeding,  civil  and  poUte  to 
men,  and  deferential  even  to  homage 
to  women.  What  else  could  yoa 
expect  from  the  author  of  the  JDeiu 
Oendres?  As  to  the  liveljr  littk 
dwarf  Thiers^  formerly  a  writer  in 
Hie  ConstituHonnelj  though  a  man  of 
very  indifferent  breeding,  and  bnuqte 
and  unpolished  manners,  he  slwajs 
had  too  much  shrewdnus,  sagacity, 
and  sense,  to  mix  himself  up  with 
gamblers,  demireps,  and  commeieial 
managers  of  literary  s^ulatioiu. 
True,  you  may  quote  agamst  me  the 
orgy  at  the  cauntry-hoose  of  the 
"Knight  of  the  Bath'*-^CinaU(l) 
Vigier  (bless  the  mark  1)  in  1833  or 
1834 ;  but  this  was  a  party  of  men 
only,  invited  to  a  house-warmiog  by 
a  vulgar  nouveau  riche  and  pardenu^ 
to  whom  a  ckdteau  life  was  new,  and 
no  esclandre  was  the  result  De  Re- 
musaty  an  ex-minister  and  very  recent 
writer  in  the  ConsHhUiofoidf  was  al- 
ways a  quiet,  well-behaved  maa,  and 
no  one  knows  better  than  yoonelf 
that  Duvergier  dHaurame  was  no 
roysterer  loving  to  hear  the  chimes 
at  midnight.  An  to  ilf.  Memm,  the 
present  editor  of  the  CoftsUiutiimKel 
there  breathes  not  a  more  quiet  and 
retiring,  gentleman  witlun  the  m* 
ceinte  contmuSe ;  so  much  so,  indeed, 
that  he  goes  by  the  name  oiJ^Sor 
criatain  among  hjs  brethren  of  tne 
broad  sheet. 

In  your  day  Canataid^  VSlemm, 
Cauchois^  Lenunre^  aid  Mign^ 
figured  away  at  the  Courier  I'ra»' 
caisy  and  your  friend  LeonFtofekir 
nas  not  very  long  ago  indited  in  i|i 
but  all  these  were  grave,  respectaWe 
men,  unlike  the  individuals  who 
flaunted  at  the  BeanoaUon  trial,  wflo 
were  merely  gamlders,  bulliei^  and 
adventurers,  speculators  in  a  low 
style  of  literature,  commercial  Bian- 
agers  of  new  literary  firms  and  enter- 
prises, striving  before  all  tbii^  ^ 
gain  money,  for  the  maxim  of  these 
loose  livers  is,  «<  Qui  a  de  Targeai  e, 
dea  pirouettea"  It  were  a  gteU  Ja«' 
take,  however,  I  repeat,  for  yo^^ 
readers  to  sappose  that  these  m^ 
represent  any  considerable  section  (^ 

the  press,  for  mw  of  all  ihades  ^ 


1846.] 


On  French  Ntwip^gnrs,  ^c. 


677 


conxfiesicm  of  peUtie^  opiiiioii  re- 
pudiate and  disown  them.  You  well 
know  that  I  am  no  admirer  of  that 
Mcular-minded  priest,  M.  VAbbi  de 
GSrumde^  who,  though  the  son  ef  a 
poor  UmonaeUer  of  Qrenohle^  apes  the 
airs  of  a  Chrand  Seigneur^  and  aspires 
to  the  caidiBalate;  but  though  this 
sl^  and  sanctimonious  priest  works 
with  untiring  energy  and  persever- 
ance to  push  the  sate  of  his  tranship 
tion  of  the  Bible  in  twenty-two  to^ 
luraes,  and  as  earnestly  and  aseabushr 
to  force  the  sale  of  the  Oazette  de 
France  and  the  Careaire  SaUm^  of 
both  of  which  he  is  the  sole  proprie- 
tor, yet  though  the  holy  man  would 
go  great  lengths  to  bring  together 
the  royalists  and  republicans,  I  do  not 
believe  he  would  so  fax  commit  him- 
selj^  even  for  this  purpose,  as  to  be 
hail,  iellow,  well-met  [  with  every 
Frippe-Uppe  of  a  minor  theatre, 
VfeiyJULe  au  vUam  (car  qui  eu  donr 
nera  le  plus  Vaurd)  of  the  pav6 
of  Paris,  every  fire-eater  of  the 
Champs  JEltfsSesy  and  every  cogger  of 
dice  of  the  Rue  Louis  le  Oratid, 
Such  an  assemblv  is  only  fit  ibr  the 
refuse  of  the  Jtoman  FeuSlekm,  or 
La  Cour  du  Eoi  Pitaud. 

"  Chacun   y   contredit ;    chacun  y  parte 

haul ; 
£t  c'est  tout  Justement  ta  Ccur  du  Rot 

P^taudr* 

As  to  Colnety  the  glory  and  the 
pride  of  the  Gazette  de  France^  he 
was  a  noble  by  birth  though  a  book- 
seller by  trade ;  and  even  though  he 
were  inclined  to  social  and  convivial 
meetings,  which  he  was  not,  would 
have  chosen  his  society  amongst  the 
distinguished  and  the  learned  rather 
than  among  the  rake-helly  riff-raff  so 
o^n  named.  As  to  Mickaud^  of 
the  Quotidierme,  he  loved  **  Cru^ 
saders ''  of  a  holier  war  than  a  war 
of  drabs  and  doubloons.  Nay,  even 
the  writers  in  the  Republican  Na^ 
tumid  have  tastes  and  habits  more 
aristocratic  than  to  be  seen  in  such 
society.  The  chivalrous  though  mis- 
^en  Amtand  Carrel  would  not 
have  marched  through  Coventry  in 
Buch  company;  and  Marrast  and 
^  Boche^  as  well  as  Bastide  and 
Thomas,  have  always,  to  their  honour 
^  it  sud,  expressea  the  greatest  con- 


tempt for  those  dabblers  in  the  funds 
and  railwavs  belonging  to  the  subor- 
dinate raiucs  of  the  press,  who  are 
enabled  to  live  Hke  ,fiiutHeiers  and 
agetUs  de  chai^e^  having  a  dancer  or 
a  singer  for  a  mistress,  and  an  opera- 
box  for  an  evening  lounge. 

The  Sik^  is,  as  you  are  aware,  a 
paper  established  within  the  last 
eleven  years,  yet  it  has  a  greater  cir- 
culation than  any  joumu  in  Paris. 
It  counts  42,000  subscribers,  and  the 
shares  are  now  worth  nearly  t^i 
times  their  original  cost  This  iour- 
nal  represents  the  grocers,  chandlers, 
sho^iukerB,  and  tauors  of  the  metro- 
polis, and  its  banHeue ;  and  as  it  is 
necessary  to  be  somewhat  duU  and 
veiy  decorous  to  please  this  majority, 
neither  ChamboUe  nor  Oustuoe  Beau' 
m4mt  would  run  the  risk  of  keeping 
ill  company.  Lean  Faucher,  of  his 
own  mere  motion,  would  shun  sueh 
men  as  the  BeauvaUonSt  thinking 
them  neither  men  of  probity  nor 
men  of  letters ;  and  the  pompous  and 
solemn  Barrot  would  thmk  them  too 
fiist-livers,  and  far  too  lavish  in  their 
expenditure,  to  suit  his  temper  or  his 
taste.  The  men  of  the  Dhtwcratie 
Pacifique,  the  Communists  and  Fou- 
rierists,  would  hold  nothing  in  oom- 
BMii  with  gluttons,  gamblers^  and 
debauchees.  Hugh  Doherty  the 
writing-master,  Victor  Dalv  the  ar- 
chitect, Brisbane  the  North  Ameri- 
can, Co9uid^rant  the  ex -office  of 
engineers,  MeSl  the  German  Jew, 
and  Jaurmet  the  working  man,  with 
his  lon^  beard  tLod  paletot  d  capuekatit 
the  indK^nsable  costume  of  all  good 
Fourierists,  would  have  been  out  of 
place  in  such  gay  company,  with  a 
purS  de  gibier  lox  a  soup,  and  fiiUs 
de  laperaux  d  la  VoppaUkre  &r  a 
p^e  de  rSsistance.  Only  think  of 
JDoherty  and  Dtdy  swallowing  her- 
mitage and  chdteau  du  ptwe,  and  the 
Jew  Meill  eating  oreUles  de  cochon  en 
menu  tki  roiy  witnout  being  aware  of 
the  forbidden  food  he  had  just  swal- 
lowed. Little  LessepSy  of  the  E^mt 
PubUoy  comes  of  a  consular  £unily, 
and  holds  his  head  too  hi^h  to  stoop 
so  low.  And  as  to  the  writers  in  the 
Eevue  dee  Deux  Mondee,  they  look 
to  be  administrators  and  function- 
aries ;  and  it  would  not  do  for  such 
men  to  consort  with  the  cogging  and 


*  M<^r«. 


t  Miobirad  was  author  oit^Uutary  ofths  Cr^99dsi» 


678 


A  Letter  to  Oliver  Yarke 


[June, 


the  cozening  amone  the  loose  fish  of 
Paris,  or  Baccessful  vagabonds  who 
begin  by  pawning  watches  and  end 
by  shooting  their  man,  to  nndei^ 
the  indispensable  baptism  of  blood,  to 
use  their  own  vile  jargon. 

You  cannot  &il  to  have  remarked, 
dear  Oliver,  that  I  have  omitted  two 
journals  from  my  list:  one  is  the 
Preue,  founded  in  1836 ;  the  other 
is  the  Efoque^  engrafted  on  the  Olobe 
at  the  latter  end  of  the  past  year, 
when  the  Olohe  itself  had  been  al- 
xeadv  four  years  in  existence. 

Tnese  two  journals  have  done 
more,  in  my  mind,  to  bring  about 
such  a  social  state  as  we  have  been 
deploring,  and  to  degrade  and  demo- 
rause  the  i>ress  of  France,  than  all 
the  ministries  which  have  existed 
since  the  period  of  the  first  Revolu- 
tion. But  let  us  hear,  in  the  first 
nlace,  a  little  of  their  history.  The 
founder  of  the  Presse  is  EmUe  de 
CHrardin^  a  natural  son  of  Count 
Stanislas.  He  commenced  life  as  an 
inspector  of  the  fine  arts,  and  was 
successively  editor  of  four  journals, 
which  died  in  quick  succession.  He 
then  published  a  book  called  Emile, 
which  had  no  success.  After  five 
successive  failures  he  seems  to  have 
thought  himself  desperate  enough  for 
any  enterprise,  and,  as. a  natural  se- 
quence, he  married.  The  wife  of  his 
selection  was  the  pretty  Delphine 
Gay,  a  woman  of  wit  and  beauty, 
with  her  poetical  talents  for  a  dowry. 
But  poetry,  dear  Oliver,  will  not 
make  the  pot  boil,  and  it  was  neces- 
sary that  tlmile  de  Girardin  should 
dine  as  nearly  seven  times  a-week  as 
possible.  He  promised  himself  a  for- 
tune in  the  invention  of  the  Para-- 
cratlCj  or  mud-defender,  but  the 
Paris  public  was  blind  to  its  merit, 
and  EmUe  only  fell  deeper  into  the 
mire.  The  Phisotype  was  next  tried, 
which  promised  monU  et  mervetHes; 
but  at  the  end  of  the  year  the  happv 
pair  found  that  they  had  "p/tM  de 
beurre  que  du  pain^^  The  Presse  was 
the  next  speculation,  and  as  it  was  a 
joint-stock  company,  and  in  a  year 
when  joint-stock  speculations  are  not 
so  discredited  as  they  are  now — pro- 
mising a  journal  larger  and  cheaper 
than  all  other  French  journals — the 
shares  went  off  briskly.  The  jour- 
nal, therefore,  was  well  launched; 
but  from  the  time  it  has  started  into 
an  e»imple  was  given  of  a  ve- 


hemence, a  ^rsonality,  and  a  shame- 
less unprincipledness,  heretofore  un- 
known to  the  press  of  France^  and 
only  discreditabljr  known  in  certain 
Sunday  journals  in  England. 

Before  the  institution  of  the  Pm»t 
joumala  were  divided  into  different 
party  sections,  as,  for  instance,  Car- 
iist,  Bepublican,  Dvnastic,  Napo- 
leonic, Tiers  Pariit  &c.  But  ixm. 
the  period  EmO/e  de  Girardhi  entered 
the  lists  he  manifested  a  complete  in- 
difference on  the  subject  of  political 
principle.  As  to  convictions,  belief, 
or  poutical  PArty  or  banner,  he  bad 
none,  his  oniy  oDJect  being  to  get  as 
many  readers  and  subscribers  u  pos- 
sible. Opinions,  therefore,  and  prm- 
ciples  were  sold ;  the  cause  of  Kus- 
sia  was  upheld,  while  England  was 
abused,  vilipended,  and  calumni&ted. 
The  corruption  commenced  in  the 
political  part  of  the  paper,  descended 
through  all  the  minor  departments, 
and  (Lanier  de  Cas8agnae{dUan^ti^ 
proprietor  of  the  CHobe  and  now  of 
the  Epoque),  who,  in  1839,oondncted 
the  literary  department  or  FetdUelon^ 
was  charged  at  the  close  of  the  last 
year  by  one  Hilbey,  a  tailor  by  trade, 
and  author  by  prdference,  with  hav- 
ing received  160  francs  for  the  inser- 
tion of  a  piece  of  poetry  commcnciDg 
''Ala  Mire  de  celle  que  f  aimer  The 
tailor  further  goes  on  to  reveal  to 
the  public  that,  at  the  request  of 
Caseagnae^  who  first  wished  for  a 
silver  teapot  value  200  francs,  he 
sent  that  person  four  coverit  d'argeid 
and  six  small  spoons.  In  this  very 
season  of  1839,  when  these  scenes 
were  enacting,  the  man  who  but  a 
couple  of  years  before  was  *'"'^ 
eousy  was  eons  sauci  as  to  woridy 
wealth.  It  is  known  to  all  the  world, 
and  recorded  by  Jules  Janin,  that  he 
kept  as  fine  a  house  as  an '' agent  de 
change"  with  liveiy  servants*  car- 
riages, horses,  &c.  And  though 
some  portion  of  these  luxuries  ire« 
due  to  his  own  efforts  and  talents, 
and  imscrupulous  industry  and  p^' 
severance,  and  some  portion  to  tw 
lively  Causeries  Pariikfuies  of  »» 
wife,  which  appeared  in  the  Prest^t 
and  were  signed  VicomteDdauney, 
still  they  were  in  a  greater  degree 
attributoble  to  the  efforts  and  man- 
agement of  Dujarrier,  who  was  a 
keen  and  successful,  or,  perhap«|A 
should  rather  say  a  lucky,  tox^  9^ 
bualncsB.    It  was  Dvywier  who,  n 


•846.] 


On  French  Newspapers,  Sfc» 


679 


X\>'* 


^ 


t.' 


suggested  to  Giraidin  the  pub* 
of  a   supplement   entitled 
n    deg   Trihunauxy  ¥rhich 
^rancs  additional.    This 
'  for  the  Presse  an  in- 
ubscribers;   and  it 
at  the  period  of 
^  e  journal  was 

jOZ.  a-year,  net, 
.cr  is  reported  to 
J  early  no  less  a  sum 
>^  irancs,  or  20002.  of  our 

lOr,  be  it  observed,  he  pos- 
.  eight  out  of  twenty-five  shares. 
^18,  no  doubt,  appeared  a  mine  of 
gold  to  a  man  wno  had  not  1200 
francs  a-year  five  years  previously, 
but  it  in  no  degree  justified  the  la- 
vish expenditure,  or  the  course  of 
life  and  of  play,  which  the  unfortu- 
nate man  was  leading.  The  indict- 
ment, or  aete  d^acauation^  read  at 
the  trial,  announces  the  elegant  lux- 
ury in  which  he  lived,  and  goes  on 
to  state  that  ^^if  he  ^ned  money 
easily  he  spent  it  as  quickly,  and  had 
a  general  reputation  as  a  bold  and 
generous  player.** 

But  these  words  ^*  elegant  luxury  ^ 
and  "bold  and  generous  player,** 
vrrite  down  in  burning,  branding 
letters  the  man*8  condemnation. 

'^  II  faut  optcr  des  deui  6tre  dape  on  fri- 

poD, 
Tous  ces  jeax  de  hassrd  n'&ttirent  rien 

de  boD." 

There  is  nothing  harder,  my  dear 
Oliver,  than  the  heart — nothing,  in 
general,  viler  or  more  fitful  than  the 
temper  of  a  professed  gambler.  Open 
out  the  caids  or  the  dice  before  a 
table  of  gamblers,  and  the  passions 
of  cupidity,  envy,  avarice,  and  fury, 
are  brougnt  at  once  into  play.  Feel 
the  Dulse  of  the  gambler,  and  ^on 
will  nnd  it  quick,  unequal,  feverish. 
His  touffue  is  parched,  his  lips  and 
cheeks  livid;  his  temper,  however 
originally  good,  becomes  demoniacal ; 
his  healtn,  however  robust,  at  length 
gives  way.  The  smallest  trifle  irri- 
tates and  provokes  him ;  words  which 
would  pass  unheeded  by  another  are 
seized  on  by  him. 

Beauvallon  and  Dujarrier  were 
both  ffamblers,  and  for  (idle  words 
or  stiU  idler  gesture,  incident  to  a 
gambling  and  vinous  orgy,  the  one 
lost  his  Ufe,  and  the  other  all  of  cha- 
racter that  remained  to  him,  which, 
to  say  the  truth,  was  little  enough. 
yoL.  xxzin.  50.  czcYin. 


Mercantile  avarice  and  mercantile 
cupidity  were,  however,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  this  discreditable  quarrel. 
Dujarrier  played  pretty  much  the 
same  part  at  the  Presse  that  Beau- 
vallon played  at  the  Globe,  and  the 
quarrel  took  its  rise  (though  its 
proximate  cause  was  a  loss  at  cards)  in 
the  most  mercenary  motives  that  can 
sway  the  mind  of  man.  At  the 
Presse  Dujarrier  was  manager,  con- 
troller, and  caissier.  He  it  was  who 
engaged  and  paid  the  FemUetonists^ 
ana  arranged  who  was  to  write  the 
Roman  JFeuiUeton  for  weeks  and 
months  in  succession,  and  how  much 
the  writers  were  to  receive.  In  this 
catering  for  the  paper  he  had  his 
favountes,  as  such  manner  of  men 
generally  have,  and  this,  of  course, 
led  to  envy  and  jealousies ;  but  not- 
withstanding his  vanity,  his  i^o- 
rance,  his  coarse  and  over-familiar 
manners,  and  deficiency  on  the  score 
of  early  education,  he  probably  was 
in  moral  character  just  as  respectable 
as  any  of  the  Romance- writers  whom 
he  employed,  and  nearly  as  well,  if 
not  quite  as  well,  educated ;  for  be  it 
known  to  readers  in  England  that 
neither  education  nor  acquired  know- 
ledge are  deemed  in  any  degree  re- 
quisite to  those  persons. 

At  the  rival  paper,  the  Olobe, 
Beauoallon  played  pretty  much  the 
same  part  tnat  Dujarrier  played  at 
the  Presse,  Independently  of  the 
old  adage  that  two  of  a  trade  can 
never  agree,  there  were  other  causes, 
not  merely  of  disrelish  but  of  loath- 
ing. BeauvalUm  was  the  brother-in- 
law  of  Granier  de  Cassagnac,  who 
had  originally  been  the  principal 
coadjutor  of  Em^  de  Girardm  at 
the  Presse,  Cassagnac  having  quar** 
relied  with  his  principal,  set  up  for 
himself  a  rival  paper,  the  Globe; 
out  of  which  the  Epoque  has  since 
risen.  In  the  Globe  he  had  called 
Girardm  by  every  infamous  and 
every  opprobrious  name,  and  pro- 
claimed that  all  the  oood  articles 
were  the  productions  of  nis  own  pen ; 
in  fact,  that  the  astonishins  success  of 
the  Presse  was  wholly  due  to  his 
talent.  This  was  indignantly  denied 
by  Girardin,  who  stat^  that  Cassag* 
nac  was  an  impudent,  lying  Gascon, 
who,  when  editor  of  the  Jourwd 
Politique  of  Toidouse,  was  flogged  in 
the  public  street,  and  obliged  to  take 
refuge  in  the  interior  of  a  dilige^ 

XT 


680 


A  letter  to  Oliver  Yorke 


[Jane, 


to  Bare  himself  from  farther  stripes. 
«<AhI"  says  CasBagnac,  ""what  of 
that  ?  Yon,  Emfle  (Hrardin,  sitting 
by  yonr  pretty  wife  at  the  Opera, 
were  floeged  before  3000  persons ! " 

*'But  mat*s  not  so  bad  as  yon,**  says 
Emile.  ^  Didn't  you,  by  scampish 
messengers,  send  ronnd  the  pro- 
spectus of  your  paper  to  the  sub- 
scribers to  other  journals  ? — ay,  send 
them  round  in  cart-loads  ?" 

"  Ohy  jartde  ne  vtnu  y  frattez 
ptuT  says  Cassagnac.  "What  a 
respectable  fellow  are  you,  forsooth ! 
to  sicken  at  such  trifles, — you^  the 
rejected   of  the  electors  of  Bour- 

Saneu^  whose  electors  preferred  Yi- 
ocq,  Uie  police  spy,  as  an  honester 
man!** 

'*  An  moifu^**  rejoins  Emile,  "  I  am 
not  capable  of  ordering  gaiters  of  a 
particular  cut  for  mv  newspaper  por- 
ters by  way  of  an  aavertisement,  and 
then  refusmg  to  pay  for  them  because 
they  are  not  exactly  made  to  pat- 
tern!" 

"  Quelle  mouehe  vous  piqve^  savs 
Granier.  "  Qaiten,  quotha  I  Dial 
ever  puff  up  the  shares  of  a  coal- 
mine which  never  existed,  or  in  which 
there  were  no  coals,  and  sell  my 
actions  at  a  premium  f  Did  I  ever 
play  the  hla^ueur  at  St.  Berain  ?*^ 

"  Ventre  Saint- Oris  I"  exclamis 
Emile.  "  Here's  a  pretty  fellow  to 
talk  of  hloftuey  indeed  I  A  geux 
who  comes  mto  my  bed-room  on  a 
hot  July  day,  and  taking  off  his 
shirt,  and  clothing  himself  m  one  of 
my  six  best  clean  chemises,  walks 
away!  Gentleman,  indeed!  C^est 
un  genUlhamme  de  Beauce^  U  est  au 
lit  gtiand  an  re/ait  ses  chausses^ 

"  Impostor  and  quack  ! "  says 
Granier.  "  You  proclaim  that  tne 
success  of  the  Presse  is  owinff  to  your 
pen;  but  all  the  good  articles  that 
ever  appeared  in  it  were  written  by 
me,  or  certun  persons  who  shall  be 
nameless." 

*•  Oalopin  de  OascogneT*  savs 
Emile.  **  How  dares  the  fellow,  wno 
ordered  a  steam  printing-press  and 
then  refhsed  to  pay  for  ft  on  one 
pretext  or  another,  presume  to  call 
any  honest  man  to  account  P" 

ouch  are  the  fellows — abusing  each 
other,  verbatim  et  Uieratim^  in  this 
fiuhion  of  fishfags-— who  give  and 
have  given  not  merely  life  and 
'^'^'T  to  the  Presse,  Olohe,  and 
(the  OMe  has  now  merged 


in  the  latter  paperX  but  who  gaide, 
govern,  and  control  their  every  tone 
and  movement  **  Tel  mattoe,  tel 
valet."  When  the  directing  spirfts 
thus  ribaldly  demean  thcmsdro, 
what  is  io  be  expected  firom  the 
FetiiUetonisti,  poor-devil  authors  tnd 
French  penny-a-liners,  under  them  f 
A  total  lack  of  manners  and  prmd- 
pie — an  entire  absence  of  trathand 

taste. 

To  Girardin,  Cassagnac,  Dujarricr, 
and  Beauvallon,  is  altogether  oving 
the  furtive  intix>duction  of  the  Roma 
FetdUeton    into    French    literatoie. 
This  creation— the  offiipriiig  of  the 
political     indifference    supervenizif 
upon  a  state  of  constant  change  ina 
revolution — has  now  assumed  gigan- 
tic proportions,  and  at  the  prwent 
moment   threatens  not  merely  to 
bvershadow  political  discusrion,  btit 
to  destroy  all  literature.    The  neirs- 
paper  romance,  my  dear  Oliyxb,  or 
Itaman  FemOeion,  is  an  unnatural, 
artificial  work,  the  disgrace  of  cren  a 
low  style  of  literature.    It  is  a  novel 
or  tale,  written  in  the  most  cMg- 
gerated  fashion,  which  is  pubhahed 
daily  in  the  small  volumes  "  whs^ 
ten  or  twelve  years  ago,  was  wUed 
the  FeuiUeton.    The  ancient  F«b'- 
letxm,  as  you  well  know,  was  the  pe- 
culiar boast  and  pride  of  the  French 
press.    It  was  unique  in  joumalwin. 
It  consisted  of  the  small,  short  co- 
lunms,  separated  from  the  poutical 
articles,  debates,  and  advertisement^ 
and  was  devoted  to  pure  literatnre, 
or  literary  or  theatrical  criticwm. 
It  was  m  these  fetdiletons  that  agajn 
and  again  appeared  articles  that  will 
live  as  long  as  the  most  classic  pro- 
ductions of  the  French  ^^g^V^'l 
models  of  clear,  correct,  candid,  and 
learned  criticism.  The  men  who  then 
supplied  the  FemOeton  with  m^f» 
such  as  Feletf,  Dussault,  and  Hot- 
maun,  were  exact,  and  scrupulot^a^w 
conscientious,  and  long  meditated  oj 
the  works  which  they  critidscd.  Ana 
the  proprietors  reaped  the  rewyd  or 
then:  labours,  for  the  series  of  arti- 
cles in  the  Dibats  by  Hofloaann,  on 
mesmerism  and  sommmibali«D:  "» 
Chateaubriand,  De  Pndt,  Madame 
de  Genlis,  and  the  Jesuits,  raised  tne 

giper  to  18,000  or  20,000  ato^^ 
ut  these  earlier  writers  vere  nrrt- 
rate  scholars>-men  regularly  ^H" 
cated  in  the  universines  of  if ^ 
coutttry--where  they  had  obttwn^* 


1846.] 


On  French  Newspapers,  ifc* 


681 


diatingnwhed  honouxB  and  the  high* 
est  renown.  Hence  the  earlier  Atii^ 
letan  was  diBtinguished  by  learning, 
judgment^  and  ul  the  higher  quah- 
ties  of  mind.  It  instructed  as  wdl 
88  amased ;  and  if  it  had  a  fault  at 
all,  it  was  that  it  was  too  learned 
and  erudite.  But  from  1830  to  1885, 
the  old  FeuiUeion  degenerated  in 
the  hands  of  Janin ;  and  from  1836-7 
the  Roman  FemUeton  began  to  ap* 
pear.  Now  the  Ronuin  FetdUetan  Mi$ 
beoMne  un  besoin  irriMible^  une  exi- 
gence impSrietuey  to  use  the  phrase 
of  its  admirers.  Thousands,  and  hun- 
dreds of  thousands,  hang  upon  the 
words,  '*  la  suite  aunrochain  numSro,'* 
Yet,  what  after  all  is  this  Roman 
FeuiUetan  ?  It  is  an  exaggerated  no- 
vel or  tale,  written  wiw  a  view  to 
effect—with  a  view  to  the  greatest 
number  of  readers  and  advertise- 
ments.  The  Presse  was  the  first  to 
inyent  this  system — ^this  rank  food 
for  vulgar  appetites ;  and  the  greatest 
producer  in  tne  trade  is  a  man  of  co- 
lour, Alexandre  Dumas  Davy,  who 
has  recently  assumed  the  title  of  Mar« 
quis  de  la  x^ailleterie. 

Dumas  is  said  to  have  fifteen  clerks 
in  his  manufactory.    It  is  the  busi* 
ness  of  these  fifteen  men  to  heap 
together   in   the    shortest   possible 
space,  the  greatest  number  of  start- 
ling incidents,  thrilling  emotions,  and 
sudden  contrasts.    On  and  on  they 
toil,  a  soUs  ortu  usque  ad  occasum^ 
whUe  the  happy  marquis   touches 
and  re-touches,  corrects  and  embel- 
lishes, throwing  in  here  and  there 
a  little  bit  more  pathos,  anon,  a  lit- 
tle more ,  gloominess,  or   now  and 
again  a  deeper  die  and  hue  of  guilt, 
for  a  monstrous  and  unnatural  spice 
of  crime  is,  above  all,  necessarv.  When 
the  whole  is  corrected  and  shaped  to 
the  most  taking  pattern,  then  Alex- 
andre Dumas  Davy,  Marquis  de  la 
PaiUeterie,  causes   one   of  his  two 
sons,  or  both,  perhaps,  to  copy  the 
whole  out  in  a  fair  hand,  the  parcel 
is  labelled,  and  ticketed,  and  trans- 
ferred to  the  marquis*  commissionaire^ 
to  deliver  as  per  order,  and  who  takes 
it  either  to  the  Di\|arrier  or  Beanval- 
lon  of  the  hour,  and  the  next  da^, 
^  all  events  within  the  next  week,  it 
i*  in  print    The  traders  in  news- 
papers are  satisfied  if  these  produc- 
tions procure  either  readers  or  ad- 
vertisements for  the  paper,  and  de- 
lighted if  they  procure  both,  while 


the  MarauiB  de  la  Fftilleterie  is  con- 
tented if^he  receive  from  his  30,000 
to  60,000  francs  a-year,  as  the  case 
may  be.  This  system  has  been  the 
ruin  of  ^umalism  and  literature. 
Nothing  18  demanded  but  to  produce 
the  article  quickly  to  suit  the  press- 
ing wants  of  the  day.  No  style  is 
necessary,  no  consistence  or  coher- 
ency, no  study  of  the  human  hmd 
or  nimian  heart.  All  that  is  re* 
quired  is  melodramatic  situation, 
bustle,  incident,  &c.  There  is  much 
noise  and  no  work,  which  was  ex- 
actly the  effect  produced  by  Addi- 
son's Trunkmaker.  The  pen  of  the 
writer  is  subservient  to  the  greedy 
spirit  of  speculation.  The  tale  or 
tne  novel  is  constructed,  not  after 
life  or  nature,  but  made  to  sell. 

As  a  consequence  the  public  taste 
becomes  daily  more  and  more  viti- 
ated.  The  relish  for  the  serious,  the 
matured,  the  natural,  is  lost.  There 
must  be  horror  heaped  on  horror; 
and  no  novel  or  tale  will  now  be  po* 
pular  that  does  not  contain  a  due  m« 
fusion  of  adulterv,  incest,  poisoning, 
or  parricide.  The  iVeeee,  by  the* 
hands  of  Duiarrier,  used  to  pay,  and 
by  the  hands  of  his  successor  still 
pays,  nearly  300  francs  a-day  for 
feuUhtons  fabricated  after  this  fashion, 
to  Alexandre  Dumas  Davy,  Marquis 
de  la  Failleterie,  George  Sand,  Fre- 
deric Soulie,  and  Honore  Prosper 
Balxac.  Mountains  of  trash  are  in 
consequence  produced.  To  the  au- 
thors, in  so  far  as  money  is  concerned, 
it  is  profitable  trash.  The  men  sack 
bushelsfuU  of  money,  but  they  make 
a  shipwreck  of  name  and  fame.  A 
career  is  given  to  the  wildest  and 
most  ramming  fancies ;  and  the  most 
exact  and  idiomatic  of  languages 
ceases  to  be  either  exact,  idiomatic,  or 
grammatical  in  the  hands  of  these 
uterary  tradesmen. 

Yet,  with  all  their  gains,  the  news- 
paper romancers  of  the  Presee  and 
the  Epoque  are  for  the  most  part 
penniless.  Though  some  of  tnem 
make  their  60,000  fhmcs  a-year,  yet 
their  expenditure  is  always  nearly 
double,  and  often  quadruple  their 
income.  They  live,  like  the  rouU 
of  the  Regent  Orleans,  like  the 
Broglies,  the  Brancas,  the  Birons, 
the  Cfloiillacs,  the  Noces,  the  Riche- 
lieus,  the  Dudos,  &e.  Each  of  them 
has  his  Mesdames  Parabdre,  de  Pha- 
laiis,  Emelie  de  TOpera,  his  Liev^ 


682 


A  Letter  to  Oliver  Yorke,  Sfc* 


[Jane, 


or  bis  Lola  Monies.  To  see  the 
horses,  and  carriages,  and  livery  ser* 
rants  of  these  men,  to  enter  their 
houses  filled  with  costly  fnmiture, 
pictures,  &c.,  one  would  think  they 
were  descended  from  the  Mont- 
morencys  and  Mortemarts. 

Your  friend  in  the  last  Reguta, 
however,  has  done  the  father  of  Alex- 
andre Dumas  an  injustice.  .The 
father,  though  a  general,  was  not  a 
mulatto  general,  hut  a  man  of  pure 
French  blood,  descended  of  the  Davyff 
de  la  Pailleterie  of  the  Fays  de  Caux 
in  Normandy.  There  was  no  more 
distinguished  officer  in  the  French 
army.  His  bravery  and  gallant 
beanng  were  remarkable  at  St. 
Bernara,  Mont  Cenis,  Mantua,  Neu- 
mark,  and  Brixen.  But  his  son 
Alexandre  is  a  mulatto,  his  mother 
being  a  native  of  Guadaloupe  (or  St. 
Domingo),  and  a  romancer  in  more 
senses  tnan  one ;  for  though  bom  on 
the  24th  July,  1802,  he  solemnly 
declared  before  the  Cour  d*  Assizes 
of  Rouen  he  was  only  forty -one 
years  of  age,  though  he  was  at  the 
moment  he  made  uie  declaration  in 
his  forty-fourth  year.  But  Monte- 
Cristo  Dumas,  with  all  his  follies 
and  faults — and  their  name  is  Legion, 
— ^is  a  modest  and  an  humble  man, 
though  he  drives  his  coach-and-four, 
compared  with  Honore  Balzac 
This  man,  who  is  now  in  his  forty- 
seventh  year,  came  to  Paris  six-and- 
twenty  years  ago,  where  he  obtained 
the  brevet  of  a  printer.  He  had 
not  been  in  business  above  a  year, 
before  he  failed  in  trade.  From  1 827 
to  1829  he  produced  various  anony- 
mous romances,  deservedly  forgotten. 
But  in  1830  his  Flemish  fimshing 
was  relished  by  the  hourgeoigie^  who 
had  triumphed  in  the  three  days. 
Eughue  Orandet  le  Midecin  de  Cam* 
pagne,  Les  Scbnes  de  la  Vie  PrivSe 
de  la  Vie  Parisienne^  and  De  la  Vie 
de  Prarnnce^  obtained  immense  suc- 
cess, and  procured  for  the  author 
considerable  sums  of  money.  Behold 
the  unknown  Tourangeau  of  1820, 
the  broken-down  printer  of  the  Rue 
St.  Andre  des  Arcs  in  1831  and  1832 
transformed  into  an  U^ant^  with  the 
airs  of  a  grand  seigneur,  driving  his 
cabriolet,  sporting  his  cane,  worth 
2000  francs,  nourishing  a  formidable 
pair  of  moustachios,  maintaining  a 
£&re,  a  valet  de  chawibre^  and  a  maitre 
drhM'f  keeping  an  English  mbtx^eMi 


and  expending  at  least  100,000  fhmcs, 
or  40002.  a -year.  For  ten  yean 
Honors  was  at  every  thing  in  the 
ring;  but  at  length,  having  writ- 
ten himself  out,  he  is  now  entirely 
supplanted  by  Sue,  and  has  fled  to 
Italv,  overwnelmed  with  debts  and 
liabilities,  the  tenth  part  of  which  he 
will  never  be  enabled  to  pay.  But 
without  the  FeuiUeton  of  Girardin 
and  Cassagnac,  Balzac  could  never 
have  run  this  mad  and  foolish  career ; 
without  the  abuse  of  the  Fevitletanj  he 
never  could  have  indulged  the  whims 
and  fancies  of  a  diseased  and  morbid 
vanity,  or  lived  the  life  of  a  prince 
and  a  financier.  Who  have  lowered 
and  perverted  the  FeuUleianf  The 
Presse  and  the  Epoque^  Girardin 
and  Cassagnac.  Wno  have  contri- 
buted to  produce  the  scenes  which 
our  common  friend  in  Bbgika  de- 
plores, and  properly  castigates?  Cas- 
sagnac and  Girardin.  Duels  there 
are  —  always  have  been — in  Paris, 
and  duels  there  always  will  be  in 
Paris  so  long  as  France  is  France. 
But  duels  d  propas  de  rien ;  duels, 
taking  their  origin  in  base  cupidity 
or  mercantile  rivalry,  are  a  creation 
of  the  Presse  and  Epoque^  and  the 
Raman  FemUeton. 

As  to  French  actresses,  my  dear 
Oliver,  there  is  much  to  be  sud  in 
extenuation  of  their  lightness  and 
follies,  and  I  am  not  the  man  to  break 
these  butterflies  on  a  wheel.  In  the 
midst  of  society,  French  actresses  live 
Uke  parias.  By  common  consent 
their  profession  is  depreciated  uid 
discremted.  When  they  bear  an 
honest  or  respected  nam<^  they  are 
obliged  to  chan^  it  into  oa^  otOe, 
or  samL,  not  to  dishonour  or  di^raoe 
their  families.  But  who  that  haa 
ever  been  behind  the  scenes  of  a 
French  provincial  theatre,  or  that  in 
Easter  week  has  seen  French  pro- 
vincial actresses  come  up  in  dozens 
from  all  comers  of  France  to  the 
coffee-house  in  the  Rue  de  TArbre 
Sec  to  seek  metropolitan  engagements, 
declaiming,  singing,  dancing,  pmar  je 
vendre  A  Venehere  ou  au  ro^ow,  can 
wonder  at  the  scene  at  the  Trois 
Freres?  Till  the  bad  eminence,  how- 
ever, of  Girardin,  Cassa^ac,  and 
Co.,  the  press  of  Paris  did  not  fq 
behind  the  scenes  in  search  of  mis- 
tresses; and  even  during  their  pre- 
dominance, it  is  only  the  scum  and 
drq^B  of  de  press  that  aspire  to  Ubi^ 


1846.] 


Ernest  WalkinwornCs  Opinion  of  Seville, 


683 


Qcient  privileges  of  the  gentilhammes 
la  chambre  de  roi. 
Ko,  my  dear  Ouveb,  you  must 
not  judge  of  the  press  or  the  litera- 
ture of  Trance  by  these  deplorable 
examples.  The  Bertins,  the  De 
Sacys,  the  Chasles,  the  St.  Marc 
Girardins,  the  Fleurys,  the  Fauchers, 
the  Saint  Beuves,  are  men  as  learned 
and  as  respectable  as  are  to  be  found 
in  any  country;  and  you  may  rest 
assured  the  better  portion  of  the 
French  press,— the  Dibats,  the  Coh' 
sUtutiormely  the  Si^le^  and  the  Retme 
des  Deux  Mandes,  &c,  —  are  all 
anxious  to  rescue  themselves  from 
the  opprobrium  of  being  considered 
as  persons  of  the  stamp  of  the  Girar- 
dlns  and  Cassagnacs,  of  the  Dujar- 
riers  and  BeauvaUons. 


Forgive  me  for  trespassing  on  you 
at  such  length,  but  it  is  right  the 
case  of  respectable  and  learned  men 
should  be  distinguished,  as  the  law- 
yers in  my  day  used  to  sav,  from  the 
case  of  the  scamps,  of  the  scum  of 
literature  and  politics.  Beware  in 
England  of  the  Roman  Feuilleton. 
If  you  ever  allow  romancers,  jesters, 
or  novelists  to  usurp  the  place  held 
in  your  Times  and  Chronicle  by  seri- 
ous and  solid  political  writers,  adieu 
to  the  respectabilitv — adieu  also  to 
the  liberty  of  the  ifnglish  press. 

I  remain,  my  dear  Oliver, 

Your  faithful  and  sincere  friend, 

Bbnjamin  Blunt, 

Bencberman  and  Trencherman  of  the 
Inner  Temple. 


£RN£ST  WALKINWORM  S  OPIKIOK  OF  SEVII«L£, 


IN  A  LBTTEB  TO  MB.  GBUBLBT. 


When  we  separated,  my  dear  Grub- 
ley,  at  the  Southampton  Pier,  you, 
to  study  the  resources  of  the  Chan- 
nel Islands,  I,  for  SevOle,  I  was 
far  more  satisfied  with  my  choice 
than  I  am  at  present  Unlike  most 
of  those  whose  midnight  lamps  glim- 
mer with  the  same  perseverance,  I 
must  frankly  own  that  my  reading  has 
misled  me.  I  forget  which  romantic 
bard  first  inveigled  me  into  the 
dreamy  admiration  which  I  have  ever 
since  encouraged  towards  this  land. 
But  whoever  it  was,  he  is  respon- 
sible for  the  course  of  reading  I 
thenceforth  pursued,  and  for  my 
present  disappointment. 

I  have  accompanied  tourist  after 
tourist,  poet  after  poet,  through  this 
southern  paradise,  and  never  met 
with  the  shadow  of  a  disappointment 
to  mar  the  ddights  of  a  residenceat  Se- 
ville as  long  as  I  remained  at  Putney. 
How  difierent  the  descriptions  m 
books  are  from  the  places  they  pro- 
fess to  paint,  I  have  now  begun  to 
discover.  I  have  here  Byron,  and  one 
or  two  others  of  my  deceivers;  and 
am  learning  to  smoke  in  order  to 
use  their  leaves  in  lighting  my  pipe, 


• 

as  I  think  that  such  atrocious  exag- 
gerations should  end  in  smoke. 

My  first  outbreak  against  the  poet 
I  have  just  named  was  occasioned  bv 
the  journey  from  the  coast  to  this 
place.  I  was  all  eagerness  to  arrive 
at  the  romantic  land  he  talks  of,  and 
discovered  by  the  end  of  the  day 
that  he  could  never  have  looked  for- 
ward to  any  of  his  readers  coming  to 
see  it.  Why,  the  Thames  between 
Hammersmith  and  Battersea  is  far 
more  romantic  than  this  Guadal- 
quivir, along  the  whole  fifty  miles 
of  which  there  is  not  sufiicient  fo- 
liage to  deck  the  parterre  of  an  al- 
derman*s  villa !  This  disappointment 
was,  however,  trifling  to  that  of  my 
whole  existence  in  tnis  so  vaunted 
city,  which  is  as  difierent  as  can  be 
imagined  from  what  they  would 
make  you  believe. 

Any  one  coming  here  after  having 
been  told,  as  I  have  fifty  times,  that 
Seville  was  a  superb  city — a  city  of 
palaces— would  suppose  the  diligence 
nad  set  him  down  at  the  wrong  town. 
You  know,  my  dear  Grubley,  that  I 
always  say  what  I  mean ;  well  then, 
I  awure  you  that  the  narrowest  part 


68 1 


Ernest  WaIkinfCorm*s  Opinion  ofSetnlk, 


[Jmie) 


of  Fetter  Lane  is  about  the  mdth  of 
the  principal  streets  of  Seville ;  and 
as  for  the  palaces,  I  hare  worn  out 
two  pairs  or  boots,  and  have  not  yet 
discovered  the  remotest  symptoms  of 
anything  of  the  kind.  You  know 
how  we  abuse  Bucldngham  Palace ; 
there  is  nothing  here  that  would 
stand  the  comparison  with  one  of  its 
wings.  It  is  true  they  say  that  there 
IS  one  built  by  the  Moors,  who  are 
said  to  have  oone  every  thing  with 
a  sort  of  Oriental  magnificence.  I 
requested  to  have  it  shewn  to  me; 
but  when  we  came  to  it  I  could  not 
believe  it  was  a  palace.  It  is  nothing 
to  a  row  of  houses  in  Portland 
Place.  I  was  so  disgusted  that  I 
would  not  go  In ;  and  I  saw  clearly 
by  the  smile  on  the  countenance  of 
my  guide,  an  intelligent  Spaniard, 
who  understands  English,  that  he 
appreciated  my  feelings  on  coming 
from  such  a  countiy  as  England: 
and  I  am  convinced  he  has  since 
spoken  well  to  his  friends  of  my 
spirit  in  not  allowins  myself  to  be,  as 
it  were,  taken  in,  by  entering  the 
doors  of  such  a  place. 

A    circumstance    which   renders 
these  disappointments  the  more  pro- 
voking,   IS  the   great  advantage  a 
stranger  possesses  in  this  country, 
owing  to  the  facility  of  the  language. 
Having  a  tolerably^  quick  ear,  the 
peculiarity  immediately  struck   me 
that  all  tne  words  terminated  in  o. 
It  is  well  known  that  much  of  the 
English  language  is  of  Latin  deriva- 
tion, as  is  also  the  case  with  the 
entire  Spanish  tongue;  so  that  it 
inunediately  occurred  to  me  that  by 
adding  an  o  to  the  English  words,  I 
could  not  fail  of  becoming  intelligi- 
ble;  and  that  without  the  trouble 
of  studying  a  new  lanffuage.     For, 
with  a  little  practice,  I  expected  to 
run  on  fluently  enough  with   my 
native  tongue  thus  modified ;  and  I 
resolved  to  exercise  myself  aloud  in 
my  room  during  half  an  hour  each 
morning,  and  tSso  occasionally  du- 
ring a  solitary  walk  in  the  country. 
1  tried  my  system  for  half  a  day, 
but  I  can't  say  it  altogether  suc- 
■^ed.    I  was,  however,  as  well  un- 
nod  as  when  I  tried  the  Spanish 
I  believe  the  individuids  with 
I  happened  to  fall  in  that 
ag  were  not  fair  specimens  of 
^age    Spanish    mtelligence. 
'  to  whom  I  applied  for  a 


little  eoddo  fisfao  and  oystero  Wtto^ 
ran  away  as  though  I  hadthRstened 
to  knock  him  down.  Beadei^  I  found 
the  principle  did  not  invariably  ad- 
mit of  a  Bncoessftd  applioBtion,  fipom 
a  practice  this  nation  possesses  of  dis- 
torting the  signification  of  tcnni ; 
as  in  the  instance  of  dimieroy  which 
by  an  unaccountable  pervernoa  is 
made  to  signify  money.  From  saeh 
obstacles  as  these  I  feared  my  lystem 
would  require  some  previous  study, 
with  a  view  to  drawing  up  a  hit  of 
exceptions  and  modifications ;  I  there- 
fore laid  it  aside  for  the  moment,  sod 
took  to  the  old  routine  of  karaiog 
Spanish  as  a  distinct  langusjse.  My 
intention  is  not,  however,  given  o|); 
and  I  shall  devote  my  first  Id- 
sure  time  to  the  mature  considenk 
tion  of  the  subject,  in  order  thst,  at 
least,  future  travellers  may  profit  by 
the  discovery. 

The  most  carious  monument  here 
seems  to  be  the  ffreat  tower  called 
the  Giralda,  whicn  I  admire  much. 
It  is  all  square  up  to  an  immense 
height,  and  then  tapers  up  to  the 
top  like  a  Chinese  pagoda,  with 
ouantitiea  of  great  bells  ail  round  m 
full  view,  turning  head-over-heels 
when  they  ring  a  peal.  I  ascended 
this  tower  the  daj  after  my  arrival, 
and  never  did  I  see  so  strange  a 
place.  I  was  let  in  throueh  a  door 
which  looked  like  a  rat-hole,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  enormous  building, 
and  to  pass  through  which  I  had  to 
stoop.  There  was  first  a  small  room, 
and  out  of  it  another  door  leading  to 
a  passage,  which  went  up-hiJi  m 
about  a  down  paces.  A  dead  waU 
stopped  me  at  the  end ;  but  ihevus- 
age  then  turned  at  a  right  angle  to 
the  left,  and  I  went  up-hill  another 
dozen  steps  to  another  wall,  ana 
agam  to  the  left;  and  this  ina  jm- 
formly  repeated  until  I  had  wafted 
about  half-a-mile,  turning  always  to 
the  left  It  th«i  opened  into  a  sort 
of  platform,  and  there  Iwasonttc 
ton,  with  a  balustrade  round  ^ 
sides  of  the  tower,  and  all  the  bdls 
overhead,  hanging  out  in  the  air. 

The  town  was  as  ugly  fiwn  ^^ 
eminence  as  from  below;  but  the 
cathedral,  which  is  close  to  the  tower, 
was  most  singular,  and  looked  hk* 
the  monuments  of  a  whole  city  joJ"' 
bled  together  as  if  they  had  heen 
tossed  out  of  a  dice-box.  Oncoming 
down  Imet  a  procession  eompoiedot 


colt  to  discover.  Wbererer  700  go 
you  cannot  avoid  seeing  its  eooTmoui 
balk  out-toppiDK  every  tiling  else, 
and  filtinga  wbolequarterofa  tovm. 
Having  beaid  and  read  of  its  won- 
ders, I  entered,  expecting  to  bave 
arrived  at  last  trt  a  com^ensaUon  for 
all  mj  other  disappointments.  I 
found  mjtelf  in  an  immense  grey, 
brown,  dingy  vault,  of  a  prodigious 
elevation,  and  almost  dark  witb  mys- 
terions -looking  people  of  different 
sorts ;  some  moving  slowly  from  one 
part  of  the  edifice  to  another ;  others 
making  bows  to  the  tur,  or  to  the 
walls ;  and  some  forming  with  their 
thumbs  and  fingers  cabalistic  signs. 
I  had  not,  hoivever,  long  to  meditate, 
or  to  endeavour  to  account  for  what 
I  taw,  for  a  sort  of  farotliar  in  a 
black  gown  and  loose  white  spenser, 
wearing  on  bis  head  a  cap  with  an- 
gular projections  upwards,  as  if  in* 
tended  for  the  reception  of  bells, 
and  in  bis  band  a  long  white  stick, 
approached  me  and  pointed  to  my 
shoulders,  on  which  I  had  thrown 
my  cloak  d  VEspagnoi.  I  ventured 
to  inquire  whether  he  wished  any- 
thing, but  could  get  no  reply  but 
nodding  of  the  head  and  cap,  and 
rapid  signs  of  the  hand,  accompanied 
by  half-articulate  expressions,  simi- 
lar to  bozo,  or  vozo,  and  quibtr ; 
now  as  gvilar  signifies  do  away,  take 
away,  or  take  off,  and  I  would  not 
take  off  my  cloak  for  a  fellovr  who 
had  the  impudence  to  wear  his  fools'- 
cap  while  ne  gave  me  the  order,  I 
took  myself  on,  and  shall  not  cer- 
tainly enter  that  building  again. 

No  doubt  you  are  aware  thrt  such 
a  thing  as  a  decent,  quiet,  respectable 
Protestantplaceofworship,  is  totally 
unknown  here ;  such  as,  for  instance, 
our  Barnabas  Chapel  at  Wandsworth. 
We  must  take  thin^  as  we  find 
them.  The  only  way,  m  mv  opinion, 
of  observing  the  Saobath  nere,  is  to 
avoid  setting  foot  in  any  of  these 
flauuty  Catholic  churches  on  that 
day ;  for  on  other  days  one  ii  con- 
stantly drawn  into  them  to  see  their 
fiummerv  shows  and  processions. 

Last  Sunday  I  was  directed  to  the 
Christina  promenade,  as  the  rende** 
vous  of  the  Seville  fashionables. 
There,  in  fact,  I  should  bave  been 
repaid  for  once  by  finding  my  ex- 
pectations of  enjoyment  revised,  had 
I  been  allowea  to  remain.  On  a 
magnificent  marble  tenscei  larger 


than  t^twenty  times  the  lord  mayor's 
ball-room,  surrounded  with  marble 
seats,  and  outside  these  a  splendid 
«rden,  wafting  all  the  perfumes  of 
Paradise,  were  assembled  a  blaze  of 
beauty  and  an  ocean  of  ammauon. 
I  had  not  been  ten  minuter  absorbed 
in  the  study  of  thisenchanting  vision, 
when,  a  wide  space  opening  bj  uni- 
versal consent,  a  prooeasion  of  a  moat 
novel  description  passed  through  the 
assembly,  whose  formal  ranks  and 
undivided  attention  were  arrested  by 
the  event-  A  dozen  British  officers 
&om  Gibraltar  had  disembarked,  and 
taken  the  Sunday  promenade  on  their 
way  to  their  hotel,  each  carrfing  his 
portmanteau  on  his  should,  and 
cracking  jokes  in  a  loud  voice  as 
they  underwent  the  ordeal  of  this 
universal  criticism.  "Well,"  thought 
I,  as  I  observed  the  unequivocal 
signs  of  disgust  and  ridicule  thus 
drawn  on  my  compatriots,  and  which 
I  felt  would  dog  my  steps  as  long-  as 
I  remained  on  the  ground,  "it  is 
time  for  roe  to  be  off!"  and  I  filed 
off  accordingly. 

I  mentioned  having  fallen  in  with 
some  acquaintances ;  it  is  a  lady  with 
her  son,  who  came  in  their  yacht, — 
a  Mrs.  Smuggins,  of  ^Vhitechapel. 
Young  Smuggins  went  to  sea  five 
years  ago,  ana  made  two  voyages  to 
Bombay, — on  which  occasions,  as  his 
widowed  mother  had  been  liberal, 
and  given  him  a  pacotille,  he  scraped 
togeuier  a  capital  snfficient  to  enable 
him  to  dabble  inscrip;  so  that,  bang 
luckv,  he  soon  realised  a  (for  him) 
dauling  fortune.  Having  acquired 
a  taste  for  the  sea,  he  immediately 
purchased  and  fitted  hp  a  yacht,  in 
which  he  stowed  away  biscuits  and 
tea  for  ballast,  these  being  the  comea- 
tibles  he  prefers.  He  started  with 
the  intentton  of  taking  his  beloved 
parent  to  Gibraltar,  but  meeting  with 
contrary  winds,  and  being,  at  length 
— owing,  poMibly,  to  his  farinaceous 
ballast^-Bcriously  maltreated  b^  a 
gale  off  the  Algarbe,  be  ran  mto 
Cadiz  for  shelter.  He  tells  me  he 
shooldnever  have  dreamed  ofcoraios; 
to  these  parts,  but  the  damages  ^ 
his  ship  requiriuK  time  to  repair,  he 
had  been  persuaded  to  come  to  visit 
Seville,  after  bemg  thoroughly  tired 
of  Cadiz.  He  quite  agrees  with  ne 
about  this  place,  and  says  that  Cadia 
isjnstas  bad.  "I  never  expected," 
he  adds,  "  to  find  there  so  much  aa 


1846.] 


in  a  Letter  to  Mr,  Orubley, 


687 


an  onnce  of  tobacco  for  my  sailon ; 
and  when  I  went  into  a  caf6  and 
asked  for  a  devilled  gizzard  and  a 
pint  of  porter,  they  replied  that  they 
nad  nothinff  but  old  charters  to  diew 
[no  doubt  ne  means  orehala  de  chufoM 
— almond  orgeat],  and  sometmng 
about  hell  and  a  dose"  [heladog — 
frozen  lemonade,  &c.]  He  therefore 
came  here,  and  is  no  better  satisfied, 
but  anxious  to  get  out  to  sea  again, 
or,  at  least,  to  touch  at  Gibnutar, 
where  he  expects  to  find  himself 
more  at  home.  He  had  founded 
gr^t  expectations  on  a  bull-fight, 
which  he  expected  was  simflar, 
though,  of  course,  not  equal,  to  a 
bull-oait  with  English  dogs.  He 
had  taken  tickets  for  hinuelf  and 
Mrs.  Smuggins  for  the  next  corridor 
[corrida]^  as  he  termed  it;  and,  as  I 
had  never  witnessed  the  sight,  I 
agreed  to  meet  them  at  the  Circus. 
It  was  yesterday. 

I  found  the  place  very  crowded 

when  I  arrived,  and,  bemg  shewn 

the  way  in,  came  into  a   pamige 

with  a  row  of  boxes  on  one  side, 

filled  with   ladies   and   gentlemen, 

whose  view  I  interrupted  as  I  stood, 

and  on  the  other,  a  aescent  of  some 

half-dozen  stone  gradines  down  to 

the  arena.    These,  also,  seemed  to 

be  as  full  as  they  could  hold.    The 

people  at  the  hotel  had  procured  me, 

as  the  best  sort  of  ticxet,  one  that 

admitted  to  the  barrera.    On  shewing 

it  to  a  gentleman  in  the  front  seat  of 

a  box,  he  directed  me  to  the  lowest 

of  the  gradines,  where,  in  fact,  I 

should  have  been  in  firont,  and  as 

near  as  possible  to  the  action,  like 

the  orchestra  places  at  a  theatre. 

But  how  was  I  to  arrive  ?    Each 

gradine  is  at  once  the  seat  of  its 

occupants  and  the  footstool  of  those 

helonginff  to  the  next  above;  and 

what  with  coat-skirts,  elbows,  knees, 

and  feet,  the  passage  did  not  appear 

practicable.    Seeing  my  hesitation, 

the  gentleman  again  asked  to  see  my 

ticket,  and  pointed  to  the  number  on 

it  to  shew  that  mv  place  must  be 

reserved.    I  thererore  ventured  on 

the  attempt,  and,  begging  as  many 

pardons  as  I  could,  put  forward  one 

loot,  then  the  other;  but  although 

the  uppermost  row,  having  no  knees 

nor  feet  on  their  seats,  let  me  through, 

the  next  were  rebellious,  and  cned 

out  openly  that  the  fonutero  should 

bavc  come  in  timci  tbat  tbe^fimeion 


had  commenced ;  and,  on  a  shout  of 
applause  greeting  some  exploit  of  a 
great  black  bull,  all  further  atten- 
tion was  refused  me.  ^*  Now,  there- 
fore,**  thought  I,  ^4t  seems  I  must 
renounce  tms  dissipation  also;"  and 
I  was  about  to  withdraw  from  before 
the  boxes,  the  view  from  which  I 
interrupted,  when  two  good-natured 
natives  opened  me  a  small  space  on 
their  stone-seat,  and  I  slipped  in, 
making  one  of  a  row  of  700  or  800 
spectators  seated  on  that  step. 

Well,  this  was  a  novel  scene !  and 
the  only  thing  worth  coming  to  Se- 
ville for.  Around  a  circus  of  such 
dimensions  as  would  admit  of  Astley's 
being  set  upright  and  played  at  hoop 
¥rith  round  and  round  it,  was  a 
sloping  wall  of  human  beings  up  to 
and  above  where  I  sat — at  a  rough 
guess  I  should  say  20,000 — all  in  a 
fever  of  enthusiasm.  In  the  inter- 
vals of  the  bursts  of  applause,  or 
disapprobation,  or  laughter,  or  groans, 
single  voices  were  occasionally  audi- 
ble, uttering  homel}^  witticisms, 
usually  responded  to  either  by  some 
brilliant  repartee  or  by  a  general 
laugh*  But  the  princiiMd  attention 
was  bestowed  on  the  performers,  and 
deservedly. 

The  first  thing  I  saw  was  the  ter- 
mination of  the  career  of  the  big 
black  bull.  A  troop  of  most  elegant 
gentlemen,  in  white  silk  stockmgs 
and  embroidered  silk  jackets  and 
breeches,  either  scarlet,  or  yellow, 
or  blue,  &c.,  each  carrying  a  scarf  on 
his  arm,  were  lounging  at)out  on  all 
sides  of  the  animal ;  while  in  front  of 
him,  ready  for  attack,  stood  one  of 
the  most  slim  and  graceful,  in  an 
entire  tight  dress  of  bl^k  embroidered 
satin,  except  the  little,  light,  open 
jacket.  This  was  the  only  performer 
who  bore  an  offensive  arm,  for  the 
cavalry  had  retired.  He  held  in  his 
light  hand  a  straight  sword  in  a 
horizontal  position,  concealed  from 
view  by  a  scarlet  mantle  which  hung 
upon  the  blade.  He  was  motionless, 
and  looked  the  monster  in  the  face. 
The  whole  arena  had  suddenly  be- 
come silent,  and  all  eyes  were  mtent 
on  the  two  principal  actors.  The 
bull  was  also  standing  still,  but  soon 
ecHnmenoed  a  slight  movement  of  the 
head,  which  he  turned  first  on  one 
side  and  then  on  the  other ;  his  eyes 
were,  however,  again  immediately 
fixed  on  hia  en^y,  and  at  Icp"^ 


688 


Ernest  WalkiMD&rm*i  Opinion  of  Seville, 


[Jone, 


lowered  hk  head  tdmoti  to  tht 
ground,  and  aeraped  the  sand  two  or 
three  times  with  nis  hoof.  The  ma- 
tador now  slipped  the  red  scarf  from 
the  blade  of  the  sword,  A  toss  of 
the  head  announced  the  animal*s  final 
resolve,  and  he  made  a  rush.  The 
sword-hand  of  the  matador  rose  to  a 
lerel  with  his  shoulder,  and  without 
any  movement  of  his  body,  more 
than  an  almost  imperceptible  resting 
on  the  left  foot,  he  appeared  to  hold 
the  sword  motionless.  However  this 
was  managed,  certain  it  is  that  I 
heard  a  hissing  sound,  not  unliice  the 
passing  of  a  saw  through  a  plank  at 
a  distance,  and  perceived  the  hilt 
resting  on  the  upper  part  of  the  neck 
of  the  bull,  the  blade  being  out  of 
tight  until  drawn  leisurely  from  the 
carcass,  which  had  fidlen  on  its  knees, 
and  immediately  afterwards  rolled  on 
to  its  side  a  lifeless  mass. 

The  matador  wiped  his  blade  in 
the  scarlet  mantle,  while  his  neat 
performance  received  the  universal 
plaudits  of  the  spectators.  While 
this  was  going  on,  in  an  instant  a 
noose  had  been  riung  round  the  head 
of  the  carcass,  and  a  team  of  tinkling 
mules,  four  a-breast,  had  galloped  it 
out  of  the  circus.  The  next  bull 
was  what  I  should  think  they  would 
call  a  poser, — but  you  have  doubt- 
less read  of  fifty  bull-fights,  and  no 
description  is  like  the  thing  itself. 
Besides,  my  pleasures  were  wofully 
interrupted  during  the  performances 
of  this  bull.  Before  we  come  to  that, 
however,  I  must  record  one  of  his 
exploits.  The  animal  was  small,  but 
symmetry  itself.  Its  barrel  tight 
and  shinmg;  its  tail  projecting;  its 
step  brisk  though  measured ;  the 
h^  rather  large,  and  armed  with 
horns  which  projected  almost  ho- 
riiontally  in  firisnt,  and  were  so  fine 
and  slightly  curved  as  to  look  almost 
like  daggers.  A  picador  had  en- 
countered him  at  the  extreme  limit  of 
the  circus,  and  heedless  of  the  point 
of  the  lance,  only  formed  to  penetrate 
about  the  depth  of  an  inch,  the  bull 
gored  the  horse  under  the  left  shoul- 
der, lifting  him  up  until  the  suffering 
animal,  rearing  to  escape  the  deepen- 
ing wound  and  the  pressure  irom 
the  side  attacked,  placed  his  forelegs 
over  the  barrera,  or  wooden  en- 
M^nre,  nearly  six  feet  high.  The 
o  lon|per  able  to  reach  this 
ds  victim,  pressed  oo,  uid, 


taking  Ki»n  under  the  ^aniM^i  kept 
lifting  him  up  repevtedly,  so  tut 
the  hind  1^  of  the  poor  hoiBe,  de- 
scending to  the  ground  in  regular 
cadence,  produced  the  appearance  of 
dancing.  Soon  his  forenools,  disen- 
gaffing  themselves  firom  the  barrier, 
and  at  the  same  instant  his  hinder 
quarters  being  high  in  air,  fae  fell 
with  his  rider  on  to  the  bull*8  back, 
where  they  struggled  for  half-a- 
minute,  as  Uie  horns  would  not  let  go 
their  hold;  and  in  this  poatnre  of 
things  the  little  bull  actually  ad- 
van^  a  step  or  two  widiont  drop- 
ping his  burden,  which  ultimaiay 
rolled  over,  placing  the  picador, 
whose  padded  laggings  rmdered  him 
very  helpless,  in  much  periL  A 
chubo  was,  however,  at  nand,  and 
soon  drew  the  attention  of  the  ball, 
which  quitted  his  prostrate  enemy  to 
seek  fresh  encounters. 

No  sooner  had  the  rapturona  ap- 
plause drawn  forth  by  this  perform- 
ance given  way  to  a  temponuy 
silence,  than  my  attention  was  at- 
tracted to  a  movement  among  the 
spectators  at  about  a  doaen  yards* 
custanoe  on  my  left,  and  below  me. 
Something  unusual  had  evidently 
occurred,  and  the  people  were  Btand- 
ing  up.  The  fact  was  this,  the  bull 
had  gored  another  horse,  which,  ne- 
vertheless, galloped  about  with  his 
rider  iu  the  tnetee^  dragging  his 
bowels  along  the  ground.  My  ac- 
quaintances, the  Smugginaes,  whose 
presence  I  had  forgotten,  were  at  the 
spot  in  question,  and  at  this  sight 
tne  nerves  of  Mrs.  Smuggins  had  to- 
tally fiiiled  her.  She  nad  placed 
herself  in  the  men's  seats,  and  muat 
have  created  no  inconsiderable  sensa- 
tion by  her  rather  bulky  attractioiis 
and  ford^  manners  and  costume,  in 
the  portion  of  the  building  never 
ftequented  by  the  reputable  of  her 
aex.  Her  exclamations  now  reached 
me.  ''I  cannot — I  cannot-^Ofaa- 
diah!      Take   me   away  I      Ah  — 

he — ^I  am  fiunting — I  am  iaint 1 " 

and  after  a  minute  a  sort  of 
scream.  Mr.  Smuggins  was  an- 
dible  likewise,  dedanng  he  would 
not  go,  although  all  the  ladies 
present  should  iaint;  the  ftin  was 
capita],  and  he  should  not,  perhaps, 
have  an  opportunity  of  seeing  an- 
other. Meanwhile  the  bustle  spread, 
and  the  cufiosky  became  general. 
The  police  would  diortly  have  inter- 


1846.] 


in  a  Letter  to  Mr*  Qrubley^ 


689 


fered.  My  cbivalroaB  feeliiigs  were 
excited,  and  I  resolyed  to  go  to  the  res- 
cue of  this  distressed  princess,  and  no 
small  difficulty  I  had.  She  was  four 
gradines  down ;  it  was  bad  enough  to 
arrive  alone:  imagine,  then,  the 
ascent,  vrith  a  fainting  and  hysterical 
form  of  corpulent  dimensions  resting 
on  my  arm  f  Lnagine,  moreover,  the 
endurance  of  lau^ter,  which  at  last 
greeted  us  unrestrained ! 

If  I  resolved,  as  I  administered 
oonsolatioa  and  soothing  accents  to 
this  sufferii^  and  virtuous  compa- 
triot on  our  way  to  her  inn,  never  to 
go  to  another  bull-fight,  m^  reso- 
lution was  confirmed  on  hearing  her 
heart-rending  exclamations.  You 
know,  my  dear  Grubley,  that  I  am 
incapahle  of  exaggeration  or  decep- 
tion of  any  sort ;  well,  I  assure  you 
that  the  poor  ripped-up  horse  occa- 
sioned the  thoughts  of  Mrs.  Smug- 
gins  to  revert  to  her  deceased  hus- 
band. I  cannot  account  for  this  cir- 
cumstance; if  I  could  I  certainly 
would  tell  you  the  reason  of  it,  but 
so  it  was.  She  constantly  appealed  to 
hinit  using  the  vocative  article ;  and 
once  she  uttered  the  following  ad- 
dress to  him,  interrupted  by  sobs : — 
^*'  Poor,  dear  Smuggins  f  What 
would  you  have  said  to  my  witness- 
ing such  things?  And  our  own 
child  to  take  me  there ! "  And  after 
having  said  this,  she  wiped  her  eyes 
with  a  blue  duster.  For  my  part,  I 
always  feel  compassion  for  the  re- 
verses which  beiall  my  fellow-crea- 
tures ;  but,  nevertheless,  on  her 
making  the  last-mentioned  exclama- 
tion, I  could  not  help  asking  myself, 
What  could  the  Seville  bull-fanciers 
have  said  when  they  saw  Mrs. 
SmugraisP 

In  met,  if  there  is  one  thmg  more 
remarkable  than  another  in  tnis  re- 
nowned dty,  it  is  the  rigid  and  re- 
tiring simplicity — ^nay,  severity,  of 
femue  costume  and  deporUnent 
among  the  upper  classes;  and  you 
know,  Grubtev,  I,  of  course,  look 
npon  those  of  our  sort,  and  every 
one  we  Imow,  as  being  of  the  upper 
dasses.  Imagine,  then,  the  sensation 
produced  by  the  appearance,  in  a 
conspicuous,  public,  and  male  situa- 
tion, of  a  tall  and  magnificent  Hot- 
tentot Venus,  like  this  Smuggins  of 
Whitechapelf  flaunting  in  a  rainbow 
of  gay  colours,  and  exhibiting  a  free- 
dom of  lo<A  and  gesture,  which,  at 


least  in  these  regions,  is  as  yet  unpre- 
cedented and  exotic  I 

It  appears  that  others  have  far  less 
reason  to  complain  of  their  adverse 
fates  than  I  have.    Do  you  recollect 

P ,  the  brewer  at  Battersea,  who 

finding  his  vats  no  lon^r  filled  and 
empti^  as  in  former  tunes,  sold  his 
establishment  to  a  bone-dust  manu- 
facturer, and  embarked  for  Hobart 
Town  ?  He  was  shipwrecked  off 
Madeira,  and  conveyed  by  a  French 
government  brigto  Gibraltar  at  his 
own  request  What  further  befell 
him  and  his  fiunily  I  know  not,  but 
his  man-servant — a  youth  who  used 
to  drink  more  porter  than  he  assisted 
in  manufacturing — ^took  employment 
in  a  carpenter's  shop  at  Gibraltar. 
'  This  youth  it  was  wnom,  afler  con- 
ducting my  rescued  fair  one  to  her 
residence,  I  saw  issuing  from  one  of 
the  least  dingy  and  disreputable- 
looking  houses  in  Seville.  I  knew 
him  in  an  instant  by  his  pock-marked 
skin  and  hook-nose,  and  stopped,  all 
amazement,  for  he  was  dressed  better 
than  myself.  A  new  silk  hat  on  one 
of  his  ears,  a  blue  coat  and  chiselled 
buttons,  japanned  boots,  and  a  cane 
sawing  the  balmy  atmosphere. 

«  Well,"  I  exclaimed,  "  Thomas, 
it  is  long  since  we  met  at  Battersea/' 

"  Yes,  a  long  time,  sir." 

^^  I  heard  you  were  a  carpenter, 
but  you  seem  to  have  left  that  call- 
ing for  something  better?"  And  I 
expected  that  he  would  blush,  and 
stunmer  forth  a  bashful  story  of  ro- 
mance ;  how  that  a  black-eyed  seiiora 
had  deigned  to  remark  him,  and  that 
he  was  now  a  don  in  a  lar^e  house. 
But,  to  my  surprise,  he  replied,  with- 
out hesitation,  and  as  quietly  as  if  he 
were  announcing  a  fine  day, — 

"  I  gives  lessons  in  Hinglish  now, 
Sir. 

At  this  innocent,  announcement  I 
did  not  restrain  my  mirth ;  but  he 
took  no  offenoe,  supposinff,  probably, 
that  it  was  my  mode  of  congratu- 
lation, and  added,  that  he  was  quit- 
ting at  that  moment  a  house  in  wnich 
he  had  two  pupils.  I  wished  him 
joy  without  inquiring  respecting  their 
profidency. 

My  disappointments  are  manifestly 
destined  to  nave  no  other  end  than 
my  departure  from  Seville.  Having 
eniau^ted  all  which  could  possibly 
befidl  me  within  the  town  walls,  and 
of  which  I  have  not  told  yon  >)ftif- 


690 


Ernest  WalkinwornCs  Opinion  o/Sevillet 


[June, 


the  Fates  had  kept  in  reserve  other 
mishaps,  pursuant  to  a  perseverance 
in  their  system  of  persecution,  which 
I  should  not  have  credited  had  any 
other  than  myself  been  their  vic- 
tim. 

Every  one  who  oomes  here  is  dri- 
ven to  f  talica,  an  ancient  city  buried 
underground.  It  was  explained  to 
me  that  under  the  ground,  that  is, 
to  the  city  itself,  no  one  can  pene- 
trate ;  but  although  I  demuri^  to 
the  trouble  of  makmg  this  excursion 
for  nothing,  my  objection  was  over- 
ruled by  young  Smugeins,  who  was 
to  accompany  me ;  and  who  cleverly 
remarked,  that  we  should  be  able  to 
see  the  ^und  beneath  which  the 
ancient  city  is  buried ;  or  rather  be- 
neath which  those  who  let  out  the 
horses  and  carriages  desire  it  should 
be  believed  it  is  buried.  We  were 
obliged  to  hire  a  cal^che-and-four, 
for  what  reason  I  could  not  guess, 
since  the  distance  is  only  one  Spanish 
mile  (four  English)  ;  and  the  norses 
of  this  province  had  always  been  de- 
scribed to  me  as  the  best  in  Europe. 
The  coachman  we  barsained  with 
insisted  for  the  four  quaorupeds,  and 
as  the  price  was  as  moderate  as  I 
should  nave  expected  it  to  be  had 
there  been  only  two,  we  gave  in  to 
his  wishes.  I  therefore  looked  for- 
ward to  no  ancient  city,  not  intend- 
ing to  dig  for  one,  but  to  a  superb 
trot  in  the  sunshine,  behind  four  of 
the  snorting,  caracoling  nags,  which 
I  had  so  often  admired  during  my 
lounges  about  Seville. 

When,  however,  the  fatal  morning 
arrived,  and  the  turn-out  drew  up 
in  the  inn-court,  oh,  what  a  falling 
off!  The  caliche  looked  more  like 
a  few  dusty  planks  attached  to  an 
old  dried  bull  s-hide ;  and  the  horses 
—  could  they,  indeed,  be  horses,  and 
of  the  same  species  as  the  Quadrupeds 
to  which  I  nad  always  neard  that 
name  applied?  Impossible!  they 
must  belong  to  a  race  kept  concealed 
among  the  ruins  'of  the  antique 
Italica,  and  only  brought  to  light  on 
these  special  occasions.  These  Ro- 
sinantes  appeared  to  be  able  to  stand, 
but  nothmg  more,  and  I  consulted 
with  my  companion  as  to  the  neces- 
sity of  making  them  hook  on  four 
more.  We,  however,  determined  to 
leave  every  arrangement  to  our  cha- 
rioteer; and  having  lumped  our- 
ialves  Into  the  seat  with  force,  in 


order  to  try 'its  solidity,  we  made 
sign  to  be  off. 

There  was  much  cracking  of  the 
whip  as  we  passed  through  the 
streets ;  and,  to  my  surprise,  ve  got 
up  a  pret^  respectable  jog-trot, 
which  was  maintained  QntU  we 
readied  the  bridge  of  boats  which 
communicates  with  the  saburb 
Triana.  Here  an  unstable  grotmd 
being,  added  to  so  rickety  a  frame- 
work  as  that  which  moved  over  it, 
the  perils  were  doubled;  and  we 
movM — since  that  was  quite  pereep- 
tible — but  so  ineffectually,  as  fiur  as 
regarded  progress,  that  the  hundred 
yards  of  bridge  lasted  us  a  good  ten 
minutes.  Up  the  opposite  bank,  too, 
at  a  walk,  ana  the  same  pace  through 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  aforaud 
suburb.  Then  came  the  road,  and 
the  explanation  of  the  whole.  It 
was  immediately  clear  that  for  such 
a  road  no  one  would  think  of  pu^ng 
together  any  other  species  of  caniage. 
The  reason  ours  did  not  immediately 
break  to  pieces,  was  because  nothing 
fitted  or  was  joined  about  it;  all  its 
parts  being  hooked  together  at  op- 
tional distances,  and  capable  of  any 
useful  variation  of  their  rehtive 
positions,  no  commotion  could  con- 
sequently damage  the  mechanism. 

we,  therefore,  moved  along  in  a 
clatter  of  endless  activity ;  and  had 
we,  instead  of  being  seated,  placed 
ourselves  on  our  feet,  we  could  have 
headed  successfully  a  Bacchanalian 
procession  in  the  qualitj^  of  danoera. 
As  we,  under  these  trying  circum- 
stances, began  to  wish  for  the  end 
of  our  excursion,  an  oversight  of  the 
charioteer  put  a  temporary  extin- 
guisher on  our  saltatory  euibition, 
by  dropping  us  on  our  side  into  a 
positive  pit,  for  such  was  the  vacuum 
which  called  itself  a  rut  in  this  place. 
Our  vehicle  preserved  its  equilibrium 
at  an  inclination  of  about  30° ;  but 
the  quadrupeds,  with  the  best  pos- 
sible intentions,  could  not  advance. 
The  Jehu  descended  from  the  seat 
to  render  his  arguments  more  per- 
suasive, but  nothing  would  do ;  and 
we  began  to  meditate  putting  oo^ 
shoulders  to  the  wheel,  wnen,  looking 
up,  I  beheld  an  apparition,  which 
suddenly  arrested  my  resolations 
and  froze  the  contents  of  my  arteries. 
Jogging  my  companion  with  my 
elbow  to  make  him  fellow  the  direc- 
tion of  my  ^€8, 1  pulted  him  at  the 


1846.] 


in  a  Letter  to  Mr.  GruMep. 


6dl 


same  time  fordblj^r  back  to  his  place. 
At  the  opposite  side  of  a  half- bank, 
half-hedge,  I  had  perceived,  between 
two  gigantic  leaves  of  some  southern 
plant,  two  human  heads  in  juxta- 
position, about  as  far  onward  as  to 
be  on  a  line  with  our  leaders*  noses. 
At  the  sight  of  these  faces  and  their 
unmistakeable  expression,  all  the 
histories  of  Spanish  banditti,  with 
all  their  terrific  details,  flashed 
across  my  prostrate  brain,  which 
they  seized  upon  with  the  greater 
violence  from  my  having  always 
affected  in  conversation  to  h^d  lightly 
these  perils,  which  I  really  conceived 
much  to  be  exaggerated.  Such  a 
chance  had  especiiuly  never  entered 
into  my  calculations  for  this  excur- 
sion. 

"  What  shall  we  do  ?"  I  whispered. 
^  Run  for  it  ?**    Smuggins  seemed  to 
hesitate,  as  if  in  doubt  as  to  the 
efficacy  of  any  precaution    within 
our  power.    I  stood  up,  pretendine 
to  tSke  a  view  of  the  country,  ana 
gradually  turned  in  the  direction  of 
the  brieands  to  reconnoitre.    I  only 
found  tne  confirmation  of  my  terrors 
at  the  sight  of  two  guns,  one  resting 
its  butt-end  on  the  ground,  and  sup- 
porting with  its  muzzle  the  arm  or  a 
robber;  and  the  other  laid  by  the 
side  of  a  cloak,  near  some  agricultural 
implements.     The  features  of  the 
men  were  ferocious.    Pointed  thread- 
bue  hats  rested  on  their  eyebrows. 
Piercing  eyes ;  sallow  olive,  or  rather 
brown  mahogany  cheeks,  cut  into 
deep  furrows;  and  ragged  beards  and 
moustachios.     These  characteristics 
belonged  to  the  two  with  but  slight 
shades  of  difference,  Vhich,  in  my 
hurried  glance,  quite  escaped  me; 
and  what  completely  appalled  me 
was  the  cool,  unconcerned  manner,  in 
which  they  awaited  the  moment  for 
advancing  upon  us,  quietly  gazing 
at  the  coachman  and  his  labours, 
while  they  leaned  against  the  bank 
over  which  the^  were  looking. 

We  held  rapid  council  ana  deter- 
mined to  pretend  not  to  notice  them ; 
and  after  having  pulled  our  vehicle 
out  of  the  rut,  to  order  the  coachman 
to  turn  back  and  get  away  as  fast  as 
possible.  The  provoking  quietness 
of  mv  companion  puzzled  me  in  no 
Bmali  degree,  and  added  to  my  panic, 
for  he  evidently  did  not  believe  the 
fellows  were  robbers. 
*'For  God*8  sake^**  I  said,  in  an 


earnest  whisper,  and  turning  my 
back  in  their  direction,  **  don*t  keep 
looking  at  them :  our  safety  depenos 
on  our  not  appearing  to  notice  them. 
They  may  otner^rise  suspect  us  of 
endeavouring  to  escape,  and  being 
unarmed  we  are  entirely  at  their 
mercy  I" 

Smuggins  said  nothing,  but  did  all 
I  wish^,  and  we  speedily  lifted  the 
machine  out  of  the  rut.  Jehu  either 
did  not  see  the  robbers,  or,  like  our- 
selves, pretended  not ;  or,  perhaps — 
and  the  thought  came  over  me  like 
thunder — ^might  be  playing  into  their 
hands,  and  had  taken  advantage  of 
the  rut  to  deliver  us  up  to  his  friends. 
However  this  might  oe,  he  looked 
much  surprised  on  receiving  the 
order  to  face  about,  and  assumed  the 
resigned  expression  usual  with  these 
Continentals  when  they  simply  ex- 
claim, ^^  Oh,  Ingleses !  by  way  of 
accounting  for  every  eccentricity. 

During  our  occupation  of  lifting 
out,  Smuggins  had  remarked  that  a 
rood  or  two  of  this  road  mieht,  if 
cut  out  in  squares  and  removed  with 
care,  be  laid  down  in  Oxford  Street 
in  continuation  of  some  of  the  wood- 
pavement  experiments.  He  would 
be  glad  to  see  the  omnibi,  as  he 
termed  them,  floundering  about  in 
it,  or  the  lord-mayor  in  his  state- 
carriage.  All  my  anxiety  was  trifling 
compared  to  the  astonishment  which 
now  followed  it,  on  finding  that  we 
were  fairly  off  without  any  move- 
ment beinff  made  by  the  maTefactors, 
nor  a  singlfe  report  assailing  our  ears, 
nor  baU  whizzing  between  us ;  nor, 
for  all  I  knew  or  know,  for  I  took 
care  not  to  look  back,  any  change  in 
the  lazy  attitude  the  brigands  had 
preserved  during  the  whole  transac- 
tion. 

"  Well,  this  is  fortunate  1 1  suppose 
we  did  not  look  worth  rifling,  was 
my  companion's  observation,  and  I 
told  the  coachman  the  cause  of  our 
change  of  arrangements. 

'*  Hombre  I"  was  his  exclamation ; 
*^  kaa — ^ladrones  I**  and  he  added  that 
they  were  no  more  robbers  than  he 
was  himself  (which  mieht  possibly 
not  alter  the  case).  He  had  seen 
them  all  the  time,  and  knew  them 
for  labourers,  who  were  then  only 
preparing  to  leave  the  field  for  the 
mid-day  siesta.  He  partly  succeeded 
in  removing  the  prejudice  I  ^ " 
formed  agunat  these  certain? 


692 


Ernest  Walkinwarm*s  Opinion  of  Seville, 


[iaae» 


jndous-looking  nuties,  to  whom,  at 
all  event!,  I  waa  sincerely  grateful 
for  expediting  our  return  to  Seville 
and  terra  Jirma. 

Nevertheless,  that  afternoon  some- 
thing was  wanting  to  mv  satisfiictioa 
with  our  proceedings.  In  fact,  rebel- 
lious feelmgs  began  at  length  to  assail 
me ;  and  I  determined  to  resist  the 
Influence  of  this  star  of  disappoint- 
ments, by  which  I  had  been  per- 
secuted ever  since  my  arrival.  I 
almost  despised  myself  for  not  having 
seen  anything  at  Seville.  I  had 
been  repulsed  from  the  house  to 
which  I  had  brought  a  letter  of  re- 
commendation. I  had  turned  my 
back  on  the  alcazar  in  disgust.  I  had 
been  worried  out  of  the  cathedral, 
shamed  off  the  Christina  promenade, 
and  Smugginsed  away  from  the  bull- 
fight. An  insufferable  suspicion  be- 
gan to  haunt  me  that  m^  own  ignor- 
ance, folly,  over-sensitivenesB, — in 
short,  my  own  fault  in  some  way, 
had  occasioned  these  failures.  I 
cannot  describe  to  you  how  this  idea 
stung  and  aroused  me.  I  grew  head- 
stronff .  There  was  nothiuff  whatever 
at  Itidica  but  mud.  Thither  it  was, 
nevertheless,  that  I  had  last  intended 
to  go.  I  resolved,  therefore,  now  to 
go  to  Italica.  There  was  no  necessity 
for  rehiring  our  coach-and-four ;  the 
river  passes  within  half  a  mile  of  the 
place,  and  we  could  boat  it. 

No  sooner  had  I,  after  stamping 
for  a  short  time  up  and  down  my 
room  after  dinner,  arrived  at  this 
resolve,  than  I  hastened  to  the  caf6 
frequented  by  the  recent  companion 
of  my  misfortunes  to  re-enlist  him. 
He  was  much  pleased  with  the  idea. 
Every  thing  on  the  water  would  do ; 
and  we  appointed  a  meeting  at  the 
bridge  for  the  following  morning, 
there  to  embark. 

That  morning  I  sallied  forth, 
firmly  resolved  to  conquer  my 
destiny  or  die  in  the  effort;  but 
who  can  foresee  from  what  quarter 
will  proceed  his  discomfiture?  What 
did  I  behold  on  arriving  at  our  ren- 
dezvous? Mrs.  Smuggins  on  the 
arm  of  her  son !  This  omen  I  could 
not  mistake.  I  foresaw  in  the  in- 
stant that  somehow,  I  could  not  guess 
how,  our  fortunes  would  be  marred. 
I,  therefore,  saluted  my  friends  with 
much  sadness,  and  proceeded  to  en- 

^  a  boat. 

«.  S.  had,  like  myself,  the  habit 


of  ^cking  up  information  at  her  inn ; 
the  more  easily,  as  she  was  lodged 
at  a  French  house,  where  an  Eng&h 
lady*s  maid,  who  aoeompanied  a 
family  of  travellerB,  had  fallen  in 
love  with  the  landlord,  and  remained 
in  quality  of  landlady,  no  one  in- 
quired how  legitimately.  This  per- 
sonage had  stronffly  recommendfd 
her  guest  from  Wnitechapel  to  visit 
a  laige  Jerominite  convent,  situated 
a  little  way  up  the  river ;  and  hear- 
ing the  son  announce  his  boating 
es^iedition,  had  advised  her  to  take 
advantage  of  so  favourable  an  op- 
portunity, since  they  must  pass  with- 
m  siffht  of  the  convent 

This  subject  was,  therefore,  the 
first  to  be  broached  on  our  taking 
our  seats  in  the  boat.  I  was  indi£ 
ferent,  as  I  foresaw  that  something 
must  upset  my  plan;  nor,  in  fact, 
could  1  decently  oppose  the  ladys 
wish.  We,  therefore,  ordered  the 
helmsman  to  steer  for  the  convent, 
which  was  situated  at  about  half  the 
distance  to  Italica,  and  on  the  right- 
hand  side. 

We  did  our  best  to  beguile  the 
time  by  agreeable  conversation.  Mrs. 
Smuggins  expreaKd  curiosity  to  know 
whvTso  pe^iisted  in  wishihg  to  see 
Italica.  1  told  her  that  it  was  because 
it  had  been  built  by  the  Romans,  and 
that  we  used  to  learn  about  that 
nation  at  school,  for  I  was  ashamed 
to  tell  the  real  reason.  She  then 
made  much  incruiry  about  convents 
and  nuns,  whicn  I  found  it  difiSicult 
to  answer.  She  wished  to  know 
why  the  nuns  did  not  marry,  and 
why  they  could  only  be  seen  through 
a  grating  like  people  afflicted  with 
the  plague.  I  answered  these  ques- 
tions to  the  best  of  my  ability,  as  I 
had  never  studied  the  subject ;  stating, 
that  I  presumed  the  first  custom  was 
the  result  of  their  bad  taste ;  and  the 
second,  its  well-merited  punishment. 
She  next  expressed  a  aesire  to  be 
informed  why  they  were  csalled  nuns. 
This  question  I  did  my  best  to  evade, 
from  a  sincere  feeling  that  I  could 
not  satisfy  her  curiosity ;  but  such 
was  the  pertinacity  with  which  she 
insisted  on  having  some  explanation 
of  this,  for  which  she  shrewdly 
enough  remarked  that,  there  must 
exist  some  reason,  that  at  length  I 
found  it  necessary  to  say  that  they 
were  probably  called  nuns  beoaose 
mm  €$  them  knew  the  xeasoo.    At 


1846.] 


in  a  Letter  to  Mr.  Orubley. 


693 


this  juncture  the  boat  gave  a  grind, 
and  we  were  aground  in  the  middle 
of  the  Guadalquivir. 

Mrs.  S.  turned  very  pale,  and  her 
alarm  was  not  diminished  on  hearing 
her  son  rap  out  various  eneigetic  Eng- 
lish expreations  directed  to  the  boat- 
men. %  however,  told  her  there  was 
no  danger  of  our  being  drowned  in  so 
shallow  a  stream ;  a  eonsolation  which 
I  felt  not  myself,  having  read  that  it 
was  formerly  navigabk  for  large 
shius  200  miles  hiffher  up. 

la  a  short  time,hy  dint  of  pushing 
and  pulling,  and  one  of  tne  men 
eettinff  out  of  the  boat,  we  were 
snoved  off  and  continued  our  voyage. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  arrive  in 
sight  of  the  convent,  but  a  landiuf - 
place  could  not  be  found.  The  banks 
were  every  where  abrupt ;  not  high 
enough  to  be  picturesque,  but  just 
too  high  for  a  lady  to  reach  terra 
firma  by  a  jump.  At  length  the 
sailors  made  choice  of- a  part  where 
they  asserted  there  were  stepping- 
places,  although  I  could  discover  no 
oifference  between  one  portion  of  the 
shore  and  another.  Mrs.  Smuggius, 
whose  natural  protector  had  instan- 
taneously reached  the  top  of  the 
bank  by  two  bounds,  and  was  recon* 
noitring  the  country,  seemed  to  rely 
upon  me  with  idl  that  irresistible 
dependence  peculiar  to  her  feeble 
sex. 

I  had  placed  my  right  foot  on  a 
break  of  tne  earth  in  the  bank,  which 
was  perpendicular,  or  nearly  so. 
Findinff  myself  thus  in  a  firm  posture, 
with  the  other  foot  on  the  edge  of 
the  vrater,  I  offered  one  hand  to  the 
lady,  while,  with  the  other,  I  grasped 
the  root  of  a  stunted  shrub.  Mrs. 
S.  stood  on  the  side  of  the  boat,  which 
had  been  pushed  as  much  as  possible 
against  the  ground,  otherwise  it  must 
have  yield^l  to  her  weight;  and, 
taking  my  hand,  she  made  an  efibrt 
to  ascend,  putting  one  foot  near  to 
mine  on  the  ground,  and  the  other 
on  a  projecting  clod  which  I  pointed 
out.  I  then  mounted  another  step, 
and  placed  a  foot  on  the  top  of  the 
bank,  urgmg  Mrs.  S.  to  inake  an 


effort  to  follow,  and  pulling  her  hand 
with  my  whole  force. 

Thinking  us  safe,  the  boatmen  had 
ceased  to  pull  the  boat  shoreward; 
and  it  had,  consequently,  left  its 
{dace  and  was  veering  round,  when, 
at  so  unpropitious  a  moment,  the 
dod  gave  way  under  Mrs.  Smuffgins*s 
upper  foot,  and  she  operated  a  Ascent 
wmoh.  although  maual— as  she  had 
to  pull  me  afler  ner  part  of  the  way 
—ended  in  her  reacmng  the  surface 
of  the  water.  I  had  slipped  and 
slipped,  until  I  was  at  the  extreme 
edge,  and  still  held  her  hand;  and 
her  garments  being^  buoyed  up  by 
the  wave,  and  forming  an  extensive 
circle  around  her,  she  appeared  by 
no  means  uncomfortably  poised  on 
the  cool  element.  She  exhibited 
the  panting  effect  usually  observed 
on  entering  cold  water ;  but  I  thought 
her  seat  must  be  the  more  refreshing 
and  agreeable,  since  such  had  been 
her  state  of  alarm  during  the  half 
minute  of  her  suspension  Mneath  the 
sole  support  of  my  hand,  that  the 
perspiration  now  stood  on  her  cheeks, 
and  rendered  her  gloveless  hand 
scarcely  tenable* 

Mrs.  Smu^[;pns  did  not,  however, 
view  her  position  in  the  same  light, 
but  exclaimed  at  length,  in  much 
agitation,  that  she  felt  something. 

**  Never  mind  that,**  I  replied,  to 
tranquillise  her ;  ^*  it  can  but  be  a 
fishr 

**  Oh,  horrors !  **  she  screamed. 
"  What !  food  for  the  fishes  P** 

But  this  demding  fate  was  averted^ 
as  also  the  glut  it  would  have  oc<* 
casioned  in  tne  Seville  fish- market, 
by  the  aid  of  the  men  who  had  taken 
to  the  water,  seeing  the  lady*s  danger, 
and  come  to  her  rescue.  I  then 
called  to  the  youth  to  return,  that 
we  might  make  the  best  of  our  way 
home. 

I  cannot  express  to  you,  my  dear 
Grubley,  how  tired  I  have  been  of 
this  place  ever  since  that  excursion, 
and  It  is  probable  that  I  shall  be 
hundreds  of  miles  from  it  when  next 
you  hear  of  me. 


694 


Religious  Movement  in  Qermany. 


[Jttuey 


RELIGIOUS  MOVEMENT  IK  OERMAKT.* 


It  is  now  not  mnch  more  than  a 
twelvemonth  Binoe  the  attention  of 
men  in  this  country  was  first  called 
to  the  present  religions  movement 
within  tne  Roman  Catholic  Chnrch 
in  Grermany.  Since  that  time  the 
movement  has  advanced  with  ereat 
rapidity,  and  has  assumed  sucn  an 
aspect  and  revealed  such  a  con- 
dition of  men's  minds,  as  must  fix  the 
anxious  regard  alike  of  spiritual  and 
of  civil  rulers,  and  command  the 
notice  of  every  Christian  heart  and 
of  every  intelligent  mind.  Its  first 
originators,  inoeed,  have  been  al« 
lowed  to  fall  into  comparative  ob- 
scurity. Some  have  prudently  con- 
fined themselves  to  tne  care  of  the 
particular  flocks  which  have  chosen 
and  instaUed  them  as  pastors,  while 
others,  such  as  Konge  and  Dowiat, 
have  been  permitted  to  amuse  them- 
selves with  an  idle  and  unproductive 
crusade.  These  two  men  have  en- 
tirely let  themselves  down  from  the 
digmty  of  the  priestly  character,  and, 
assuming  that  of  the  demagogue  or 
agitator,  nave  worshipped  ana  burned 
incense  to  the  people.  As  the  con- 
stituted authorities  were  naturally 
unfavourable  to  them,  or,  at  the 
most,  neutral,  they  have  seldom  been 
permitted  to  hold  their  assemblies  in 
churches  or  halls,  and,  in  conse- 
quence, the  so-called  Second  Refor- 
mation has  become  in  their  hands  a 
business  of  dinners  and  noisy  toasts, 
of  crowds  and  vitaU*  Indeed  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  features  of  the 
movement  is,  that  no  leaders  have 
appeared;  no  man  of  wisdom,  energy, 
character,  or  commanding  talent,  who 
could  ofier  himself  as  a  centre  round 
which  the  sealous  multitudes  might 
gather  and  oi^ganise  themselves. 


The  Lutheran  reformation  un- 
avoidably favoured  the  develope- 
ment  of  individual  self-suffidentness. 
It  did  so  in  two  ways.  Ist  By  its 
possessing  within  itself  no  regularly 
transmitted  priesthood.  2ndly.  By 
the  principle  which  it  recognised, 
that  faith  and  religions  knowledge 
ought  to  be  the  result  of  individiul 
investiffation  and  research,  and  not 
of  teaoiing  as  a  transmitted  or  an 
inherited  laiUi.  Its  only  band  was 
the  subscription  of  a  formula,  the 
inefiidency  of  which  became  very 
early  apparent;  and  hence,  in  pro- 
cess of  time,  the  ill-oonstroeted 
fabric  fell  to  pieces,  overwhelming 
in  its  ruins  more  Uian  the  outwara 
constitution  and  influence  of  a 
church. 

Few  of  our  readers  are  ignortnt 
of  the  antichristian  and  utnghty 
character  that  prevails  in  the  litera- 
ture and  science  of  Crermany.  The 
Grerman  people  are  characterised  not 
so  much  oy  the  pride  of  birth,  or  of 
wealth,  or  of  arms,  as  by  the  pride 
of  thought.  Science  and  philoso- 
phy have  an  invincible  charm  for 
them,  and  these  instruments  they 
apply  with  equal  freedom  to  lAyj 
and  the  Pentateuch,  to  the  Gospels 
and  to  Justin  Martyr.  There  is  no 
check  of  reverence,  no  trembling  at 
the  Word  of  God.  Accordingly  phi- 
losophy for  a  time  reignea  alone. 
Bare  reason  possessed  the  chair  and 
the  pulpit  The  times  of  the  Porch 
and  the  Academy  seemed  to  have 
returned,  only  with  the  materials  of 
the  Gospel  and  with  the  instrument- 
ality of  the  Church.  Wherever  the 
Bible  and  the  hymn-book  carried 
the  knowledge  of  letters,  and  in  Ger- 
many that  is  alike  with  the  Popish 


*  Mission  der  Deutsch-Kttbolikeo,  too  G.  G.  Gervinus.     Heidelberg,  1845. 
The  Mission  of  the  German  Catholics,  by  G.  G.  GerTiuus. 
Dr.  Theiner's  Beitritt  zur  Deutsch-Katholiscben  Reform.     Weimar,  1845. 
Dr.  Tbeiner's  Adhesion  to  the  German  Catholics. 
Ob  Schrifti     Ob  Geisti     Verantwortong  gegen  Meine  Ankliiger,  von  O.  A. 
Pfarter  in  Halle.    Leipzig,  1845. 

>irit?  Reply  to  my  Accusers,  by  G.  A.  Wislicenas,  Pastor  in  Halle. 

on  Uhlich.    Leipzig,  1845. 

fUhlicb. 

h  alte  Feinde,  von  Johannas  Ronge.    Daasaw,  1846. 

ffliies  the  same  m  the  First,  by  John  Ronge. 


V 


1846.] 


Religious  Movement  in  Oermnntf, 


695 


and  the  Protestant  population,  there  a 

i)roud  philosophy  entered  and  sat 
lown.  It  lifted  up  its  voice  at  every 
street-corner,  and  glided  like  a  ser- 
pent into  every  bosom.  And  what 
has  it  done?  There  is  no  sacred 
thing  which  it  has  not  profaned, 
there  is  no  veil  which  it  has  not  rent 
in  twain,  there  is  no  shrine  which  it 
has  not  polluted,  there  is  no  honour- 
able thing  which  it  has  not  made  vile. 
"  Goethe  and  Schiller,"  says  Gervinus 
with  triumph,  "  Voss  and  Jean  Paul, 
"Winkelman  and  Wieland,  Forster 
and  Lichtenberg,  have  cleared  all  the 
barriers  of  dogmatical  Christianity, 
and  the  educated  portion  of  the  peo- 
ple have  followed  their  example, 
every  man  according  to  his  best 
ability." 

With  a  limitless  faith  in  the  future 
history  of  man,  and  in  the  inherent 
power  of  self-developement  that 
pervades  the  species,  it  is  not  to 
be  w'ondered  at  that  mere  pro- 
gress should  with  them  be  the  grand 
idea.  Whither  that  progress  at  any 
given  moment  may  be  tending  is  less 
clear,  and,  in  the  estimation  of  its 
worshippers,  of  no  great  conse- 
quence; for  history,  read  Avith  the 
eye  of  science,  shews  that  the  species 
has  advanced  through  all  changes 
and  circumstances,  toward  and  un- 
toward. The  indi  vidual  or  the  nation 
may  have  gone  down,  but  the  great 
human  family  has  been  carried  steadily 
forward  to  its  maturity.  They  feel, 
and  the  business  of  the  day  is  to  de- 
clare it,  that  they  have  already  at- 
tained (in  Germany)  a  point  of  de- 
velopement  to  which  the  Reformation, 
nay,  all  history,  nay,  Christianity 
itself,  was  only  an  introduction. 

The  new  reformation  has  been 
the  great  subject  of  the  year  that  is 
past,  and  a  year  in  the  present  state 
of  the  world  is  worth  a  quarter  of  any 
former  century.  Wliere  we  at  this 
moment  write,  in  one  of  the  bu- 
siest of  the  free  imperial  cities,  it 
is  the  universal  subject.  By  priest 
and  peasant,  by  scholar  and  merchant, 
in  tne  clubs  and  cafes,  the  German 
Catholic  Church  is  the  constant 
topic  of  discussion.  An  entire  new 
literature  has  sprung  up ;  and  Buo- 
naparte and  the  Kaisers,  Goethe  and 
Schiller,  have  yielded  their  place  in 
the  print-shops  to  lionge  and  Ker- 
hler.  Scarcely  have  the  anxieties  of  a 
rather  troubled  monetary  period,  and 
VOL.  xxxm.  vo,  CXCVIIT. 


those  of  a  deficient,  or  at  least  a 
doubtful  harvest,  been  able  to  com- 
mand their  share  in  the  laliours  of 
the  periodical  press.    Since  the  synod 
ofl^ipzig,  which  rather  rashly  and 
jjrematurely  announced  a  creed,  con- 
terences  have  been  held  in  Stuttgart 
and  in  Berlin,  in  which  all  northern 
Germany  has  shared,  and  all  south- 
ern Germany  svmpathised.    In  these 
the  chief  idea  has  been  to  widen  the 
popular  basis;  even  the  state-and- 
school  question  has  been  broached — 
for  the  church -and -state   question 
was    virtually  answered  long    ago, 
and  is  now  passed  by  as  frivolous— 
and  a  so-called  emancipation  or  en- 
franchisement of  the  female  sex  has 
been  gravely  propounded.     In  the 
meantime  a  certam  sort  of  worship 
has  been  carried  on.    The  pulpit  and 
the  altar  have  not  ceased,  but  the 
pulpit  has  become  a  stage  for  the 
orator  who  is  thrust  into  it,  who 
bows  his  head  to  the  audience,  because 
they  are  the  representative  of  that 
universal  humanity  which  is  his  god ; 
while  the  altar  is  but  the  convenient 
place  where  Christian  worship  may 
be  parodied,  and  the   holy   sacra- 
ments profaned.     They  who  know 
the  heart  of  a  Koman  Catholic  priest, 
must  be  aware  what  an  entire  over- 
throw all  his  faith  and  sentiments 
must    have    sustained  ere    he  can 
look  upon  the  altar  with  any  eye 
but  that  of  worship,  or  proclaim  from 
his  place  that   the   holy  sacrament 
is  no  longer  a  mystery.      Yet   so 
thoroughly  are  men  loosed  from  their 
former  anchorages,  that  it  is  affirmed 
of  Dr.  Theiner,  the  best  man  whom 
the  New  Beformation  can  boast  of, 
that  he  has  consented  even  to  the 
principle  that  the  holy  Eucharist 
shall  not  be  celebrated  on  other  than 
holy  days,  except  at  the  request  of 
some  individual  who  desires  to  par- 
take of  the  communion. 

While  such  things  were  going 
forward,  Rome  has  been  silent,  con- 
tenting herself  with  excommunica- 
tions. With  these  her  children  have 
grown  too  familiar,  and  they  have 
learned  to  despise  them .  They  whose 
faith  and  allegiance  have  not  been 
shaken,  shrink  from  the  rude  blus- 
terings  of  a  popular  gale,  and  are 
withdrawing  tnemselves  from  public 

J»laces  and  from  mixed  society.     Such 
*rotestant8  as  have  any  faith  ©'•  ^ 
of  God  remaining  in  them, 

z  z 


696 


Religious  Movement  in  Oermany. 


[Jane, 


professionally  orthodox  and  correct 
clergy,  and  especially  that  small  body 
of  earnest  men  who  have  sprung  up 
in  later  years,  and  in  whom  one  may 
see  that  the  spark  of  Christianity  has 
been  preserved  amid  the  ashes  of  a 
forsaken  altar,  sympathise  with  the 
Roman  Catholic  clergy,  and  stand 
aloof  from  men  who  would  gladly 
reach  to  them  the  hand,  and  per- 
suade them  that  they  are  embanced 
together  in  a  common  cause.  At 
first,  indeed,  the  well-meaning  and 
charitable,  and  the  more  meditative 
amonff  them,  indulged  the  hope 
that  this  reformed  TOdy,  springing 
up  within  the  bosom  oi  the  Romisu 
Cnurch,  might,  by  a  moderate  and 
patient  course,  have  subsisted  in 
the  midst  of  the  corrupt  mass  till  it 
should  have  gradually  purified  the 
whole  and  absorbed  it.  Germany 
offered  advantages  for  such  an  at- 
tempt, such  as  could  be  found  in  no 
other  country.  Daily  intercourse, 
ft^uent  intermarriages,  had  created 
innumerable  shades  of  transition  be- 
tween the  Catholic  and  the  Reformed. 
Jealousy  of  a  foreign  central  au- 
thority was  strong  even  among  the 
higher  cler^.  The  (Questions  result- 
ing from  mixed  marnages,  and  those 
secret  uneasinesses  which  priestly  in- 
fluence and  priestly  arts  occasion,  had 
made  Pojjervseem  the  great  troublcr 
of  domestic  happiness.  Men  saw  their 
wives,  their  sisters,  and  their  mo- 
thers, defrauded  of  their  right  to  the 
sacraments,  if  they  allowed  their 
husbands  to  exercise  a  natural 
power  over  their  children's  edu- 
cation. The  abuses  and  wicked- 
ness, not  of  the  confessors,  but  of  the 
prescribed  confessional,  had  driven 
thousands  awa^  from  the  holy  com- 
munion. A  quiet  and  orderly  chanse 
would  have  been,  by  the  mass  of  the 
population,  hailed  as  a  deliverance. 
Would  the  civil  ffovemments,  there* 
fore,  it  was  thought,  only  have  energy 
and  unity  enough  to  hinder  the  re- 
formers from  being  meddled  with; 
would  the  reformers  themselves  only 
proceed  with  quietness,  with  toler- 
ance, and  condliation,  what  blessed 
regi>n  ■  ■■'^■ii*  *x»  looked  for  I   Ay,  and 

been  a  creature  of 
lot  been  from  the 
entirely  popular; 
lent  been  its  own 
ts  own  time  for 


machhm  from  the  midst  of  its  ovn 
ebullitions ;  had  there  been  any  one 
to  hold  the  balance,  or  any  bdasce 
to   hold;    had   it   not  been  early 
laid  down  as  a  principle,  resnlting 
from  the  philosophy  of  history,  that 
the    good    must   be   attained  only 
through  a  series  of  blunders :  bid 
these  things  not  been  so,  the  iniich« 
desired   quiet   and  orderly  change 
might  possibly  have  been  brongbt 
about.     But  thus  things  were,  and 
well-meaning   and  meditative  men 
were  deceived,  because  they  knew 
not  the  time  nor  understood  the 
signs  of  it.    Events  overtook  their 
slow  steps  of  meditation,  and  hurried 
past  them  like  the  wind. 

Our  readers  may  suppose  that  the 
orthodox    Protestant  dergy  might 
have  been  able  to  exercise  a  salntar}' 
influence  in  the  midst  of  this  social 
change.     We  scarcelpr  believe  that 
they  could;  for,  leaving  out  of  sight 
the  fact  of  their  being  an  almost 
invisible  minority,  they  do  not  know 
how  to  place  themselves  in  a  position 
whence  thev  can  do  any  good.   Of 
ecclesiastical   organisation  thej;  are 
entirely  ignorant.    They  deny  it  on 
principle.      The   clergyman  is  re- 
garded as  no  more  than  the  orean 
of  the  people.     His  priesthood  is 
but    the    representation   of  their 
priesthood.     Whatever  power  or  fi»- 
credness    he    has,  they  have  con- 
ferred, and  they  can  revoke.    He 
S resides  at  their  public  worship  and 
ispenses  the  sacraments,  not  because 
he  has  more  right  to  do  so  than 
any  other  man  who  is  present,  bat 
because  for  order  and  decorum's  sake 
they  have  appointed  hun  to  exemse 
that  function.    In  no  respect  docs  he 
represent  to  them   anv  thing  hut 
themselves.    This  mucn,  indeed,  ire 
have  met  with,  that  when  a  clerej'- 
man  has  been  outvoted  by  bis  jay 
congregational  council,  and  compelled 
to  permit  bis  church  to  be  used  for 
the  occasional  services  of  the  German 
Catholics,  he  sighs  and  smtes  nw 
breast,  and  says,  "  My  church  has 
been  desecrated."    But  of  ^^^^ 
in  the  name  and  place  of  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,  of  spe^g  with  au- 
thority as  the  messenger  of  God,  w 
doing  God's  work,  and  believing  that 
God  does  his  work  by  their  hands 
of  addressing  men's  conscience  more 
than  their  reason,  speaking  from  faith 
fo  faith,  and  calling  not  for  philoso- 


18460 


Religious  Movement  in  Qermavy. 


697 


phlcal  persuasion  but  for  childlike 
obedience,  of  all  this  the  orthodox 
Protestant  clergymen  know  nothing. 
Nay,    the    truth    which    they    do 
know  is  but  sparingly  brought  to 
the   pulpit;  for,  Ist,  the  consistory 
would  not  lon^  permit  it ;  and,  2dly, 
the  clergyman  18  unwilling  to  diminish 
bis  congregation — his  publicum,  aa 
he  calls  it — and  so  to  curtail  his  op- 
portunities of  doing  good.    The  con- 
sequence is  that  the  chief  excellency 
of  their  sermons  is  rhetorical.    The 
clergy  preach,  and  the  people,  where 
an  able  man  happens  to  be,  crowd  to 
hear ;  but  especially  when  the  middle 
classes  assemble,  it  is  as  at  our  mo- 
dem tournaments,  to  see  the  beauti- 
ful armour,   the  glittering   of  the 
swords,  the  handling  of  the  spear, 
and   the  helm  striking  fire -sparks 
under  the  blow  of  the  champions. 
And  to  satisfy  this  empty  craving, 
the  earnest  spirits  of  the  few  are  dis- 
appointed;   for   the   many  arc   at- 
tracted by  rhetorical  flourishes  mere- 
ly, amid  which  the  most  that  can  be 
done  is  to  insinuate  from  time  to  time 
a  gentle  plea  for  what  they  consider 
an  antiquated  and  expiring  religion. 

The  rest  of  the  clergy  offer  a  still 
more  sony  hinderance  to  the  corrup- 
tion of  the  popular  mind;  for  not 
only  do  they  hold  the  same  principle 
of  which  we  have  above  spoken, 
but  they  go  still  further.  Accord- 
ing to  them,  whosoever  possesses 
faith  must  attain  to  it  through  his 
own  investigation  and  inquiry.  He 
begins  as  an  unbeliever.  Inherited 
or  derived  faith,  or  the  faith  of  a  son 
or  a  disciple  who  believes  because  his 
father  or  his  master  has  taught  him, 
is  looked  upon  as  superstition.  The 
end  of  education  is,  therefore,  in 
their  hands,  individual  perfection 
and  developement  to  such  a  degree 
as  to  make  every  man  a  microcosm 
snificient  to  himself. 

Gervinns  speaks  of  this  class  of 
persons  somewhat  in  the  following 
Rtrain.  '*  Our  clergy  have  long  oc- 
cnpied  a  defensive  post,  they  are 
no  longer  a  school  of  prophets,  not 
even  a  propaganda,  nor  workers 
ont  of  a  reformation.  And  they 
know  well  enough  that  their  mo- 
dem dogmatic  system  is  separated 
by  a  mighty  chasm,  that  can  never 
again  be  filled  up,  from  that  which 
IfUtber  taught,  and  which  must  even 
y^  be  ttoght  to  that  lowest  dass  of 


the  people  in  whom  the  times  of 
Luther  are  still  lingering.  Specula- 
tion and  nhilosophy,  researches  in 
history  and  mythology,  have  taught 
them  to  discover  in  the  Christian 
dogmas,  jrea,  even  in  those  which 
at  first  sight  may  seem  to  mock 
an  intelligent  man*8  reason,  certain 
profound  truths,  unfblding  to  the 
freest  thinker  wonderftil  depths  of 
that  human  spirit  which  has  been 

1>re8ent  and  operative  alike  in  all  re- 
igious  and  in  all  historical  myths. 
But  these  are  facts  which  our  clergy, 
however  much  they  may  use  them 
for  satisfying  their  own  inquiring 
minds,  will  on  no  account  offer  to 
the  common  man,  in  place  of  those 
mysteries  which  they  have  bc«n  ac- 
customed to  preach  in  order  to 
answer  his  rude  thoughts  about  the 
marvel  of  his  being.  They,  there- 
fore, in  the  terms  which  they  employ, 
imitate,  as  far  as  may  be,  their  pre- 
decessors of  the  sixteenth  century, 
though  their  philosophical  ortho-< 
doxy  can  no  more  become  one  with 
that  of  Luther,  than  times  present 
can  blend  and  become  united  with 
times  gone  by." 

To  guide  the  New  Reformation,  as 
it  has  been  called,  no  commanding 
leaders  have  appeared.  In  defect, 
therefore,  of  any  individual  per- 
son, the  history  of  whose  proceed- 
ings might  be  the  history  of  the 
movement,  and  to  whose  writings  one 
mijght  look  for  an  exposition  of  the 
principles  on  which  it  is  to  perfect 
Itself,  we  must  hearken  to  the  voice 
of  those  who  for  the  time  have  taken 
up  the  task  of  giving  utterance  to  the 
popular  mind,  who  nave  laid  hold  of 
the  banners  of  the  gathering  host,  and 
point  to  the  object  towards  which 
the  spirit  that  is  in  the  masses  is 
urging  them.  The  present  temporary 
leaders  are  men  of  the  philosophical 
and  literary  class,  aecostomed  to  view 
all  things  as  mere  subjects  of  study, 
and  far  removed  from  the  business  of 
the  world  and  the  experience  of  human 
life.  With  such  as  these  the  wings 
of  speculative  thought  are  not  clipped 
by  suggestions  of  a  mechanical  or 
matter-of-fact  nature.  To  them  war 
or  revolution  is  but  a  subject  of  ab- 
stract interest.  It  is  not  a  thing  of 
worldly  loss,  of  sufiering,  blood,  and 
death.  They  see  a  picture,  and 
nothing  more.  It  brings  to  thei^ 
^xmSX  tep:o^9f  at  uie  wc 


608 


Religioui  MavemcHt  in  Oermany. 


[Junej 


inflicts  no  other  wounds  tlmn 
those  which  happen  in  h  painful 
drcani.  Whether  remembered  as 
past,  or  imngined  as  possible  in  the 
course  of  future  events,  the  woes  of 
the  generations  through  which  any 
great  change  in  the  condition  of 
human  society  works  itself  out,  are  to 
them  like  a  pageant  on  the  stage.  They 
can  think  of  them  as  necessary,  un- 
avoidable, transient,  the  fair  price  of 
a  thing  that  must  be  purchased. 
Such  are  the  best  men  for  the  pre- 
sent stage  of  the  work.  They  can 
tell  the  people  what  the  people  have 
in  their  minds;  they  can  read  to 
them  their  own  thoughts  and 
smooth  the  way  for  that  which 
shall  be  tliought  next. 

To  this  class  (icrvinus  belongs; 
and  we  may  take  him  as  the  repre- 
sentative and  spokesman  of  a  large 
number  of  the  same.  The  principles 
which  he  unfolds  and  the  measures 
and  methods  which  he  suggests  to  his 
countrymen,  are  set  fortn  with  a 
characteristic  display  of  candour ;  for 
he  never  speaks,  except  respectfully, 
either  of  creeds  or  of  their  profes- 
sors. 

Yet  all  this  is  an  unreal  homage. 
It  is  the  graciousness  and  condescen- 
sion of  a  proud  man.  liather  it  is  the 
traitor's  kiss.  All  these  honoured 
and  reverenced  things  are  things  that 
were.  'J'hey  must  now  be  overlea|)ed, 
and  flung  back  into  the  region  of 
mere  history'.  With  the  poetry 
and  fable  of  the  past  they  serve 
only  to  shew  us  the  times  and  con- 
ditions which  humanity  has  outlived, 
and  to  stimulate  us  to  further  self- 
emancipation  and  develojiement ;  for 
the  day  of  man*s  majority  has, 
at  least,  in  Germany,  been  at- 
tained, and  tutors  and  governors 
are  needed  no  more.  Lest  our 
readers  should  sup^Mse  tlmt  we  are 
eolouring  this  picture,  let  them  read 
what  follows.  Our  author  is  sjxmk- 
ing  of  the  absence  of  any  need  for  a 
leader  in  the  present  movement : — 

'*Jn  tbe  past  century  there  nrose  in 

France  certain   g^enial   spiritx,  Voltaire, 

Kousseau,  Diderot|W2io  sapped  tlie  found. 

atioiiB  of  the  then  existing  intellectual 

world,  and  of  the  old  conceptions ;  but 

in  Germany,  Legion  is  the  nnine  for  those 

''n   who,    though    individually    scarce 

^ing  mediocrity  of  genius,  shall,  by 

*iDion,  prepare  the  yerv  same  over- 

^/before  long  poIitioM  hiDdemacML 


be  not  thrown  in  their  way.  •  ,  m  »  \a 
such  a  time  as  the  l(itb  century  Luther, 
that  Iicro  of  faith,  could  arise,  who  lived, 
as  it  were,  back  in  the  ]>atmrchal  condi- 
tions of  the  people  of  Israel,  who  could 
see  God    and  Satan  in  conflict  for  tbe 
lordship  of  the  world  ;  who  bade  from 
his  prejsence  the  Human  Understanding, 
when  she  pretended   to   penetrate    tbe 
mysteries  of  rerelation  and  to  mtuter  that 
word  of  the  Bible  which  be  willed  blindly 
to  follow.     Could  any  one  in  our  day  de- 
ceive himself,  or  think  of  deceiving  others, 
into  the  idea  that  this  fdilb  of  Luther's 
might  once  more  revive  among  the  mul- 
titude, or  that  any  other  religious  faith 
of  similar  narrowness  could  ever  meet 
again  with  such  intensity  of  persoasion  ? 
'1  he  one  and  the  other  are  alike  for  ever 
vanished  with  Luther's  century,  and  if 
they  ever  do  return,  it  must  happen  in  a 
time  wherein  all  the  men  and  all  the  re- 
lations of  our  day  shall  have  disappeared, 
wherein  God  shall  have  broken  this  cal- 
tivated  German  world  into  pieces  like  a 
potter's  vessel.or  molten  it  in  tbe  furnace 
of  centuries,  with  the  mass  of  an  agaia 
commingling  humanity.  ISutas  the  timea 
are  presently  constituted,  between  which 
and  the  era  of  Luther'a  religion  a  whole 
century  is  stretched — a  century  tint  bea 
seen  Latitudinarianism  enthroned,  tliet 
has  given  birtii   to  Science,  and  made 
science  the  sap  of  every  twig  of  the  so- 
cial life  of  man — a  century  tliat  has  read 
in  the  book  of  nature  a  new,  an  eternal,  an 
irrefntahlerevelatiouiinsomany  waysex- 
tinguishingtheletterofthe  written  Revela- 
tion— a  century  in  which  the  human  spirit 
has  attainfd  to  a  bold  self.regard, — yea, 
self- deification— and    both  ths   burtlen- 
bearing  common  man  stirs  up  the  be^t 
strength  of  his  being,  and  the  educated 
man  of  leisure  devotes  his  mental  re- 
sources, to  force  their  way  thraugli  phi- 
losophical channels  into  every  secret  of 
creation  and  of  Godhead  ;  has  there  not 
been  fixed  an  impassable  gulf,  such  as 
utterly  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  a 
return  to  that  condition  in  which  Reli^on 
sat  alone  as  mistress  amid  the  demands 
of  human  nature  and  the  opinions  and 
projects  of  men  ?     It  is  of  no  nse  to  n-tsh 
to  cheat  one's  self  into  the  persoasion  that 
things  are  not  so,  however  displeasing 
it  may  be  to  many  to  think  that  they  are. 
Things  are  so,  and  it  is  not  mere  hnman 
acts  that  have  produced  them.    1  know. 
indeed,  how  to  respect  and  honour  that 
faith  of  Lutlier,  ana  ^ve^xy  other  form  of 
faith  in  every  man,  if  it  have  flowed  from 
true  inward  impulse ;  and  yet  I  see  in 
every  such  man,  and  all  the  more   tbe 
morn  ufiright  and  single-hearted  he  is.  an 
entire  stranger  and  foreigner,  and  a  wan- 
derer strayed  from  another  time;    and 
since  we  £ave  seen  the  Zinzendorfs  and 
the  Lavateis  stand  forth  as  refbnners^ 


1846.] 


Religious  Movement  in  Germany, 


699 


what  man  of  any  jmlg^ment,  irhat  man 
who  is  not  blind  to  facts,  and  history* 
and  tho  position  of  aftaii'?,  can  believe 
tliat  n  religious  system  will  ever  ogain  be 
propagated  by  any  single  person  who  is 
not  himself  a  caricature  and  on  oddity  1 
or  that  any  new  orthodox  church  can 
arise  without  flnding  itself  obliged  to 
content  itself  with  tho  degraded  platform 
of  a  miserable  scctarianisml"  —  Gkrv. 
pp.  26.)?8. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  these  arc 
the  sentiments  of  a  popular  historian, 
a  distinguished  professor  of  a  distin- 
guished university,  whose  audience 
is  at  this  moment  so  large  tliat  he 
has  to  occupy  the  hall  instead  of  his 
ov.'n  class-room,  and  who  thus  from  the 
calm  reflective  region  of  the  schools 
speaks  boldly  out  to  his  country- 
men, and  tells  them  uncontradicted, 
unrcfuted,  what  those  thoughts  are 
which  their  own  hearts  are  giving 
birth  to.  Nor  does  (iervinus  alone 
s[x;ak  and  print  such  thuigs.  I  turn 
over  the  first  pages  of  any  other 
oracle  of  the  day,  chosen  at  random 
from  the  pile  on  mv  bookseller's 
table,  and  find  it  breathing  the  same 
spirit,  springing  from  the  same  prin- 
ciples, or  at  least  not  apprehending 
how  monstrous  they  ought  to  seem 
to  a  Christian  ear.  lake  up  the 
writings  of  two  cler^n^men, — Wisli- 
cenus,  pastor  at  Ilnllc,  a  university 
famous  for  the  revival  of  religion ; 
and  Uhlich,  another  pastor,  and  you 
will  see  how  the  pastor,  in  the  face  of 
all  the  spiritual  guides  of  (jiermany, 
as  well  as  the  professor,  in  the 
face  of  all  her  literary  instructors, 
afHrm  tbe  utter  abolition  of  orthodox 
notions,  and  the  universal  departiire 
of  men  from  the  basis  of  a  iwsitive 
revelation. 

"  No  man  con  deny,'*  says  WisHcenus, 
"  that  the  idea  of  the  Bible  being  an  au. 
thoritative  revelation,  such  as  that  idea 
stands  in  our  symbolic  books,  such  as  in 
the  so-called  orthodox  days  it  actually 
was  held  by  nipn,  such  as  even  in  our 
day  it  is  affirmed,  as  to  tlie  letter,  thou<;h 
certainly  not  us  to  the  fact,  is  at  preaunt 
in  every  way  broken  through  and  worn 
out— a  mere  shadow  from  a  past  day, 
Mnce  which  it  goes  for  nothing,  although 
remaining  among  the  ecclesiastical  tia- 
ditions." 

Uhlich  in  like  manner,  who  afKrms 
that  be  is  speaking  no  new  thing,  but 
that  which  uas  long  been  in  the  hearts 


of  thousands,  declares  the  Old  Testa- 
ment to  be  a  very  wonderful  book, 
yet  full  of  error,  popular  mistakes, 
misrepresentations,  cloaking  the  cus- 
tomary ambition  and  intolerance  of 
l^riests,  under  the  figment  of  a  theo- 
cracy, &c. ;  and  the  Xcw,  while  it 
contains,  indeed,  the  most  boautiful 
ex|iosition8  and  exemplifications  of 
those  virtues  which  the  human  con- 
science at  once  recoffnises,  to  be  full 
of  the  obscurities  and  misconceptions 
into  which  men,  uneducated  in  com- 
parison with  us,  might  be  expected 
to  fall.  In  short,  he  tells  his  fellow- 
pastors  that  in  spirit  the  credibility  of 
the  facts  of  the  Old  Testament  and 
of  the  inspiration  of  a  great  deal  in 
the  New,  is,  except  by  a  miserable 
minority,  no  longer  contended  for, — 
and  that  they  know  it!  And  wlien 
lately  called  to  account,  because  his 
opeiuiess  had  overstepi^d  the  limits 
even  of  German  liberality,  his  reply 
was, — **  I  have  preached  and  taught 
to  mv  people  tnose  things  which  I 
myself  was  taught  at  the  Univer- 
sity whither  you  yourselves  sent 
me,  by  the  men  whom  you  your- 
selves nave  set,  or  at  least  recognised, 
as  the  theological  teachers  of  your 
intending  candidates  for  ordination.** 
The  grand  idea  of  that  popular 
school,  of  which  we  have  taken 
Gervinus  to  be  the  representative, 
is  this :  a  union  or  fusion  of  Christian 
confessions,  as  existing  within  the 
German  family,  and  recovering, 
through  means  of  this  reconstituted 
German  Church,  unity  for  all  Christ- 
endom. The  idea  is  beautiful  and 
true,  though  deformed  by  the  egotism 
in  which  nations,  as  well  as  indi- 
viduals, naturally  live;  the  means 
only  are  not  at  hand  for  its  accom- 
plisliment.  Our  author,  however, 
sees  no  difficulty.  It  shall  be  accom- 
plished by  the  niHtrumentality  of  the 
middle  classes,  among  whom  it  is 
that  modem  education  has  most  suc- 
cessfully oxierated.  lie  considers  in- 
differentism  the  sure  and  only  gua- 
rantee for  absolute  impartiality.  All 
whose  minds  are  so  immature  as  to 
be  wedded  to  any  definite  faith,  are 
not  in  a  condition  to  l)e  helpful 
in  the  developement  of  that  enlarged 
thing  to  whicli  Christianity  has  been 
only  an  intitxluction.  The  ]ieoi)le 
are,  therefore,  to  take  the  matter  of 
religion  into  their  own  hands.  Jr  ' 
upon  them  that  the  spirit  of  tb 


700 


Religious  Movement  in  Germany* 


[Jaa€) 


has  come  down,  and  they  are  now 
big  with  the  divine  dispensation. 
For  the  termination  of  the  period  of 
man's  spiritual  pupilage  has  arrivedf 
and  in  this  century  he  has  reached 
his  long  looked-for  majority.  Where- 
fore an  ecclesiastical  constitution  shall 
be  proTided,  presenting  only  the 
minutest  amount  of  objective  positive 
faith,  yet  not  excluding  the  largest 
amount  of  the  same  which  the  most 
credulous  may  desire  to  indulge  in. 
There  shall  be  no  disputation,  for 
the  centurv  repudiates  all  creeds  and 
articles  of  positive  religion  exoei)t 
those  which  admit  of  no  dispute ;  it 
abhors  and  condemns  strue,  and 
espedallv  the  tra  ikeologica.  The 
Gospel  shall  be  alone  that  of  St  John, 
*^  Little  children,  love  one  another  ;** 
and  the  truth  of  our  Saviour's 
words  shall  be  manifested,  **In  my 
Father's  house  are  many  mansions/* 
Thus  in  the  absence  of  all  ground 
of  quarrel,  time  and  opportunity  shall 
be  given  to  the  younger  branches  of 
the  great  human  fam^,  and  this  will 
surely  in  the  course  of  nature  reach 
the  same  majority  to  which  their 
seniors  have  already  attained. 

These  axioms  our  author  does  not 
propose  as  any  thing  new,  but  as  ex- ' 
pressive  of  the  existing  mind  of  his 
countrymen.     Nothing  needs  to  be 
done  to  bring  about  such  a  state  of 
things.    Already  in  spirit,  if  not  in 
form,  it  exists.     Already  absolute 
freedom  of  thought  and  of  faith  is  de- 
nied to  no  one.  It  enters  into  no  man's 
mind  to  suppose  that  he  is  bound  to 
knit  his  faith  to  worn-out  formulas. 
And  so  Christianity  and  the  Church, 
— for  their  names  are  still  to  be  re- 
tained— are,  as  it  were,  to  come  again 
into  being;  —  not   as   a  revelation 
from  without  man,  or  as  a  gift  and 
organisation  presented  to  him  for  his 
obedience,  submission,  and  faith ;  but 
as  a  result  of  the  progress  of  the  species 
— coming  up  by  self  -  developement 
from  the  middle  ranks  of  the  people. 
Out  of  the  wine- fat  of  humanity,  left 
lone  and  undisturbed  to  accomplish 
3  natural  fermentation,  having  cast 
f  its  scum  and  thrown  its  dregs  to 
e  bottom,   shall    come  forth  the 
'ecious  wine,  the  perfected  self-for- 
ation  out  of  existing  things.    Or,  at 
.he  least,  an  approach  to  this  is  to  be 
'ftde,  for  scarcely  shall  one  century, 
^'ough  it  be  the  nineteenth,  su^ce 
">  great  an  accomplishment. 


The  organs  to  which  our  author 
looks  for  working  out  these  lenilti 
are  the  so-called  Bynod8--so  called,for 
man  is,  after  sll,  a  creature  on  whom 
traditionary  things  and  names  have  an 
invincible  nold.  £ach  synod  is  to 
consist,  first,  of  lay  representativea  of 
the  flock,  the  pastor  bemg  deckred  in- 
eligible on  account  of  the  consentiDK 
testimony  of  all  history,  sacred  aoa 
profane,  to  the  innate  and  inesistihle 
ambition  of  dl  priesthoods ;  secondly, 
ten  flocks  shall  choose  one  AeologisD, 
who  shall  be  valued,  not  for  any  sop- 
posed  spiritual  character  or  ordina- 
tion thus  appertaining  to  him,  but  for 
his  scientific  qualifications.  How  this 
synod  shall  set  about  its  work  is  a 
more  difficult  matter.  On  what  points 
agreement  should  be  considered 
essential,  on  what  diveraty  of  opi- 
nions may  be  harmless,  what  au- 
thority shall  be  conceded  to  the  de- 
cisions of  the  synod, — in  diort,  the 
whole  subject  of  constitutional  de- 
velopement is  a  very  grave  and  per- 
plexing one.  The  irreat  secret  is,  to 
let  alone.  Espedally  let  the  dvU 
government  nowhere  mingle  itself 
further  than  to  sheltcSr  the  ecclesias- 
tical machine  from  external  molesta- 
tion or  interference,  and  secure  for  it 
the  freest  play  of  all  its  wheels  and 
springs.  It  would  be  a  fatal  mis- 
take to  present  to  it  any  scheme  or 
plan.  A  hundred  proposals  might 
be  offered,  the  whole  of  which  it 
would  be  impossible  to  discuss,  wh  Je 
no  one  of  them  could  alone  be 
effectual.  Let  the  matter  be  left, 
says  he,  to  the  popular  instinct ;  it 
will  find  its  way  to  its  own  end, 
blindly,  by  the  unconscious  work- 
ing of  nature,  and  probably  bv  » 
road  different  from  all  of  the  h"^|^ 
schemes  that  might  be  proposed. 
Yet  while  govemmenU  are  to  avoid 
meddling  and  interference,  they 
must  beware  of  assuming  an  siU' 
tude  of  indifference.  Kot  wdy  wiU 
discouragement  and  opiwsition  on 
their  part,  most  certainly  in  the  p«' 
sent  temper  of  men*s  mmds,  produce 
a  still  farther  separation  from  exist- 
ing state  churches— nay,  a  still  more 
decided  estrangement  of  spirit.J"^"^ 
all  religion  whatsoever;  but  «  tnc 
civil  powers  do  not  feel  a  sympatny 
with  this  birth-struggle  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  do  not  shew  that  they  are 
interested  afld  attentive,  and  ready 
both  to  eucoumge  the  well-in«»n^8 


1846.1 


Religious  Movement  in  Germany, 


701 


and  to  moderate  the  extravagancies 
of  the  ignorant,  the  same  effect  yrill 
be  produced.  Of  any  more  active 
and  positive  relationship  on  the  part 
of  the  civil  authority  the  policy  is 
questionable ;  at  all  events,  the  time 
ibr  it  has  not  arrived ;  for,  seeing  that 
as  yet  a  large  portion  of  Germany  has 
not  prepar^  itself  to  take  part  in  the 
movement,  the  rulers  might  fail  of 
carrying  with  them  the  hearts  of  a 
united  people,  and,  at  all  events,  too 
narrow  and  schismatical  a  basis 
would  most  certainly,  bv  such  means, 
be  imposed.  None  should  accept, 
still  more  should  none  ask,  for  state 
acknowledgment  on  any  principle 
special  to  themselves.  Orthooox 
nocks  should  firmly  decline  it  unless 
heterodox  flocks  are  to  be  admitted 
to  the  same.  At  present,  when  the 
most  absolutely  neutral  form  of  creed 
has  not  yet  been  attained,  and  the 
heart  of  two -thirds  of  Germany 
has  still  to  be  won,  and  a  powerful 
Popish  Church  rnust^  for  invincible 
political  reasons,  be  still,  in  some 
parts  of  it,  upheld,  any  anange- 
ment  of  the  sort  could  only  prove 
entangling  to  the  State  and  to  the 
Churcn,  and  excite  such  prejudice 
and  envy  as  would  extinguisn  the 
influence  and  check  the  inward  de- 
velopement  of  the  new  religion. 

By  thus  permitting  every  dogma- 
tist to  choose  and  maintain  his  own 
dogma,  by  tolerating  all,  and  forbid- 
ding nothing  but  mutual  condemn- 
ation, it  is  hoped  that  ultimately, 
through  the  combined  operation  of 
federative  zeal  and  religious  indiffer- 
eutism,  all  parties  may  be  fused  into 
a  real  unity. 

"  We  should  \u  this  way,  perhaps, 
prevent  the  formation  of  sects.  They 
spring  up  only  under  a  system  of  per. 
secution  and  exclusion  j  and  their  sor« 
rowful  fruits,  as  we  see  every  where  in 
Knglaod  and  America,  are  these — a  dispo- 
sition mutually  to  anathematise,  isolation 
and  estrangement  from  all  progress, 
stagnation  of  the  popular  mind,  torpidity 
and  obstinacy  in  aoctnue.  One  may  dis- 
approve of  this  freedom  as  something 
too  vague,  and  merely  convenient,  hy 
which  every  pastor,  every  layman,  and 
every  flock  should  mo\'e  under  the  wide 
protection  of  the  state  according  to  his 
own  judgment*,  but  we  are  not  to  say 
that  such  an  arrangement  is  likely  to 
forhid  or  extinguish  all  depth  and  ear- 
nestness on  the  part  of  our  theologians. 
For  if  these  men  really  have  a  confi- 


dence in  their  own  doctrine  and' faith,  and 
have  a  mind  to  bring  thorn  forward  in 
strength  and  practical  operation,  would 
they  not  now  have  a  large  and  inviting 
arena,  full  of  honour,  in  which  to  contend 
for  their  doctrine,  and  win  for  it  as  wide 
an  acceptance  as  they  could  ?  Then  only, 
when  this  acceptance  is  won  on  an  open 
arena,  without  the  chance  aid  of  civil 
power,  through  the  free  spirit  and  real 
worth  of  their  doctrine,  can  it  be  genuine 
and  well-grounded  ;  and  then  only  have 
they  themselves  a  sphere  of  operation 
that  is  free  from  restraints  and  inter- 
ferences." 


These,  and  the  like  loose  plans  and 
axioms,  Gervinus  insinuates  and  slips 
into  the  minds  of  his  readers  with 
much  subtlety,  as  the  highest  forms 
of  charity  and  Godlike  virtue.  "  Is 
not  this  one  of  the  peculiar  excel- 
lencies of  Christianity  that  it  accom- 
modates itself  to  all  the  necessities 
and  customs  of  men,  and  to  all  ages 
and  nations,  without  causing  or  sus- 
taining injury,  loss,  or  disturbance  f 
Did  not  tne  Apostle  Paul  teach,  re- 
commend, and  exemplify  the  prac- 
tice of  becoming  *^all  things  to  all 
men?'*  and  did  not  St.  Augustine 
advise,  especially  in  regard  to  articles 
of  faith,  that  tne  Church  should  so 
speak  as  to  make  it  easy  for  every 
^  individual  to  find  a  place  for  his  own 
private  opinions?  Would  not  the 
Papacy  have  found  out  a  way  of 
tolerating  even  Lutheranism,  if  Lu- 
ther had  not  followed  in  the  old  road 
of  cursing  his  brethren,  and  lifted  up 
those  weapons  against  herself  which 
she  had  taught  nim  to  use?  Is  it 
not  her  decisions  and  fixed  points 
that  surround  the  Papacy,  as  such, 
with  those  reefs  on  which  every  at- 
tempt at  re -uniting  with  her  has 
been  shipwrecked  ?  How  gladly 
would  she  wish  that  her  laws  and 
constitutions  had  been  what  our 
author  proposes  to  limit  the  German 
Catholics  to,X}rovisional  and  mutable ! 
And  is  it  not,  after  all,  the  fact,  that 
the  Papacy  is  held  together  by  main- 
taining within  herscli  a  system  of  in- 
dulgence for  all  opinions  ?  If  she 
could  throw  aside  her  hypocrisy,  and 
seem  that  which  she  is,  would  not  she 
be  a  perfect  pattern  after  which  mo- 
dem indifferentism  might  form  itself? 
And  what  could  more  convincingly 
shew  that  the  proposed  system  of 
genuine,  open,  declared  tole 
tne  one,  candid,  liberal  ^ 


^02 


Rdigiovs  Movement  in  Germany, 


[Juntf, 


ought  to*  embrace  tlic  Xcw  Church, 
liny,  that  it  is  the  Christian  bond,  be- 
cause only  under  such  a  bond  cau 
the  Church  ou  earth  become  a  true 
type  of  that  paternal  ^*  house  iu 
Avhich  are  many  mansions  ?'* 

AVe  give  this  as  the  true  gist  of 
numberless  passages  of  our  author, 
and  mostly  in  his  own  words ; 
The  |)assagcs  themselves  would  be 
too  tedious  to  transfer  to  our  pages ; 
but  we  have  said  enough  to  put 
our  readers  in  possession  of  the  ge- 
neral manner  in  which  the  subject  is 
disposed  of  by  him.  A  word  or  two 
now  as  to  his  mode  of  meeting  ob- 
jections, and  then  we  must  allow 
i^ongc  to  come  forward  and  speak  for 
hunself. 

(Icrvinus  foresees,  or  has  encoun- 
tered, three  objections.  1st.  That  the 
Kcw  Church  has  in  it  no  principle  of 
continuance.  2d.  Its  principles  will 
satisfy  only  certain  conditions  of 
human  life.  3d.  Mere  reasoning  and 
mornlity  arc  eilicacious  only  in  the 
higher  classes  of  society.  fcJee  how 
he  deals  with  these  matters — with 
what  a  complacent  tone  he  sets  them 
all  aside : — 


*'  Our  clergy  woald  bave  us  to  con- 
siller  that  so  un mysterious  and  cheer-  , 
ful  a  religion  may  suit  very  well  for 
the  evfipy-dtiy  expeiience,  and  for  the 
chccrrul  days  of  human  life,  but  that  it 
t\iU  be  itiiiufficient  for  ihc  more  serious 
Iiours,  >vhen  fate  lavs  hold  of  us  wiib 
hostile  hand,  and  conies  home  upon  us 
with  such  inward  and  outward  prossurc, 
Hs  to  put  us  at  cur  wit*8  end.  And  have 
not  tiioiisnndd  of  men  on  our  German 
soil  already,  in  bygone  times,  been  able 
to  bpnr  (hGnisc'lves  up  patiently  in  such 
trjijfic  sitnitionsl  These  fiery  men,  who 
had  XY\i\y  gone  farther  in  denial  and 
renunciation  of  llie  |mpular  faith  than  in 
our  New  Church  people  choose  to  <(o.  We 
need  not  any  provision  Hgain:>t  ihe  anx- 
ieties about  original  sin,  wc  have  made 
ourG>cn])e  from  all  such  anxieties,  which, 
likp  the  (ear  ofghobts,  werebuta  fruit  of su- 
])cibtitious  systems  of  doctrine.  For  the 
fc>implt>  character  and  views  nfun  unspoiled 
man,  it  is  enough  merely  to  point  to  that 
great  God,  who  reveals  Himself  in  the 
wide  creation  tot  he  dullestraind,  as  clearly 
as  to  (ho  more  finely  organised  and  more 
hij^hly  cultivaieil  lit*  levoals  Himself  in 
the  intiic-acii's  of  the  inward  life.  'J'his, 
we  say,  is  enough,  and  tan  eflecl  as 
much,  miy,  a  groat  deal  more  of  what  is 
nd  6ubilantia1,  than  any  faith 
■ion  and  atonement.*' 


And  now.  in  taming  to  the  original 
leader  and  the  present  popular  agi- 
tator in  this  movement,  we  shall 
remark  two  things ;  first,  that  he  is  a 
much  more  untaught,  unenlightened 
mau  than  our  Professor;  that  bis 
views  are  looser  and  less  formed,  his 
style  confused  and  pnerile  to  dreari- 
ness; that  he  places  himself  as  an 
echo  for  the  people;  and  that  all 
he  sa3's  or  writes  has  but  the  truth 
of  an  echo,  combined  with  its  indis- 
tinctness. Secondly,  that  from  being 
professionally  familiarised  with  the 
words  of  Holy  Scripture,  liis  worst 
principles  assume  to  themselves  a 
Scriptural  character  and  clothing; 
and  his  language  is  disfigured  by  a 
profane  use,  or  rather  abuse  of 
Scripture.  Rome  is  the  8ynon3^nie 
of  stagnation  or  retn>gnidation,'the 
anti-national  intruder,  the  despiser 
and  trampler  imder  foot  of  German 
character  and  capacities,  the  dealer 
in  forms,  laws,  hinderances,  and  cx^ 
communications. 

'*  We,  on  the  other  haad,  have  made 
for  ourselves  a  Church,  a  new  eccleatast- 
ical  constitution,  through  which,  by  the 
free  developement  of  the  Spirit,  virtue 
shall  be  advanced,  and  a  new  Ufe  awaken- 
ed. Our  disciples  sliall  spread  them, 
selves,  and  spring  up  in  all  lands,  bear- 
ing with  them  the  true  Gospel,  proclaim- 
ing a  heaven  without  any  domoatioo, 
creating  a  new  eorth  in  which,  under  all 
diversities  of  opinion,  every  man  shall 
acknowledge  every  man  fur  his  brother ; 
and  instead  of  a  priestly  class  among 
men,  mankind  shall  be  elevated  into  a 
'  royol  priesthood.'  Now,  ahall  Religion 
become  that  which  she  ought  to  be, — Cbe 
loving  mother,  y<ho  will  bless  all  ber 
children,  and  damn  nonel  . .  This  is  our 
work,  our  mission.  For  the  Reform, 
ation  of  the  nineteenth  century  is  essen- 
tially different  from  that  of  the  sixteenth. 
Its  strength  and  victory  lie  in  this,  that 
it  knows  what  it  would  be  at.  This,  fw- 
tunately,  our  oppoaers  do  not  perceive, 
and  indeed  cannot ;  for  they  despise  and 
know  not  the  people  from  whom  the  re- 
form goes  forth.  They  know  not  the 
Father,  and  know  not  Him  whom  He 
hath  sent." 

According  to  Konge,  the  Scrip- 
tures are  to  be  regarded  as  the 
Word  of  God  only  in  such  a  sense 
that  their  contents  are  to  be  be- 
lieved in  detail,  according  as  they 
appear  to  human  reason  credible, 
or  as  man  may  think  them  worthy 
of  God.     There  is  in  them  much 


1846.] 


Religious  Movement  in  Germany. 


703 


to  c:cplain  as  hyperbolical,  or  as  di- 
dactic myths;  much  that  can  now 
be  rejected  entirely  as  the  fabrica- 
tion of  priests.  The  "Judgment  to 
come,"  is  history. '  History  judges 
all  thin^  even  lieli^on  itself.  Past 
generations  live  agam  only  in  sub- 
sequent generations.  The  species 
alone  is  immortal.  The  resurrection 
of  the  body  can  only  signify  the  per- 
petuity of  the  species.  The  Iloly 
Ghost  and  the  spirit  of  the  day  are 
the  same;  and  the  Holy  Ghost  is 
the  representative  or  substitute  of 
Christ.  Therefore,  it  is  the  duty  of 
every  one  to  obey  the  spirit  of  the 
da3%  with  that  obedience  which  the 
Church  has  hitherto  demanded  as 
due  to  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  Afler 
a  paragraph  in  which  he  declares 
the  doctrine  of  the  Divinity  of  Christ, 
and  of  the  Trinity,  to  be  human  in- 
ventions, and  that  the  proper  idea  of 
the  Lord  is  that  of  Saviour  or  Li- 
berator, he  explains  in  the  following 
terms  his  idea  of  Christ*8  work  as 
liberator: — 

"  Moses,  Anron,  Dnvid,  and  the  rest, 
call  themselves  '  Servants'  of  God.   This 
debasing  relationship  Christ  broke  up, 
und  took  to  himself  the  name  of  God's 
Son,  at  the  same  time  calling  us  bre- 
thren.    From  that  time  we  were  no  Ion- 
gcr  servants  but  children,  and  God  no 
long^er  our  tyrant,  but  our  Father.     For 
this  reason  mankind  ought  now  to  fulfil 
the  law  of  God,  not  from  slavish  fear,  hut 
out  of  free  love.    Thus  did  Christ  give 
U.-3  moral  freedom,  and  made  all  men  to  he 
heirs  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Through 
him  was  mankind  freed  from  spiritual  sla- 
very, and  lifted  up  into  a  consciousness 
of  its  own  proper  divine  dignity.    This 
consciousness  of  free  moral  dignity,  and 
the  godly  doctrines  of  Chi ist,  should  lead 
tu  8]M>ntaneous  viitue;  and  the  nations 
of  mankind  wiih  this  Christian  conscious- 
ne^s,  or  Christian  spirit,  should  become 
morally   free  people.     For   Christ  calls 
Himself  the  Son  of  God,  and  us  the  chil- 
dren of  God,  for  the  very  purpose  of 
bringing  mankind  to  the  consciousness  of 
their  high  worth  and  divine  dignity.    He 
calls  Himself  the  Uorn  of  God,  for  the 
purpose  of  representing  the  condition  of 
us  Lis  brethren,  as  born  of  God.    This 
is  the  proper  wny  of  understanding  the 
divinity  of  Christ,  and  so  to  understand 
it  must  be  freely  permitted  to  us  all." 

It  is  no  pleasure  to  us  to  weary 
our  readers  with  these  shallow  and 
vile  morsels  of  criticism,  or  to  dis- 
tress them  with  such  pictures  and 


quotations.  Were  these  books 
merely  to  be  regarded  as  the  pro- 
duction of  the  foolish  or  wicked 
men  who  have  i)enned  them,  of 
course  we  should  have  spared  our- 
selves the  pain  of  noticing  them. 
But  let  it  be  remembered,  that  they, 
and  such  as  they,  are  the  daily  meat 
and  drink  of  the  major  part  of  the 
intelligent  reading  middle  class  of 
Grermany;  that  they  are  echoed 
and  zealously  responded  to  by  a  pow- 
erful multitude;  that  they  express 
the  mind,  not  of  their  authors  but  of 
a  matured,  practical,  resolute  set  of 
men ;  and  that  in  them  lies  much  of 
the  future,  nay,  of  the  immediate  fu- 
ture history  of  Germany,  where  al- 
ready both  the  lovers  of  change  and 
the  lovers  of  order  are  making  up 
their  minds  to  an  overthrow,  from 
the  midst  of  which  some  new  order 
of  things  shall  be  reconstituted,  for 
whose  consecration  the  blood,  not  of 
one  victim  but  of  a  thousand  heca- 
tombs, shall  be  required. 

And  can  we  not  derive  from  this 
glimpse  of  the  position  of  things 
m  Germany  some  useful  warnings, 
some  preparation  for  a  struggle,  into 
which  that  branch  of  the  Church 
which  has  hitherto  so  wholesomely 
influenced  our  own  nation  shall  be- 
fore long  be  plunged?  Germany  holds 
up  to  us  a  picture  of  that  which  is  at 
our  own  door.  We  can  study  there 
the  working  and  the  results  of  some 
principles  \^iich  have  as  yet,  in  Eng- 
land, been  only  broached;  and  of  some 
others  which  are  the  current  axioms 
of  a  considerable  body  of  highly  reli- 
gious men.  £ven  with  us  the  reli- 
gious platform,  if  not  the  pulpit,  has 
uttered  the  idea  of  a  religious  union, 
in  which  so-called  minor  differences 
and  non-essentials  shall  be  kept  in  the 
background,  or  held  in  the  private 
and  individual  sanctuary  as  tole- 
rated opinions,  not  however  to  be 
broached  on  any  public,  combined, 
or  really  churcn  occasions;  while 
some  common  ground  of  indefinite 
doctrine  shall  cms  a  standing  place, 
where  all  may  meet  and  mutually 
dve  the  hand,  and  suffer  a  spurious 
love  to  melt,  and  fuse  together  all 
hearts  and  all  parties.  In  the  mean- 
time, what  tliat  common  ground 
really  is,  what  arc  the  essentials  of 
Christianity,  must  be  left  in  vague 
and  cloudy  uncertainty.  They  v'*^ 
broach  the  idea,  know  rigb^ 


that  they  due  not  proceed  to  de- 
fine  it  —  that  such  an  attempt 
would  in  one  hour  reve&l  the  falae- 
nesa  of  their  pretended  brotUerbood. 
The  sound-hearted  and  those  who 
lave  truth  are  fearful  of  being  re- 
proached with  URcharitablenesB  if 
thej  should  make  known  the  line 
beyond  which  they  cannot  retire, 
while  the  indifferent  and  ignorant, 
the  half- instructed  and  the  secret 
enemies  of  truth,  are  undermining 
by  that  loose  and  popular  talk  the 
most  sacred  priociplea  of  the  faith  and 
of  ecclesiastical  polity. 

Akin  to  this  is  the  existing  dia- 
position  to  condemn  testa  and  articles, 
or  to  explain  them  away,  as  though 
it  were  a  matter  of  indifference  to  a 
commonwealth  whether  a  man  be  a 
Christian  or  not,  or,  being  a  Christian, 
whether  he  be  a  willing  and  con- 
sdenCious  conjessor  of  his  faith. 
Scotland,  from  whence,  during  the 
last  fiftv  years,  ao  many  of  our  ab- 
stract views  on  all  subjects  have  been 
wafted  to  us,  has,  wiUi  her  Fresby- 
teriao  habits  of  thought,  travelled 
on  this  road  extensively.  We 
may  expect  to  have  an  example 
set  to  na  there  which  we  shall  be 
invited  to  follow,  whereby  our  seats 
of  learning  shall  be  swept  of  their 
orthodox,  or  rather  of  their  Christisn, 
defences.  Uncharitable  men  will 
argue,  that  because  a  formula  may 


of  hypocrisy;  thatbecaiiscchemietry 
and  mathematics  can  be  taught  just 
as  well  by  an  Atheist  as  hy  a  Christ- 
ian, therefore  all  education  should  at 
once  be  cleared  of  artificial  fellers 
and  hinderanccs,  and  an  open  field  of 
competition  left,  in  wbicli  the  man 
of  ablest  natural  parts  shall  carry  the 


cougigt  in  mastering  the  cooneiioo 
between  the  works  and  the  word  of 
God,  and  concussing  the  latter  to 
mould  itself  into  some  harmony  with 
i  fragmentary    knowledge  of  the 

There  is  also  among  our  mote 
zealous  ckrgy  an  unfortunate  habit 
of  looking  at  the  Church  saamere 
assemblage,  or  couglomeratian  in 
space  and  time,  of  independent  in- 
(fividuala.  There  is  the  viable  »s- 
semhlage,  and  there  is  the  abstrscl, 
invisibk  assemblage.  In  ihe  former, 
eveiT  one,  instead  of  being  and  find- 
ing himself  in  the  grace  and  uoder 
the  obligations  of  a  Christian,  his 
yet  to  choose  for  himself  whether  he 
shallbeaChristUnornot.  Eachin- 
dividual  must,  by  some  process  of  in- 
dependent examination,  more  or  less 
extensive  and  profound  according  to 
his  advantages,  and  leisure,  and  na- 
tural jjarts,  arrive  at  a  judgment  for 
himaelf  upon  the  claims  ofthe  Lord 
Jesus  Chriat  to  be  his  Lord  and 
yaviour.  Men  are  taught  to  become 
unbelievers  as  the  first  step  to  a  rea- 
Bonable  i«th.  The  salutary,  divine 
doctrine  of  relationship  to  God 
in  Jesus  Christ,  contracted  through 
the  hands  of  the  Church  by  all 
her  children,  and  of  inherited  ob- 


»rTy  tt 
day,  though  he  should  declare  bin 
self  (as  was  lately  done  by  tl 
feasor  of  aathetics  at  Tubingen)  a 


slipped  herself  in,  and  with  the 
plausible  words  of  a  just  plea  against 
men's  interferences  with  one  another, 
IteOBon  has  been  pleaded  for  as  in- 


ligations,  is  supplanted  by  the  « 
abstract,  moral  obligation  of  reason 
to  seek  for  and  embrace  truth,  anil 
by  the  offer  of  that  relationship  to 
God  as  a  desirable,  future,  possible 
attainment.  Uaptised  men  are  mode 
to  look  upon  themselves  and  suffer 
themselves  to  be  re^rded  as  heathens, 
that  they  may  b^m  and  seek  their 
own  anxious  way  into  faith  and  peace. 
Hence  books  of  evidences  and  argu- 
ments for  Christianity — which  are  all 
very  well  as  charitable  efforts  to  re- 
store such  as  Satan  has  prevailed 
over  and  brought  into  a  sceptical 
condition — are  unwisely  thrust  into 
the  bands  of  our  expanding  youth, 
who,  but  for  these  books,  would  most 
probably  never  have  been  troubled 
with  a  aoubt. 

There  is  yet  another  way  in  which 
wc  have  begun  in  England  loo  much 


1846.J 


Religious  Movement  in  Germany^ 


705 


shall  become  the  instrument  of  ChriBt. 
Religion  is  so  much  r^;arded  as  for 
maD,  that  we  are  at  the  door  of  the 
doctrine  that  it  is  also  ofmaxiy  wher* 
ever  it  is  not  a  mere  superstition. 
Worship,  which  is  the  divme  end  of 
the   Church   as  such,  is  becoming 
secondary  to  the  exercise  of  intellect 
in  preaching  and  hearing.     Where 
we  write,  here  in  Grermany,  the  pulpit 
18  enthroned,  the  altar  placed  beneath 
it  as  a  footstool,  and  there  is  a  strong 
tendencnr  in  England  to  bring  them 
to  stana  to  one  another  in  the  same 
rebition.     Besides,  individual  com- 
pleteness and  sufficientness  of  every 
one  for  himself  is  supposed  to  m 
Christian  perfection.  A  state  in  which 
every   one    shall    attain   as   much 
as  possible  of  ty&tj  things,  and  be 
within  himself  a  Mcrochniat, — that 
is  to  say,  mere  Congregationalism  or 
independency,  in  the  mllest  sense  of 
the  word,  is  greatly  sought  a^r. 
Our  good  old  Church  doctrine,  that 
faith,  hope,  and  love  alone  are  the 
universal  qualities  of  all  Christians, 
and  such  as  ought  to  be  in  every 
individual  in  the  greatest  possible 
degree,  and  that  other  things  exist 
only  in  distribution, — that  every  one 
is  a  member  of  ever  v  other,  necessary 
to  and  also  dependent  upon  every 
other,  is  lost  sight  of;  and  each  is 
left  to  fight  his  separate,  solitary  way 
to  heaven  as  he  can.    The  parent 
leads  not  the  child :   that  would  be 
interfering  with    conscience.      The 
husband  does  not  use  his  authority 
for  sustaining  his  wife  in  the  faith 
and  obedience  of  Christ.   The  master, 
as  such,  does  not  command  his  house 
after  him  in  the  faith  and  holy  ob- 
servance of  the  Chrbtian  religion.  The 
king  is  scarce  permitted,  as  such,  to 
ask  whether  his  subjects  are  Christ- 
ians or  not.    The  family,  the  nation, 
become  mere  congeries   of  self-de- 
pendent, self-seeking  individuals. 

Our  clergy  have  to  consider  that 
they  do  not  at  all  stand  in  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  their  forefathers 
stood.  We  do  not  speak  of  the  in- 
crease of  the  population ;  that  mi^ht 
be  met  by  buildins  and  endowing 
new  churches.  We  speak  of  the 
altered  forms  of  human  relationship 
and  habits  of  society.  Formerly,  the 
higher  and  the  humbler  were  con- 
nected by  ties  not  of  temporary  in- 
terest, but  almost  of  relationship. 
There   was,  on  the  one  side,  the 


patron,  the  godfather,  the  name- 
father  ;  on  the  other,  the  client,  the 
|;odchild,  &c.  The  higher  classes  were, 
m  a  measure,  the  guides,  the  coun- 
sellers,  the  superintendents  of  the 
humbler.  No  less  honourable  were 
the  offices  by  which  the  latter  ac- 
knowledged the  wholesome  influence 
of  the  former.  This  advantage,  of 
which  one  must  at  once  see  the  im- 
portance to  the  clergy,  is  now  very 
much  lost.  The  large  mass  of  our 
population  is  made  up  of  the  wealthy 
on  one  side,  and  the  indigent  on  the 
other;  of  the  capitalist  and  the  la- 
bourer. The  relation  is  one  of  in- 
terest only.  It  exists  only  from  day 
to  day.  There  is  scarcely  any  thing 
personal  in  it.  The  faces  of  the  em- 
ployer and  of  the  employed  do  not 
meet.  A  noun  of  multituoe  expresses 
to  the  one  the  firm,  to  the  other  the 
operatives.  Ignorance  on  one  side,  a 
raffe  for  accumulating  capital  on  the 
other,  produce  habits  of  opposition, 
grudging,  and  suspicion.  Fluctua- 
tions in  emplo;y^ment,  and  uncertainty 
in  amount  of  income,  produce  waste- 
ful and  reckless  habits.  By  the 
wealthy  employer,  the  people,  only 
arithmetically  known,  are  seen  but 
occasionally  in  the  gross  in  his  fac- 
tory. He  knows  not  in  what  obscure 
abode  "the  poor  hide  themselves 
together."  ITiere  take  place  be- 
tween them  no  kindly  interchanges ; 
no  wholesome  influences  pass  ^om 
the  one  to  the  other.  The  clergy- 
man  cannot  now  reach  the  humbler 
class  of  his  flock  through  their  supe- 
riors, and  scarcely  tneir  children 
through  themselves.  Even  baptism 
is  often  neglected;  and  marriages, 
contracted  without  the  Church's 
blesslne,  easily  knit  and  easily  dis- 
solved, loosening  the  elementary  bond 
of  human  society,  cut  off  the  channels 
by  which  godliness  can  be  kept  alive 
and  exercised.  There  remains,  in- 
deed, the  inextinguishable  instinct  of 
religion,  and  it  seeks  for  a  Christian 
outlet.  But  the  clergyman  is  classed 
with  those  at  whom  the  masses  look 
with  an  evil  eye.  There  is  about  him 
the  tone  of  genteel  society,  the  uncon- 
descending  language  of  tne  university. 
He  is  utterly  ignorant  of  the  people's 
modes  of  thought, — his  sympathy,  at 
best,  reaches  not  the  details  of  their 
situation.  His  ministrations,  cold  and 
formal,  however  excellent, 
suited  to  another  atmosf 


706 


Religious  Movement  in  Germany. 


[June, 


theirs,  but  are  not  real  enougli  to 
help  men  >vho  arc  in  such  hand- 
to-hand  conflict  with  the  realities 
of  the  fallen  and  miserable  life  that 
Is  in  them.  Hence  the  acceptable- 
ncss  of  the  well-meaning  Independ- 
ent, and  afler  him  of  the  Separatist, 
of  the  Seducer,  the  IHIormonite,  the 
Socialist. 

Another  class  of  society  is  totally 
devoted  to  pleasure.  To  them  the 
clergyman  is  acceptable  only  in  so  far 
as  tlie  undertaker  is.  He  is  un- 
avoidably necessary  in  hopeless  cir- 
cumstances, in  days  of  mourning  and 
desolation,  which  must  by  all  con- 
trivances be  shortened.  All  their 
ideas  of  him  are  coloured  by  this 
unwelcome  association.  His  presence 
puts  them  in  mind  of  sorrow,  real 
or  feigned.  As  a  minister  of  reli- 
gious truth  and  benediction,  he  is 
unknown  to  them.  While  all  whose 
ideas  are  polarised  b^  money  and 
moneVs  worth,  physical  men  and 
practical  materialists,  are  wearv  of 
the  economic  anomaly  of  the  liista- 
blishmcnt,  and  greedily  encourage 
the  speculations  of  Independency  and 
Voluntarj'ism. 

One  cannot  but  see,  that  in  these 
ways,  and  in  many  more,  we  are 
in  danger  of  falling  into  that  con- 
dition which  Germany  exhibits; 
the  only  apparent  probable  result  or 
solution  or  which  is,  the  risuig  up  of 
that  personal  anti-Christ  of  whom 
the  New  Testament  forewarns  us. 
We  stand,  however,  as  vet  on  a 
remnant  of  solid  land.  ^Ve  possess 
many  advantages.  Our  liturgy  has 
preserved,  for  the  worship  oFGod, 
for  positive  religion,  and  for  sound 
doctrine,  its  place  in  the  habits 
and  thoughts  of  men.  The  forms  of 
ministry  and  of  discipline  remain  to 
us.  Our  universities  are  still  of  a 
k nown  and  positive  confession .  Fai th 
in  a  divine  revelation  is  with  us  still 
an  element  of  respectability.  Irre- 
ligious works  are  undertaken  by  no 
publisher  of  character.  We  may, 
therefore,  look  without  panic  at  those 
things  which  are  approacliing,  and  so 
prepare  oui^sclves  to  meet,  or  it  may 
be  to  hinder  them. 

Our  clergy  come  too  little  into 
contact  of  mind  and  feeling  with  the 
present  middle  and  lower  classes  of 
society;  yet  the  dismembered,  dis- 
jointed condition  of  society  makes 
It  very  necessary  that  they  should. 


There  is  a  certain  fineness,  puncti- 
liousness, and  almost  prudery  of 
bearing,  which  distinguish  them 
from  the  members  of  the  priesthood 
in  any  other  country,  which  b  annoy- 
ing, or  at  least  genant^  to  men  of 
rough  mould,  and  hinders  intimacy, 
openness,  and  that  self-surrender 
which  are  necessary  for  any  one  wbo 
would  receive  benefit  from  pastond 
care.  The  peculiar  character  of  our 
Church  was  impressed  upon  it  durinc 
its  passage  through  the  sifting  and 
winnowing  time  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tur}%  The  royal  and  aristoeratical 
element  was  then  immensely  the  pre- 
dominating one  in  the  English  social 
system ;  and  our  Church  naving  re- 
ceived, still  retains,  in  every  part, 
office,  and  ministry,  the  stamp  of  a 
monarchical  and  aristocratic  period 
too  distinctly. 

The  taste  for  sermon-hearing  exists 
and  increases.  It  must  be  met  and 
taken  advantage  of.  But  the  taste  of 
a  large  mass  of  the  community  can- 
not be  met  by  the  formal,  discreet, 
}K>lished  production  of  the  scholar. 
As  little  will  mere  professional  ortho- 
doxy serve,  or  the  systematic  points 
and  arguments,  of  which  most  men 
are  in  our  day  weary.  Tlie  mere 
religious  cradsman  docs  not  suit  for 
a  time  in  which  the  daily  thoughts 
and  employments  of  men  arc  so  real 
and  earnest  Meir  must  come  to  the 
pulpit  with  a  real  thuig.  They  must 
be  earnest,  and  mean  what  they  say. 
Doctrines  about  God,  instead  of 
actual  ministry  of  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  who  is  the  living  sulntance  of 
all  doctrines,  can  only  cultivate  in- 
tellectual pride  and  boldness.  Ordi- 
nation is  not  intended  to  confer  in- 
tellectual superiority,  but  spiritual 
grace  and  the  power  of  convening 
the  blessing  of  God  to  men.  The 
clergy  deliver  up  God  into  the  hands 
of  men  when  they  treat  religion 
merely  as  a  science  and  art,  and  when 
they  make  spiritual  the  synonyme  of 
intellectual.  Intellect  soon  finds  out 
that  it  can  plausibly  cope  with  reve- 
lation, when  revelation  is  brought 
down  from  its  spiritual  platfonii. 
Revelation  broken  into  dogmas  or 
points  decided  by  men,  still  more  those 
outworks  of  revelation,  biblical  cri- 
ticism, which  we  sometimes  hear  so 
unwisely  and  pechmticaUy  brought  to 
the  pulpit,  and  that  theology  which 
mcn^  baying  the  grace  of  baptism^- 


1846.] 


Religious  Movement  in  Germany. 


707 


nay,  pcrhap  that  of  ordination  also, 
liavc  excogitated  and  called  ""  natural;'* 
all  these  do  but  drag  the  Gospel  into 
the  arena  of  philosophers.  Our  mat- 
ter-of-fact men,  whom  this  da^  of 
facts  has  generated,  have  no  patience 
for  such  things.  Their  books  at 
home  can  give  them  quite  as  much  of 
this,  and  probably  a  great  deal  better, 
than  their  clerg}'man  can.  Either  he 
has  something  more  real  to  give  and 
ought  to  give  it,  or  else  he,  and  his 
religion,  and  his  order,  are  super- 
fluous. This  is  not  a  day  for  abstract 
existences.  The  Church  as  an  ab- 
straction is  an  object  of  no  interest  to 
our  present  race  of  men.  It  must 
either  stand  and  bless  men  \v'ith 
divine  light,  and  dispense  forgiveness 
from  Christ,  and  speak  with  au- 
thority as  of  God*s  counsel  and  in 
Plis  secret,  or  else  take  its  place  as 
a  thing  that  has  been  and  has  passed 
away.  Men  are  weary  of  being 
argued  with.  AVhat  are  arguments 
after  all?  Can  no  stronger  in- 
tellect  be  found,  or  be  supposed, 


to  redargue  them?  Men  know 
that  they  ouG;ht  not  to  be  called  upon 
to  sit  as  judges  of  God*s  truth.  A 
revelation  that  does  not  teach  with 
authority  is  no  revelation.  The  phi- 
losopher is  as  good  as  the  scribe. 
Men  watit  to  be  helped  to  serve  God ; 
the  clergy  are  ordained  that  they 
may  hem  them.  If  they  are  not 
helped,  if  their  children,  their  neigh- 
bours, their  de])endents,  be  not  heljyed 
to  do  that  which  is  right,  they  will, 
of  course,  say,  "All  this  expensive 
macliinery  is  in  vain  :  we  can  do  as 
well  without  it."  Baptised  men 
must  be  addressed  as  baptised  men, 
themselves  parts  of  the  Church,  es- 
sential to  it,  prospering  with  it,  de- 
caying with  it,  alive  with  its  life, 
dying  when  it  dies.  The  Church 
must  no  longer  seem  to  them  an 
object  eztemiu  to  them,  a  city  into 
which  they  may  enter  or  not  as  they 
choose,  but  as  an  existence  of  which 
they  are  irrevocably  a  part — a  city  of 
which  they  are,  and  can  by  no  act  of 
their  own  cease  to  be,  citizens. 


708 


Past  and  Present  Condition  of  British  Poetry.        [June, 


PAST   AND    PRESENT    CONDITION    OF   BRITISH    POETRY. 

Pabt  IL  and  Conclvsiok. 


Hoca  has  told  an  amusinff  anecdote 
of  Wordsworth  at  Mount  Kydal.  It 
chanced  one  night  while  the  bard  of 
Kllmeny  was  at  the  Lakes  with 
Wordsworth,  Wilson,  and  De  Qain- 
cey,  that  a  resplendent  arch,  some- 
thing like  the  aurora  borealis,  was 
observed  across  the  zenith,  from  the 
one  horizon  to  the  other.  The 
splendid  meteor  became  the  subject 
of  conversation,  and  the  table  was 
left  for  an  eminence  outside  where 
its  eifect  could  be  seen  to  greater 
advantage.  Miss  Wordsworth,  the 
poet*s  sister,  who  accompanied  them, 
expressed  a  fear  lest  the  brilliant 
stranger  might  prove  ominous,  when 
Hogg,  thinking  ne  was  saying  a  good 
thing,  hazarded  the  remark  that  it 
was  neither  more   nor  less  ^*thau 

I'oost  a  treeumphal  airch  raised  in 
lonour  of  the  meeting  of  the  poets.*" 
Miss  Wordsworth  smiled,  and  Wil- 
son laughed  and  declared  the  idea  not 
amiss.  But  when  it  was  told  to 
Wordsworth  he  took  De  Quincey 
aside,  and  said  loud  enough  to  lie 
heard  by  more  than  the  person  he 
was  addressing,  '*  Poets!  poets !  what 
does  the  fellow  mean  ?  Where  are 
they  ?"  Hogg  was  a  little  offended 
at  the  time,  but  he  enjoyed  it  after- 
wards ;  and  we  have  heard  him  tell 
the  story  in  his  own  "  slee"  and  in- 
imitable manner,  and  laugh  immode- 
rately as  he  told  it.  Poor  James 
Hogs  I  IIeoina  has  reason  to  re- 
member James;  nor  was  the  poet  of 
•*  Kilmeny"  forgotten  when  dead,  by 
the  great  poet  of  the  Exairsion, 
There  is  nothing  more  touching  in 
poetry  since  the  time  of  Collins  than 
Worasworth*s  extempore  verses  on 
the  shepherd*s  death.  He  knew  his 
claims  to  be  called  a  poet,  and  time 
will  confirm  his  judgment  and  make 
the  Kydal  aurora  a  story  merely  to 
amuse. 

Poets,  where  are  the^  ?  Is  poetry 
extinct  among  us,  or  is  it  only  dor- 
nuint  ?  Is  the  crop  exhausted,  and 
nittst  the  field  lie  fallow  for  a  time  P 

^  ^8  it  that,  in  this  commercial  na- 

>f  ours,  where  every  thing  is 

i  in    Rothschild's    scales    of 

ry  excellence,  that  we  have 

poetry  because  we  have  no 


demand  for  it  ?  We  falter  while  ve 
think  it  is  so.  Poets  we  still  have, 
and  poetry  at  times  of  a  rich  and 
novel,  but  not  a  cultivated  flavour. 
Hardly  a  week  elapses  that  does  not 

K've  birth  to  as  many  different  vo- 
mes  of  verses  as  there  are  days  in 
the  week.  Bat  then  there  is  little 
that  is  good ;  much  that  xras  imagi- 
nation, and  much  that  might  have 
passed  for  poetry  when  verse  was 
in  its  infancy  araoiig  us.  Much 
of  that  clock-work  tintinabulum  of 
rhyme — that  cuckoo  kind  of  verse 
which  palls  upon  the  mind  and 
really  disgusts  you  with  verse  of  a 
higher  character.  But  now  we  look, 
and  justly  too,  for  something  more. 
Whilst  we  iniitate  others  we  can  no 
more  excel  than  he  that  sails  by 
others*  maps  can  make  a  new  disco- 
very. All  the  old  dishes  of  the  an- 
cients have  been  new  heated  and  new 

set  forth  ustpie  ad But  we  for-'* 

bear.  People  look  for  something 
more  than  schoolboy  commonplaces 
and  thoughts  at  second-hand,  and 
novelties  and  nothine  more,  without 
a  single  grain  of  salt  to  savour  the 
tun  of  unmeaningness  which  they 
carry  with  them.  It  is  no  easy  mat- 
ter to  become  a  poet, — 

"  Conaules  fiunt  quotan&iaj  et  ooW  pro- 

consules, 
Sclus  aut  rex  aut  poeta  non  quotannis 

nascitur;" 

or,  as  the  old  Water-poet  phrased 
it,- 

«When    Heaven    intends  to   do  some 

mighty  thing 
He  makes  a  poet,  or  at  leaat — a  king." 

South  was  of  opinion  that  the 
composition  of  an  epigram  was  the 
next  great  difficulty  to  an  epic  poem. 

"  And  South  beheld  that  master-piece 
of  man." 

Coxcombs  who  consider  the  compo- 
sition of  a  song  an  easy  matter 
should  set  themselves  down,  as 
Bums  says,  and  try.  Ask  Tommy 
Moore  how  many  days  and  nights  he 
has  given  to  a  single  stanza  in  an 
Irish  melody  ?  Ask  Sam  Rogers  how 
long  he  has  spent  over  the  composi' 
tion  of  A  couplet  in  An  Epis&e  to  a 


1 846.]       Past  and  Present  Condition  of  British  Poetry. 


709 


Friend;  or  Wordsworth  how  long 
he  has  laboured  with  a  sonnet ;  or 
Bowles— yes,  ask  the  Vicar  of  Brem- 
bill,  if  he  does  not  owe  the  bright 
finish  of  his  verse  as  much  to  pams 
as  happiness?  Dryden  toiled  for  a 
fortnignt  over  his  Alexander's  Feast^ 
and  yet  he  wrote  with  ease — not  the 
ease  of  the  mob  of  gentlemen  ridi- 
culed by  Pope,  but  with  great  fluency 
of  idea  and  creat  mastery  of  expres- 
sion. Crood  things  are  not  knocked 
off  at  a  heat — for  a  long  jump  there 
must  be  a  very  long  run,  and  a  lonff 
preparatory  training  too.  There  is 
no  saying,  "  I  will  l»  a  poet."  Only 
consider  not  the  long  apprenticeship 
alone,  but  the  long  servitude  which 
the  muse  requires  from  those  who 
would  invoke  her  rightly. 

"  In  a  poet  no  kind  of  knowledge  is  to 
be  overlooked  ;  to  a  poet  nothing  can  be 
ueeless.  Whatever  is  beautiful  and  what-* 
ever  is  dreadful  must  ba  familiar  to  bis 
imagination ;  be  must  he  conversant  with 
all  that  is  awfully  vast  or  elegantly  little. 
The  plants  of  tbe  garden,  the  animals  of 
the  wood,  tbe  mioerals  of  the  earth,  the 
meteors  of  tbe  sky,  roust  all  concur  to 
store  Lis  mind  with  inexhaustible  variety, 
for  every  idea  is  useful  for  the  enforce- 
ment or  decoration  of  religious  truth,  and 
he  who  knows  most  will  have  most  power 
of  diversifying  bis  scenes  and  of  gratify* 
ing  bis  reader  with  remote  allusions  and 
unexpected  instruction."* 

Every  one  remembers  (poets  them- 
selves  perhaps  excepted)  the  long 
course    of   study   and   preparation 
which  Milton  laid  down  for  himself 
before  he  stripped  for  the  Paradise 
Lost,     And  yet  one  would  hardly 
think,  on  first  reflection,  that  any 
coarse  of  preparation  was  necessary 
for  the  poet  of  Comusy  and  Lycidas^ 
and  the  Hymn  on  the  Nativity  of 
Christ     But  Milton  fully  under- 
stood the  height  of  his  great  ar^- 
ment,    and   how    unequalled   with 
every  lengthened  preparation  he  must 
be  to  record  it  rightly.    But  people 
(not   poets)    start   epics  nowadays 
without  any  kind  of  consideration. 
No  subject  is  too  great  for  them. 
Satan,  Chaos,  The  Messiah,  The  Om- 
nipresence of  the  Deity,  the  FaU  of 
Nineveh,  The  World  before  the  Flood. 
One  shudders  at  the  very  idea  of 
rabjeets   so  sublime   taken   up  as 
holyday   recreations   by  woula-be 


poets,  without  the  vision  and  the 
faculty  divine,  or  any  other  merit  (if 
merit  it  may  be  called)  than  the 
mere  impudence  of  daring : — 

"  When  will  men  learn  but  to  distinguish 

spirits, 
And  set  true  difference  'twixt  the  jaded 

wits 
That  run  a  broken    pace   for  common 

hire, 
And  tbe  high  raptures  of  a  happy  muse. 
Borne  on  tbe  wings  of  her   immortal 

thought. 
That  kicks  at  earth  with  a  disdainful  heel. 
And  beats  at  heaven's  gates  with  her 

bright  hoofs  V— Ben  Jonson. 

Benjamin  West,  the  painter,  traf- 
ficked with  subjects  of  tne  same  sub- 
lime description.  And  in  what  wav  f 
"  Without  expression,  fancy,  or  de- 
sign ;"  without  genius  and  without 
art.  People  forget,  or  choose  to 
foi^etf  that  subject  alone  is  not 
sufficient  for  a  poem.  Look  at 
Bums's  "  Mouse"  or  Wordsworth's 
"  Peter  Bell,"  or  Wilkie's  "  Blind 
Fiddler,"  or  Gainsborough's  "  Cot- 
tager" with  a  dish  of  cream.  It  is 
the  treatment  which  ennobles.  But 
there  is  no  driving  thb  into  some 
people's  ears.  Big  with  the  swollen 
ambition  of  securing  a  footing  on 
the  sun-bright  sumnuts  of  Parnassus, 
they  plume  themselves  on  borrowed 
wings  and  bladders  of  their  own,  and 
after  a  world  of  ink,  a  world  of  big 
ideas,  and  a  copied  invocation,  they 
struggle  to  ascend,  and  pant  and  toil 
to  the  end  of  an  epic  in  as  many  books 
as  the  IHad  or  the  Mneid.  Would 
that  your  Robert  Montffomervs, 
your  Edwin  Atherstones,  and  sundry 
such  who  understand  the  art  of 
sinking  in  the  low  profound — would 
that  they  would  reflect  for  five 
minutes  on  what  an  epic  poem  really 
is!  And  what  it  is,  and  ought  to 
be,  glorious  John  Dryden  tells  us  in 
a  very  few  words.  *^  A  heroic  poem," 
he  says,  **  truly  such,  is  undoubtedly 
the  greatest  work  which  the  soul  of 
man  is  capable  to  perform."  And  so 
it  18. 

'*  A  work,"  says  Milton,  '*  not  to  be 
raised  from  tbe  heat  of  youth  or  the  va- 
pours of  wine ;  but  by  devout  prayer  to 
that  Eternal  Spirit  who  can  enrich  with 
all  utterance  and  knowledge,  and  sends 
out  bis  seraphim  with  tbe  hallowed  fire 
of  his  altar  to  touch  and  purify  tbe  )*-" 
of  whom  he  pleases." 


'*'  Rasselas. 


710 


Past  and  Present  Condition  of  Bntish  Poetry.        [June, 


And  yet  Murray  and  ^foxon  are 
troubled  once  a-weck,  at  the  least, 
with  the  offer  of  a  new  epic,  for  a 
certain  sum — so  run  the  terms —or,  in 
case  of  declining  that,  for  half  jiro- 
fits.  As  if  epics  were  blackberries, 
and  men  sought  fame  as  Smith 
O'Brien  seeks  reputation — by  an 
imnertincnt  follv  of  their  own !  But 
*^  1?  ools  rush  in,  and  there  will  still 
be  poetasters — Blackmore  and  his 
brethren — in  spite  of  critics,  hard 
words,  and  something  harder  still — 
contemptuous  neglect. 

Few  live  to  see  their  fame  esta- 
blished on  a  firm  and  unalterable 
foundation.  The  kind  criticisms  of 
friends  conspire  at  times  to  give  a 
false  position  to  a  poem,  or  the  ma- 
lice of  enemies  unite  to  obtain  for  it 
one  equally  undeserved.  Who  now 
reads  llaylcy  ?  How  many  are  there 
in  the  position  of  Gascoigne  and 
Churchyard  as  described  by  old 
Michael  Drayton  ? — 

"  Accounted  were  great  roeterera  many 

a  day, 
But  not  inspired  with  bravefiro ;  had  they 
Lived  but  a  little  longer  they  bad  seen 
Their  works  before  thein  to  hare  buried 

been.'* 

That  ''  lived  but  a  little  longer  !*' 
It  is  well  they  didn't.  How  will  it 
be  with  the  poets  of  the  past  genera- 
tion two  hundred  years  from  this  ? 
They  cannot  possibly  so  down  "  com- 
plete." There  must  be  a  weeding. 
Fancy  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  twelve 
volumes,  Byron  in  ten,  Sonthev  in 
ten,  Moore  in  ten,  AVordsworth  in 
six— to  say  nothing  of  Campbell  in 
two  volumes,  Kogers  in  two,  and 
Shelley  in  four.  The  poets  of  the 
last  generation  form  a  library  of 
themselves.  And  if  xx)etry  is  mul- 
tiplied hereafter  at  the  same  rate,  we 
ahall  want  fresh  shelves,  fresh  pa- 
tienee,  and  a  new  lease  of  life,  for 
threescore  and  ten  of  scriptural  ex- 
istence is  far  too  short  to  get  ac- 
quainted with  the  past  and  keep  up 
our  intimacy  with  tlie  present.  The 
literature  of  the  last  hfly  years  is  a 
study  of  itself— Scott's  novels,  Scott's 
poctrv,  Scott's  Miscellanies,  and 
Scotrs  Life !  Then  of  the  present, 
;here  are  the  daily  papers,  the  weekly 
iniinials,  the  monthly  nuigazines,  the 
-ly  reviews,  all  of  which  we 


are  expected  to  have  a  fair  paismg  ac- 
quaintance with.  There  is  Mr.  Dick- 
ens's last  book  on  the  tabic,  which  I 
have  not  as  yet  had  time  to  read, 
and  old  Burton's  Auatomif  of  Afe- 
lancholy  by  its  side,  coaxing  me  tn  ! 
renew  a  youthful  acquaintance  with  ' 
its  pages;  and  there  arc  Tridram  < 
Shanayy  and  Humphrey  CUnker^  and 
dear  delightful  Amelia^  which  I  fain  . 
would  rcAd  again,  but  cannot,  I  fear, 
for  want  of  time.  Only  observe  the  ' 
dust  on  that  fine  Froissart  on  mv 
shelves,  and  that  noble  old  copy  of 
Ben  Jonson's  works  in  folio,  with 
a  mark,  I  could  swear,  in  the  third 
act  of  the  Alchemist  or  the  SQent 
Woman.  There  is  no  keeping  pace 
with  the  present  while  we  pay  any 
thing  like  due  attention  to  the  past. 
I  pitv  that  man  who  reads  Albert 
Smitu  who  never  read  Partheniua ; 
but  perhaps  he  pities  me  because  I 
am  indiiferently  up  in  the  writer  be 
admires.  How  people  are  cut  oft 
from  the  full  literary  enjoyments 
of  this  life  who  never  read  "  Monro 
his  Expedition,"  or  the  Duchess  of 
Newcastle's  Life  of  the  Duke  bcr 
husband,  or  Tom  Brown,  or  Ned 
Ward,  or  Koger  L'Estrangc,  or  Tom 
Coryat,  or  "  the  works  sixty-three  in 
number"  of  old  John  Taylor,  the 
sculler  on  the  Thames! 

We  wish  for  poets  who  will  write 
when  Nature  and  their  full  thoughts 
bid  them,  and  are  not  exacting  when 
we  look  for  more  than  one  sprig  of 
laurel  to  grace  a  garland.    W  e  have 
already  enough  of  would-be  poets— 
Augustus  Caisar,   King   James  L» 
Cardinal  Richelieu,  the  gretit  Lor^l 
Clarendon,  the  celebrated  Lord  Bo- 
lingbroke,  the  famous  Lord  Chat- 
ham ;  but  poetry  is  what  old  George 
Chapman  calls  it,— a  flower  of  tlic 
sun,  which  disdains  to  open  to  the 
eye  of  a  candle. 

"No  power  the  muses  favoar  can  com- 
mand, 

Wliat  Richelieu  wanted  Uuis  scarce 
could  gain,  ^    ^        . 

And  what  voung  Ammoa  wish'd,  ana 
wishVl  in  vain." 

Your  "  rich  ill  poets  are  without 
excuse."*  "Your  verses,  good  sir, 
are  no  poems,  they'll  not  hinder  rw/^ 
rising  in  the  state."  f  "  'Tis  ridicu- 
lous for  a  lord  to  print  verses;  'tis 


*  Lord  Roscommon, 


t  Ben  Jottson. 


J 


1846.]        Past  and  Present  Condition  of  Briluh  Poetry. 


711 


well  enough  to  make  them  to  please 
himself,  but  to  make  them  public  is 
foolish."*  People  aifect  to  think 
that  the  same  talents  and  application 
which  raised  Lord  Mansfield  to  the 
highest  honour  of  the  gown,  would, 
had  they  been  turned  to  the  study  of 
poetry,  have  raised  him  to  as  high  a 
position  in  the  catalogue  of  our  poets. 
Tis  pretty  enough  when  told  in 
verse — 

"  How  many  an  Ovid  was  in  Marniy 

loat;" 

yet  we  are  inclined  to  think  that 
there  is  very  little  in  it,  and  that 
Wordsworth  is  nearer  the  mark,  who 
says  of  self-communing  and  unre- 
corded men, — 

"  Ob,  many  are  the  poets  that  are  sown 
By  Nature ;  men  endowed  with  highest 

gifts, 
The  vision  and  the  facuhy  dWine, 
Yet     wanting    the    accomplishment    of 

verse." 


But  this  one  word  "  accomplishment" 
implies  a  good  deal  more  than  mere 
dexterity  and  ease — culture  and  the 
inspiring  aid  of  books, 

*'  Paasos,    cadence,    and    well-voweird 

words, 
And  all  the  graces  a  good  ear  affords." 

For  words  are  in  poetry  what  colours 
are  in  painting,  and  the  music  of 
numbers  is  not  to  be  matched  or 
done  without.  Look  at  Donne. 
Would  not  Donne*s  Satires,  which 
abound  with  so  much  wit,  appear 
more  charming  if  he  had  taken  care 
of  his  words  and  of  his  numbers? 
Whereas  his  verse  is  now — ^if  verse  it 
may  be  called — 

"  A  kind  of  bohbling  prose, 
Which  limps  along  and  tinkles  in  the 
close." 

There  goes  much  more  to  the  compo- 
sition of  even  a  third-rate  poet  than 
rhymesters  at  first  are  wilhng  to  al- 
low, for  to  nature,  exercise,  imitation, 
study,  art  must  be  added  to  make 
all   these    perfect, — •vn   ^v^n   txam 

pvTn  xi«ri/«iy)i— AVithout  art  nature 
can  never  be  perfect,  and  without 
nature  art  can  daim  no  being. 

One  of  BoswelFs  recorded  conver- 
sations with, the  great  h^ro  of  his 


admiration  was  on  the  subject  of  a 
collection  being  made  of  all  the 
poems  of  all  the  English  poets  who 
nad  published  a  volume  of  poems. 

"  Johnson  told  me,"  he  says,  "  that  a 
Mr.  Coxeter,  whom  he  knew,  had  gone 
the  greatest  length  towards  this,  having 
collected  about  500  volumes  of  poets 
whose  works  were  little  known  ;  but  that 
upon  his  death  l*om  Osborne  bought 
them,  and  they  were  dispersed,  which  he 
thought  a  pity,  as  it  was  curious  to  see 
any  series  complete,  and  in  every  voluma 
ofpoemt  something  good  may  be  found" 

This  was  a  kindly  criticism,  ut- 
tered in  the  good  nature  of  an  easy 
moment,  hardly  applicable   to   the 
volumes  of  verse  we  see  published 
now.    Surely  there  are  many  put 
forth  without  a  redeeming  stanza  or 
passage  to  atone  for  the  dry  desert  of 
a  thousand  lines  through  which  the 
critic  is  doomed  to  wander  in  quest 
of  beauties  which  he  fain  would  find. 
Surely  Coxeter*s  collection  contained 
a  very  large  number  of  one-idea'd 
volumes!     We  could  have  helped 
him  from  our  own  shelves  to  a  very 
fair  collection  of  verse  printed  before 
1747,  when  this  "curious"  collector 
died,  full  of  the  most  trivial  nothing- 
nesses.   For  a  little  volume  of  verse 
of  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  said 
to  be  unique,  or  nearly  so,  Mr.  Miller 
has  been   known   to   give    twenty 
ffuineas  or  more,  and  think  himself 
lucky  that  he  has  been  let  off  thiis 
easily.    Some  of  these  twenty- guinea 
volumes  we  have  had  the  curiosity  to 
look  into.     Poetry  there  is  none; 
nothing  more,  indeed,  than  the  mere 
similitude  of  verse.    Songs,  differing^ 
from  sonnets  because  the  lines  arc   \^^ 
shorter,  and  sonnets,  only  to  be  re-, 
cognised  .as  such  from  the  fourteen; 
lines  which  the  writer,  in  compliance  j  \ 
with  custom,  has  prudently  confined)  "^ 
them  to. 

"  Authors,  like  coins,  grow  dear  as  they 

grow  old ; 
It  is  the  rust  we  value,  not  the  goId»" 

It  is  curious,  however,  to  sec  any 
collection  complete ;  and  Mr.  Miller 
is  to  be  praised  for  his  unceasing 
endeavours  to  make  his  collection  of 
English  poetry  (literally  so  called) 
as  complete  as  possible. 


\' 


Selden's  Table-Tolkn 


TOL.  XXZm.  210.  CXGVIII, 


3a 


Pait  and  Present  Condition  qf  British  Poetry.       [Jum, 


712 

The  poet  of  tbe  IrUh  Melodia 
made  an  abeervation  jthea  at  Ab- 
botaford,  too  curiouB  to  be  paned 
over  in  a  paper  of  this  descnption, 
wbeD  we  consideT  tbe  merit  of  tbe 
remark  itaelf,  the  rank  of  the  poet 
who  made  it,  and  the  reputatioa  of 
the  poet  who  responded  to  its  truth  :— 

"Hardly  a  magazine  ia  now  pub- 
lished," said  Moore,  "  that  does  not 
contain  verses  which,  some  thirty 
years  aso,  would  have  made  a  repu- 
tation.'*^ 

Scott  turned  with  a  look  of  shrewd 
humour  on  his  friend,  aa  if  chuckling 
over  his  own  snccesa,  and  said, — 

"  Ecod,  we  were  in  the  luck  of  it 
to  come  before  these  fellows!"  and 
added,  playfully  flonrishing  his  stick 
ae  he  spoke,  "  we  have,  like  Boabdil, 
taught  them  to  beat  us  at  our  own 
w(^ns." 

There  cannot  be  a  doubt  but  that 
the  poetry  of  the  present  day  is  of 
that  mediocre  level  of  dewriptlon 
which  neither  pleases  nor  ofTenda ; 
and  that  much  of  it,  if  published 
sixty  years  ago,  or  even  thirty  years 
ago,  would  have  secured  for  more 
than  one  writer  a  hi^h  reputation  at 
the  time,  and  possibly  a  place  in 
Chalmers'  collected  edition  of  our 
Briliih  Poets.  Such  a  reputation  as 
Miss  Seward  achieved,  or  Ilayley, 
or  Oram,  or  Headley,  or  Hurdis : — 

"  Fame  thsn  wai  cbsap,  aad  the   litat 

coolers  iped ; 
And  they  hsFe  kept  it  Bince  bj  being 

dead,"— Dryden. 

There  wat  a  time  when  a  single 
poem,  nay,  a  decent  epi(p«m,  pro- 
cured a  niche  for  its  writer  in  the 
temple  of  our  poetry ;    but    these 
times  are  ^ue  by,  inundated  as  we 
erses  of  one  particular 
aa  flat  as  the  waste  of 
md  equally  unprofit- 
the  poet,  ambitious  of 
on  in  our  letters,  must 
omething  that  is  com- 
and  there,  as  Seott 
rest  the  only  chance 
]  reputation, 
become  an  easy  art, 


mitation  of  the  great 


poet  of  iua  time.  Tene  bu  beramt 
an  extempore  kind  of  ait,  t  thlag  to 
be  aasoroed  when  wanted;  ind 
O'Connell  can  throw  off  at  a  hat  a 
clever  parody  upon  Dryden's  (uwras 
epigram;  as  if,  like  Theodore  Hook, 

the  art  of  happy  u 
the  bulk  of  the  so-called  poetry  of 
the  present  day — "nonsMue,  b-cU 
tuned  and  sweet  stupidity"— ii  in- 
jurious to  a  proper  estiinalian  of 
the  true-born  poets  who  still  eiist, 
there  cannot  be  a  doubt;  that  it 
is  injurious,  moreover,  to  the  ad- 
vancement of  poetfy  among  u^  is, 
I  think,  equally  the  case.  Poetry, 
in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word,  ms 
never  tetter  understood,  tbough 
never,  perhaps,  less  cultivated  tbia 
it  is  now.  Criticism  has  taken  a  h^h 
stand ;  and  when  the  ra^  for  chyme 
has  fairly  exhausted  itself,  natnw 
will  revive  among  us,  and  we  shsU 
have  a  new  race  of  poets  to  opbold,  if 
not  to  eclipse,  the  glories  of  the  old- 
There  are  many  still  among  us  to 
repeat  without  any  kind  of  braggart 
in  their  blood : — 
"  O  if  my  ICDiples  were  diitain'd  rill' 

And  girt  in  girlonda  of  wAAe  yit  ""«■ 
How  could  I  roars  the  Mu-e  on  iWwIj 

And  tticb  fan  tread  slad  in  buitin  (»«, 
tVith  queint  Bellona  in  her  eqiriptf ' 

When  poetry  was  all  but  extiwl 
among  us,  Cowper  and  Bums  came 
forward  to  revive  the  drooptng  Muk. 
and  shew  us,  onmistakeably  enougD, 
that  men  and  studies  may  decay,  '"'I 
Nature  never  dies. 

There  is  little  reasou  to  suppose 
that  the  great  poet  of  the  Exnr»^' 
is  likely  to  remain  more  than  »  «" 
years  among  us ;  for  though,  thank 
God,  in  health  and  vigour,  and  " 
fond  of  poetry  as  ever,  he  has  onl- 
lived  bv  the  period  of  an  apprenOM- 
ship,  tne  threescore  yean  and  ^' 
the  Scriptural  limitation  of  the  ji« 
of  man.  "When  WordiwWlb  di«, 
there  will  be  a  new  Session  of  Ibf 
poets  for  the  office  of  poet-Unte»'5' 
To  whom  will  the  lord-ehamberhun 
assign  the  laurel,  honoured  and""' 
gra«d  by  a  variety  ofweaiera'  ■*" 
whom  wdl  the  unsbom  deity  s*'*' 
it  ?  There  may  be  a  diffeceiKe  of 
opinion  between  the  poet's  CuA  »■" 


1846.]        Past  and  Present  Condiiion  of  British  Poetry. 


713 


the  court  lord^amberkm ;  there 
have  been  diifisreoees  heretofore,  or 
else  Shadwell  and  Tate,  Eusden  and 
Gibber,  Whitehead  wad  P^e,  had 
never  sueeeeded  to  the  Uiareb  of 
famous  Ben  Jonson   and   gloriooB 

I  John  Dryden.  Who  are  your  young 
and  our  rising  poets  likely  to  become 
claimants,  and  to  hare  their  ease 
considered  by  PhoehnsApoHo  m  the 
new  session  ne  must  summon  before 
very  long  ? — 

"  A  session  was  heH  the  other  day, 
And  Apollo  himself  was  at  it,  they  say  ; 
The  laurel  that  had  been  so  long  reserved. 
Was  now  to  be  given  to  him  best  de- 
served." 


And, 

Therefore,  the  wits  of  the  temi 

thither, 
'T  was  stfaage  to  see  how  they  flock 'd 

together; 
£seh  strongly  confident  of  his  own  way. 
Thought  to  carry  the  hmrel  awsv  that 

day." 

How  Sucklinff  would  put  them  for- 
ward, we  must  leaye  to  the  fancy  of 
the  reader.  We  can  do  very  little 
more  than  enumerate  the  names  of 
candidates  likely  to  be  present  on  the 
occasion.  We  can  conceive  their  entry 
somewhat  after  the  following  manner. 
A  herald,  followed  hjr  an  attendant 
with  a  tray  of  epics  from  Nineveh  at 
twelve  shillings  to  Orion  at  a  far- 
thing, and  the  authors  arranged  pretty 
nearly  as  follows : — Atherstone  first 
(as  the  favourite  poet  of  Lord  Jeffrey's 
later  lucubrations);  Robert  Mont- 
gomery, 2;  Ueraud,  3;  Read,  4; 
Home,  5  ;  and  Ben  Disraeli,  6.  To 
the  epic  portion  of  the  candidates  the 
dramatists  will  succeed,  fresh  from 
Sadler's  Wells  and  the  Surrey,  and 
led  by  Talfourd  and  Bulwer,  and 
followed  by  Mr.  Marston,  Mr.  Trow- 
ton,  Mr.  Henry  Taylor,  Sir  Coutts 
Lindsay,  Mr.  Sulivan  and  Mr. 
Spicer;  Jerrold  representing  comedy, 
without  a  fellow  to  rival  or  support 
hhu.  Then  will  follow  the  ballad- 
writers  ;  Macaulay  by  hhaeelf,  and 
Smytfae  and  Lord  John  Manners 
walking  like  the  Babes  in  the  Wood 
together.  To  the  trio  will  succeed 
Alfred  Tennyson  and  Robert  Brown- 
ing, Monckton  Milnes,  Charles  Mac- 
kay,  and  Coventry  Patmore,  followed 
by  a  galaxy  of  ladies  for  the  eallery, 
led  by  Mrs.  Norton  and  Miss  Bocrett ; 


with  Camilla  Toulmin,  with  a  buneh 
of  flowers;  Frances  Brown,  ¥dth  a 
number  of  the  Aikenaum;  £liza 
Cook,  with  Mr.  Cayley*s  commenda- 
tion ;  Miss  Costello,  with  a  Persian 
rose;  and  Mrs.  Ogilvy,  with  her 
quarto  volume  of  minstrel^  fh>m 
the  North.  We  can  fhncy  Apollo's 
confusion  at  tlK  number ;  and  should 
in  some  meaeure  be  inclined  to  abide 
by  his  opinion,  should  he  give  the 
laurel  at  the  end,  as  Suckling  has 
made  him,  to  an  alderman  of  Lon- 
don : 


I 


"  He  openly  declared  that  \  was  the  best 

sign 
Of  gocwl  store  of  wit  to  have  good  store 

of  coin; 
And  without  a  syllable  more  or  less  saidi 
He  put  the  laurel  on  the    alderman's 

head. 

At  this  all  the  wits  were  in  such  a  maze, 
That  for  a  good  while  they  did  nothin  ^ 

but  gaze 
One  upon  another,  not  a  man  in  the  place 
But  had  discontent  writ  iu  great  in  his 

face/' 

"  Only,'*  and  how  admirable  the  wit 
is: — 

"  Only  the  small  poets  cleared  up  again, 

Out  of  hope,  as  'twas  thought,  of  borrow- 
ing ; 

But  sure  they  were  out,  for  he  forfeits 
his  crown. 

When  he  lends  any  poet  about  the  town.*' 

"  O  rare  Sir  John  Suckling !" 
Is  Alfred  Tennyson  a  poet  ?  Ilis 
merits  divide  the  critics.  With  some 
people  he  is  every  thhig,  with  others 
he  18  little  or  nothing.  Betwixt  the 
extremes  of  admiration  and  malice,  it 
is  hard  to  judffe  uprightly  of  the 
living.  The  zeal  of  his  friends  is  too 
excessive  to  be  prudent,  the  indif- 
ference of  his  enemies  too  studied  to 
be  sincere.  He  is  unquestionably  a 
poet,  in  thought,  language,  and  iu 
numbers.  But  the  New  Timou  tells 
us  he  is  not  a  poet ;  Feel  tells  us  that 
he  IB,  and  gives  him  a  penuon  a£ 
2001.  a-year  to  raise  him  above  the 
exigencies  of  the  world.  But  the 
satirist  has  dropped  his  condemnation 
from  the  third  edition  of  his  poem, 
and  the  pension  still  continues  to  be 
paid.  Is  it,  therefore,  deserved?  We 
think  it  is,  not  from  what  Mr.  Ten- 
nyson has  as  yet  performed,  but  what 
he  hw  shewn  himself  capable  o^ 


714  Past  and  Present  Condilion  of  British  Pdetty.       [Junfe, 


forming.  His  poems  are,  in  some 
respects,  an  accession  to  our  literature. 
He  has  the  right  stuff  in  him,  and 
he  may  yet  do  more ;  but  unless  it 
is  better  than  what  he  has  already 
done,  he  had  better  withhold  it.  His 
admirers — and  he  will  never  be 
without "  thefew" — ^will  always  augur 
well  of  after-performances  (though 
never  realised)  from  what  has  gone 
before,  and  attribute  to  indolence 
and  a  pension  what  from  fear  and 
inability  he  was  unable  to  accom- 
plish. His  detractors,  on  the  other 
hand,  will  have  little  to  lay  hold  of; 
they  may  flatter  themselves  with 
having  frishtened  him  into  silence, 
but  their  liking  for  his  verses  will 
warm  as  they  grow  older.  He  has 
nothing,  however,  to  fear,  if  he  writes 
nobly  from  himself,  and  the  Muse 
is  willing  and  consenting.  Great 
works  — 

'  A  work  t*  outwear  Seih's  pillars,  brick 

and  stone. 
And  (Holy  Writ  excepted)  made  to  yield 

to  none." — Da.  Donne. 

appear  too  rarely  to  raise  expectation 
that  this  or  that  person  is  likely  to 
produce  one.  It  is  near  200  years 
since  Milton  began  to  prune  his  wings 
for  the  great  epic  of  his  age  and 
nation;  and  what  has  our  poetry 
produced  since  then  in  any  way  ap- 
proaching what  Milton  accomplished  P 
3luch  that  is  admirable,  and  much 
that  >vill  live  as  long  as  Milton  him- 
self, but  nothing  ot  the  same  stamp, 
for  though  Scott  may  affect  to  spesik 
of  Mattfred  as  a  poem  wherein  Byron 
**  matched  Milton  upon  his  own 
flpround,"  yet  we  all  of  us  pretty  well 
know  otherwise ;  and  that  the  Muse 
of  Byron  is  as  inferior  to  Paradise 
Lost,  as  the  Farmer*s  Boy  to  The 
Seasoiu ;  or  any  of  the  great  drama- 
tists of  the  age  of  Shakspeare  to 
Shakspeare  himself. 

Before  Mr.  Tennyson  tries  the 
temper  of  the  public  for  a  third  time 
^which  we  hope  he  will  do,  and  be- 
iore  verv  many  years   go  by),    it 

«hoves  nim  to  consider  the  structure 
^is  verse  and  the  pauses  of  his 
*bers  a  little  more  maturely  than 
>s  hitherto  done.     It  behoves 
noreover,  to  rub  off  a  few  af- 
ons  of  style,  the  besetting  sin 


of  too  many  of  his  veraes,  and  too 
often  mistaken,  bv  the  young  especi- 
ally, for  one  of  the  marks  of  origin- 
ality, and  not  for  what  it  is  —one  of 
its  peculiarities ;  and,  what  is  more, 
a  verv  bad  peculiarity  both  in  matter 
and  in  manner.  Coleridge  under- 
stood the  deficiencies  of  Mr.  Tenny- 
son's Muse  when  he  uttered  the  fol- 
lowing capital  criticism  upon  him:— 

*'  I  have  not  read  through  all  Mr. 
Teooyaon's  poems,  which  hare  been  Kot 
to  me ;  but  I  think  there  are  some  thioga 
of  a  good  deal  of  beauty  in  that  I  have 
seen.  The  misfottune  is,  that  he  bu 
begun  to  write  veraea  without  wvj  well 
understanding  what  metre  ia.  Eren  if 
you  write  in  a  known  and  approred  metre, 
the  odda  are,  if  you  are  not  a  metrist 
youraelf,  that  you  will  not  write  hirmo- 
nioua  veraes  ;  but  to  deal  in  new  metres 
without  conaidering  what  metre  meani 
and  lequirea,  ia  prepoateroua.  What  I 
would,  with  many  wiahea  of  auccen, 
preacribe  to  Tennyaon— indeed  without 
it  he  can  never  be  a  poet  in  art— ia  to 
write  for  the  next  two  or  three  yean  » 
none  but  one  or  two  well-kDOira  ina 
Btrictly-defined  metres ;  auchaa  ihe  heroic 
couplet,  the  octave  stanza,  or  the  wto- 
ayllabic  meaaure  of  the  Allegro  and/'M- 
tertno.  He  would  probably  thua  get  im- 
bued with  a  aensation,  if  not  a  senac,  of 
metre  without  knowing  it,  just  aa  Em 
boya  get  to  write  such  good  Latin  Terse* 
by  conning  Ovid  and  Tibullua.  As  U  w, 
1  can  acarcely  acau  some  of  his  verses. 

This  is  something  more  t^a^* 
clever  criticism  on  the  Muse  of  ^. 
Tennyson;  it  is  a  most  admirable 
piete  of  advice,  and  deserves  to  be 
rcmemhered.  Tennyson,  and  Brown- 
ing, and  Miss  Barrett,  should  act 
upon  it  forthwith;  they  would  im- 

Erove  their  numhers  very  materially 
y  such  an  exercise  of  their  cars. 
Ck)leridge's  own  poetry  is  a  lasting 
exemplification  of  the  rhythmical 
charms  of  English  verse.  He  ncTcr 
ofiends  you— ie  always  pleases:^ 

"  His  musical  iineaae  was  sucbi 
So  nice  hia  ear,  ao  delicate  hia  touch, 

that  every  verse  he  wrote  will  satisfy 
the  ear  and  satisfy  the  fingers. 

A  second  critic  of  distinction  v/io 
has  passed  jud^mnt  on  Mr.  a«°' 
nyson  is  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  always  an 
agreeahle  and  not  unfrequentiy  ^ 
safe  critic  to  ahide  hy : — 


.vt-; 


Table»TaIk»  p.  9ft$. 


1 846.]        Past  and  Present  Condition  of  British  Poetry.  715 


**  Alfred  Tennyson/'  writes  Mr.  Hunt, 
"  is  of  tlie  school  of  Keats ;  that  is  to 
say,  it  is  difficult  not  to  see  that  Rests 
has  been  a  great  deal  in  his  thoughts ; 
I  and  that  he  delights  in  the  same  brooding 
over  his  sensations,  and  the  same  melo- 
dious enjoyment  of  their  expression.  In 
his  desire  to  communicate  this  music  he 
goes  so  far  as  to  accent  the  final  syllables 
in  his  participles  passive;  as  pleached, 
crowD6d,purple.spik6d,&c. ;  with  risible 
printer's  marVs,  which  subjects  him  but 
erroneously  to  a  charge  of  pedantry ; 
though  it  is  a  nicety  not  complimentary 
to  the  reader,  and  of  which  be  may  as 
well  get  rid.  Much,  however,  as  he  re- 
minds us  of  Keats,  his  genius  is  his  own. 
He  would  have  written  poetry,  had  his 
precursor  written  none ;  and  be  has  also  \ 
a  vein  of  metaph3rsical  subtlety,  in  which  I 
the  other  did  not  indulge,  as  may  be  seen  ^ 
by  his  verses  entitled  '  A  Character,' 
those  '  On  the  Confessions  of  a  Sensitive 
Mind,'  and  numerous  others.  He  is 
also  a  great  lover  of  a  certain  home  kind 
of  landscape,  which  he  delights  to  paint 
with  a  minuteness  that  in  *  The  Moated 
Grange'  becomes  affecting ;  and,  in 
'  The  Miller's  Daughter,'  would  remind 
u«  of  the  Dutch  school,  if  it  were  not 
mixed  up  with  the  same  deep  feeling^, 
varied  with  a  pleasant  joviality.  Mr. 
Tennyson  has  yet  given  no  such  evidence 
of  sustained  and  broad  power  as  that  of 
'  Hyperion,'  nor  even  of  such  gentler 
narrative  as  the  '  Eve  of  St.  Agnes/ 
and  the  poem  of  '  Lamia'  and  '  Isa- 
bella,' but  the  materials  of  the  noblest 
poetry  are  abundant  in  bim."* 

This  is  criticism  in  full  accordance 
with  the  kindlier  sympathies  of  our 
own  nature ;  but  much  of  the  weight 
and  yalue  of  it  must  depend  on  the 
rank  the  reader  is  willing  to  assign 
to  Mr.  Keats.  It  is,  however,  in- 
tended as  a  yery  hi^h  encomium; 
Mr.  Hunt  appropriatmg  a  place  in 
our  poetry  to  Keats  whicn  I  am 
afraid  he  will  find  very  few  willing 
to  concede  to  him. 

Our  poetrjr  is  in  a  very  sorry  kind 
of  plight  if  it  has  to  depend  upon 
Tennyson  and  Browning  for  the 
hereditary  honours  of  its  existence. 
The  Examiner  will  tell  us  "  No  I*' 
The  Athenaum  will  do  the  same; 
papers  remarkable  for  the  vigour 
of  their  articles,  the  excellence  of 
their  occasional  criticism,  and  the 
general  asperity  of  their  manner. 
A  page  out  of  every  ten  in  Her- 


rick's  "  Hesperides*'  is  more  cer- 
tain of  an  hereafter  than  any  one 
dramatic  romance  or  lyric  in  all 
the  ^^  Bells  and  Pomegranates*'  of 
Mr.  Browning.  Not  but  what  Mr. 
Browning  is  a  poet.  He  is  unques- 
tionably a  poet ;  but  his  subject  has 
not  unirequently  to  bear  the  weight 
of  sentiments  which  spring  not  na- 
turally from  it,  and  his  numbers  at 
times  are  overlaid  with  affectation, 
the  common  conceit  of  men  who 
affect  to  tell  common  thincs  in  an 
uncommon  manner.  He  dogs  his 
verses,  moreover,  with  too  many  con- 
sonants and  too  many  monosyllables, 
and  carries  the  sense  too  frequently 
in  a  very  ungraceful  manner  from 
one  line  to  the  other.  Here  is  a 
passage  from  the  seventh  number  of 
nis  *^  Bells  and  Pomegranates,"  which 
it  really  is  a  torture  to  read : — 

"  But  to-day  not  a  boat  reached  Salerno, 

So  back  to  a  man 
Came  our  friends,  with  whose  help  in  the 
vineyards 

Grape  harvest  began : 
In  the  vat  half-way  up  in  our  house-side. 

Like  blood  the  juice  spins, 
While  your  brother  aU  bare-legged  is 
dancing 

Till  breathless  he  g^ns, 
Dead-beateo,  in  effort  on  effort 

To  keep  the  grapes  under , 
For  still  when  be  seems  all  but  master. 

In  pours  the  fresh  plunder 
From  girls  who  keep  coming  and  going 

Witn  basket  on  shoulder. 
And  eyes  shut  against  the  rain's  driving. 

Your  girls  that  are  older, — 
For  under  the  hedges  of  aloe. 

And  where,  ou  its  bed 
Of  the  orchard's  black  mould,  the  love- 
apple 

Lies  pulpy  and  red. 
All   the  young  ones  are  kneeling  and 
filUng 

Their  laps  with  the  snails 
Tempted  out  by  the  6rst  rainy  weather,— 

Your  best  of  regales. 
As  to-night  will  be  proved  to  my  sorrow. 

When,  supping  in  state. 
We  shall  feast  our  grape-gleaners— two 
dozen, 

Three  over  one  plate, — 
Macaroni  so  tempting  to  swallow 

In  slippery  strings. 
And  gourds  fried  in  great  purple  slices. 

That  colour  of  kings,—. 
Meantime,  see  the  grape-bunch  they've 
brought  you ! 


^  Bqo](  of  Gems,  p.  274, 


7iri 


Past  and  Present  ContUiUm  of  British  Poetry.      [Juw, 


The  rain-water  slips 
O'er  the  heavy  blae  oloom  on  esch  globe 

Which  the  wasp  to  your  lips 
Still  follows  with  fretful  persistence.. 

Nay,  taste  while  awake, 
This  half  of  a  curd- white  smooth  cheese- 
ball. 

That  peels,  flake  by  flake. 
Like  an  onion's  each  smoother  and  whiter  f 

Next  sip  this  weak  wine 
From  the  thin  green  glass  flask,  with  its 
stopper, 

A  leaf  of  the  vine,.. 
And  end  with  the  prickl^^pear's  rod  flesh. 

That  leaves  through  its  juice 
The  stony  black  seeds  on  your  pearl^ifieth 

.    .     .    Scirocco  is  loose ! 
Hark  !  the  quick  pelt  of  the  olives 

Which,  thick  in  one's  track. 
Tempt  the  stranger  to  pick  up  and  bite 
them, 

Though  not  yet  half  black  ! 
And  how  their  old  twisted  trunks  shud- 
der! 

The  medlars  let  fall 
Their  bard  fruit;   the  brittle  great  fig- 
trees 

Snap  ofi;  figs  and  all ; 
For  here  comes  the  whole  of  the  tempest ! 

No  refuge  but  creep 
Back  again  to  my  side  or  my  shovlder, 

And  listen  or  aleep." 

This  may  be  poetry,  but  it  is 
poetry  in  the  ntw  nmterud ;  fbr  the 
numMrs  are  those  of  a  scnumel  pipe, 
and  such  as  Cadmus  alone  could 
pronounce  when  in  the  state  of  a 
serpent.  This  which  follows  is  the 
mere  twaddle  of  a  Cockney  at  Calais 
or  Cologne :  — 

"  Home^Thoughtsfrom  Abrwid, 

*'  Oh,  to  be  in  England, 

Now  that  April's  there, 
A  nd  who  wakes  in  England 

Sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 
That  the  lowegt  boughs  and  the  brush- 
wood sheaf 
Hound  the  elm.tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf. 
While  the  chafiinch  sings  on  the  orchard 

bough 
In  England— now ! 

And  after  April,  when  Mav  follows, 
And  the  whiterhroat  builds,  md  all  the 

swallows- 
Hark  !  where  my  blossom'd  pear-tree  in 
the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the 
clover 
*i  and  dewdrops,  at  the   bent 

■ay'«  ^fSP^ 

the  wise  thrash  ;  he  sings  each 
ig  twice  over, 

hottld  ihink  he  B»ver  could  re* 
»ture 
Jne  careless  rapture ! 


And  though  the  fi«lds  are  roogh  widi 

hoary  dew, 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakss 

anew 
The  buttercups,  tbelittle  children's  dower, 
Far   brighter  than  this  gwdy  acksa- 

flo««r!" 

This  is  very  ii^brior  to  AmbroBe 
Philips,  who  acquired  the  diBtiQetio& 
of  Namby  Pamby  for  similir  vene, 
e.g,  his  "•  Lines  to  CuaoBi,**  whieh 
Charies  Lamb  had  got  by  heirt 
Here  is  something  ininitely  better, 
and  by  a  living  poet,  one  of  the 
props  our  poetiy  aepends  on,  and  a 
member  oi  parliament  withal— Mr. 
Bichaid  Monckton  Milnes :  ~ 

«'  The  Violet  CirL 

"  When  fanc^  will  cootinuslly  lebeans 
Some  painuil  scene  once  present  to  tbe 

'Tis  well  to  naottld  it  mto  gentle  verse. 
That  it  may  lighter  on  the  spirit  lie. 

Home  yestern  eve  I  wearily  returned, 
Though  bright  my  morning  mood  ssd 
Uioit  my  way,  ^^ 

But  sad  experience  m  one  moment  esmM, 
Can  crush  the  heap'd  enjoymeoto  of 
the  day. 

Passing  the  comer  of  a  populous  street, 

I  mark'd  a  girl  whose  wont  it  wa  to 

standi 

With  paUid  cheek,  torn  gown,  and  atW 

fe«t,  - 

And  bunches  of  fieah  violets  ui  etch 

hand. 

There  her  smadl  oommerce  in  the  chill 

March  weather  ., , 

She  pUed  with  acoents  miserably  mdd ; 

It  was  a  frightful  thought  to  set  together 

Those    blooming   blossoms  sod  tbtt 

fading  child. 

Those  -IttZttries  and  largess  of  the  esrtb, 
Beauty  and  pleMure  to  the  sesie  oi 
man,  ^^. 

And  this  poor  sorry  weed  cs»t  loosely 
forth  ., 

On  Ufe's  wild  waste  to  stm^Je  ts  it 
can  t 

To  tM  that  odorous  purple  miaisten  . 
Hope-benag  snesMries  ttd  imfi^ 

'While  meanest  inagea  nlMie  afe  MrK» 
The  Mtdid  wmIs  of  baae  humaXy- 


Think  aAer  all  thia  lapse  ofhnngry  hooft. 

In  the  disfomish'd  chanlber  of  diB 

cold. 

How  aha  must  loathe  the  veiy 

flowers 

That  on  the  squalid  table  lie  aniold 


1 846.]        Past  and  Present  Condition  of  British  Poetry.  7 1 7 


Rest  on  your  woodland  banks  and  vrither 
there, 

Sweet  preluders  of  spring !  far  better  so. 
Than  lire  misused  to  611  the  grasp  of  care. 

And  serye  the  piteous  purposes  of  woe. 

Ye  are  no  longer  Nature's  gracious  gift. 
Yourselves  so  much  and  harbingers  of 
more,  . 

But  a  most  bitter  irony  to  lift 

The  veil  that  hides  our  vilest  mortal 


sore. 

Si  sic  omnia  dixisset  I  This  is 
poetry  in  all  languases;  it  is  like 
mercury,  never  to  be  lost  or  killed. 

There  is  a  passage  in  one  of  Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montague*8  letters  to 
her  daughter  which  still  continues  to 
excite  a  smile  on  the  lips  of  every 
reader, — 

"  The  study  of  English  poetrv  is  a 
more  important  port  of  a  woman  s  edu- 
cation than  it  is  generally  supposed. 
Many  a  young  damsel  has  been  ruined  by 
a  fine  copy  of  verses,  which  she  would 
have  laughed  at  if  she  had  known  it  had 
been  sloleo  from  Mr.  Waller.  1  remem- 
her,  when  I  was  a  girl,  X  saved  one  of 
my  companions  from  destruction,  who 
communicated  to  me  an  epistle  she  was 
quite  charmed  with.  As  she  had  natu- 
rally a  good  taste,  she  observed  the  lines 
were  not  so  smooth  as  Prior's  or  Pope's, 
but  had  more  thought  and  spirit  than  any 
of  theirs .  She  was  wonderfully  delighted 
with  such  a  demonstration  of  her  lover's 
sense  and  passion,  and  not  a  little  pleased 
with  her  own  charms  that  had  force 
enough  to  inspire  such  elegancies.  In 
this  triumph  X  sliewed  her  that  they 
were  taken  from  Randolph's  poems,  and 
the  unfortunate  transcriber  was  dismissed 
with  the  scorn  he  deserved."* 

The  reason  assigned  for  the  study 
of  English  poetry  by  English  ladies, 
is  truly  characteristic  of  Lady  Mar^ 
and  of  the  female  mind.  A  lady  is 
to  read  through  every  volume  of 
verse,  and  remember  what  she  reads, 
to  see  that  her  lover  writes  his  own 
valentine.  Ye  gods,  should  one 
swear  to  the  truth  of  a  song!  If  a 
woman  will  marry  a  poet,  she  had 
better  ffo  through  the  course  of  study 
Ladjr  Mary  recommends.  Not  that 
she  IS  safe  to  secure  a  poet- to  herself 
afler  a  veiy  long  life  of  study.  How 
few  read  Randolph,  and  yet  he  is  a 
very  fine  poet.  Lady  Mary  might 
have  taken  a  copy  of  verses  from 


Randolph  to  every  female  writer  of 
the  day,  and  passed  them  off  for  the 
production  or  a  young,  a  handsome, 
and  a  rising  writer,  and  no  one  would 
have  set  her  right,  or  detected  the 
imposition  that  was  passed  upon  her. 
We  are  afraid  we  must  recommend 
the  study  of  our  early  English  poets 
to  Ei^lish  ladies  on  some  other 
ground  than  the  chance  detection  (^ 
a  lover  pleading  his  passion  in  the 
poetry  of  another  under  pretence  of 
Its  being  his  own.  Not  that  we  have 
any  {>articular  predilection  for  *'  ro- 
mancical  ladies,"  as  the  dear  old 
Duchess  of  Newcastle  calls  them, 
or  girls  with  their  heads  stuffed  full 
of  passionate  passages ;  but  we  should 
like  to  see  a  more  prevalent  taste  for 
what  is  good,  for  poetry  that  is  really 
excellent ;  and  this  we  feel  assured  is 
only  to  be  effected  by  a  careful  con- 
sideration of  our  elder  poets,  who 
have  always  abundance  of  meaning 
in  them.  It  is  no  use  telling  young 
ladies  that  Mr.  Bunn's  poetry  is  not 
poetry,  but  only  something  that  looks 
very  like  it  and  reads  very  unlike  it : 
The  words  run  sweetly  to  the  piano ; 
there  is  a  kind  of  pretty  meaning  in 
what  they  convey,  and  the  music  is 
pleasing.  What  more  would  you 
want?  Why  every  thing.  ^  but 
then,  as  we  once  heard  a  young  lady 
remark  with  great  good  sense  and 
candour  (and  her  beauty  gave  an 
additional  relish  to  what  she  said), 
these  unmeaning  songs  are  so  much 
easier  to  sing.  Your  fine  old  songs, 
so  full  of  poetry  and  feeling,  require 
a  similar  feeling  in  the  singer,  and 
young  ladies  are  too  frequently  only 
sentimental,  and  not  equal  to  the 
task  of  doing  justice  to  passionate 
poetry  conveyed  in  music  equally 
passionate,  and  where  they  can  do 
justice  to  it  they  refuse  because  it 
18  not  fashionable  to  be  passionate, 
and  it  really  disturbs  and  disorders 
one  to  be  so,  and  in  mixed  society, 
"  above  all." 

It  cannot  be  concealed  that  we 
have  never  been  so  well  off  for  lady- 
poets  as  we  are  at  present.  Only 
run  the  eye  over  Mr.  Dyoe*8  octavo 
volume  of  Specimens  ofJaritUh  Poet- 
esses^ and  compare  the  numerical 
excellencies  of  tne  past  with  the  nu- 
merous productions  of  the  present 


*  Letters  bj  Lord  VVhamcliffe,  Sd  edit.  iii.  44. 


7 1 8  Past  and  Present  Condition  of  British  Poetry.       [June, 


day !  A  few  specimenB  of  the  elder 
poetesses— such  as  the  "Nocturnal 
Reverie;'  and  "The  Atheist  and  the 
Acorn,"  both  by  the  Countess  of 
Winchelsea,  it  would  be  very  difficult 
to  surpass,  or  even,  perhaps,  to 
equal ;  but  in  the  general  qualifica- 
tions for  poetry,  both  natural  and 
acquired,  the  ladies,  since  Charlotte 
Smith,  far  surpass  thek  female  pre- 
decessors. Mrs.  Norton  is  said  to  be 
the  Byron  of  our  modem  poetesses. 
"  She  has  very  much  of  that  intense 
personal  passion,*'  says  the  Quarterly 
Reviewer,  "  by  which  Byron's  poetry 
is  distinguished  from  the  larger  grasp 
and  deeper  communion  with  man  and 
Nature  of  Wordsworth.  She  has 
also  Byron's  beautiful  iuterA'als  of 
tenderness,  his  strong,  practical 
thought^  and  his  forceAil  expression.*' 
This  is  high  praise.  "  Let  us  sug- 
gest, however,"  says  the  Athenamm^ 
"  that,  in  the  present  state  of  critical 
opinion,  the  compliment  is  somewhat 
equivocal,  it  bemg  hard  to  decide 
whether  it  implies  a  merit  or  a  de- 
fect." If  Mrs.  Norton  is  an  emi- 
nently thoughtful  writer.  Miss  Bar- 
rett is  still  more  so.  She  is  the  most 
learned  of  our  lady-writers,  reads 
.Sschylus  and  Euripides  in  the  ori- 
ginals with  the  ease  of  Forson  or  of 
Parr,  yet  relies  upon  her  own  mother- 
wit  and  feelings  when  she  writes, — 

"  Nor  with  Ben  Jonson  will  make  bold 
To  plunder  nil  the  Roman  stores 
Of  poets  and  of  oratorsit." 

If  Mrs.  Norton  is  the  Byron,  Mrs. 
Southey  is  said  to  be  the  Cowper  of 
our  modem  poetesses.  But  it  would 
be  idle  to  prolong  compansons. 
Wliatever  we  may  think  of  our  living 
poets,  we  have  every  reason  to  be 
proud  of  our  living  poetesses. 

We  will  conclude  with  an  anec- 
dote. A  charming  article  appeared 
about  six  years  ago  in  the  Qmrterly 
Review^  entitled  "Modem  English 
Poetesses."  It  was  written,  we  be- 
lieve, by  the  late  Henry  Nelson 
Coleridffe,  and  is  full  of  cautious 
but  kindly  criticism.  The  conclusion 
is  worth  quotation  :— 


*'  Meleager  boand  up  bis  poeU  in  a 
wreiitb.  if  we  did  the  same,  what  flowers 
would  suit  our  tuneful  line  t 

1.  Mrs.  Norton  would  bo  the  Ru$e,  or, 
if  she  like  it,  Lo»e  Ueta  UUeding, 

9,  Miss  Barrett  must  he  GrtA  Ta- 
terian  or  Laddir  ta  Heaven,  or,  if  she 
pleases.  Wild  Angelka, 

3.  Maria  del  Occidente  is  a  Fassiattm 
Flower  confessed. 

4.  Irene  waa  Grau  of  Parnastut,  or 
sometimes  a  Roman  Nettie, 

5.  Lady  Emmeline  is  a  Magnolia 
Grandifiora,  and  a  Croevii  too. 

6.  Mrs.  Southey  is  a  Meadow  Sage,  or 
Small  Teatel, 

7.  Ilie  classical  nymph  of  Exeter  is  a 
Blue  Belle. 

8.  V.  is  a  Violet,  with  heclea?es  heart, 
shaped. 

9.  And  the  authoreu  of  '  Phantas- 
mion '  is  Heari't'J^te,** 

The  complimentary  nature  of  the 
criticism  drew  a  world  of  trouble 
upon  John  Murray,  the  well-known 
publisher  of  the  Quarterly,  lie  was 
inundated  with  verse.  Each  of  the 
nine  in  less  than  a  week  offered  him 
a  volume, — some  on  easy  terms,  some 
at  an  advanced  price.  He  received 
letters,  he  received  calls,  and,  worse 
still,  volumes  of  MS.  verse.  But 
the  friendly  character  of  the  cri- 
ticism was  not  confined  in  its  in- 
fluence to  the  nine  reviewed ;  parcels 
of  verse  from  all  parts  of  the  country 
were  sent  to  receive  an  imprimatur 
at  Albemarle  Street.  Some  were 
tied  with  white  tape,  some  were  sewn 
with  violet  riband,  and  a  few,  in  a 
younger  hand,  with  Berlin  wool. 
"  I  wished,"  Mr.  Murray  has  been 
heard  to  relate,  ^'  ten  thousand  times 
over  that  the  article  hod  never  been 
written.  I  had  a  great  deal  of  trou- 
ble with  the  ladies  who  never  ap- 
peai*ed  before ;  and,  while  I  declined 
to  publish  for  the  Nine,  succeeded  in 
flattering  their  vanity  by  assuring 
them  that  they  had  already  done 
enough  for  fame,  having  written  as 
much  or  more  than  CoUms,  Gray,  or 
Goldsmith,  whose  reputations  rested 
on  a  foundation  too  secure  to  be 
disturbed."  This  deserves  to  be  re- 
membered. 


BUCITION  IN  THE  ARMY. 


In  conunoa  nilh  all  rigbt-minded 
penoni,  we  are  gUd  to  perceive  that 
tbe  attention  of  the  public  and  of 
the  goTcmment,  seems  at  length  to 
be  Erected  in  earnest  towards  tbe 
introduction  into  the  army  of  an  im' 
proved  ^tem  of  moral  and  iotellec- 
tnal  discipline.  That  the  arm;  well 
deserves  this  care  for  its  best  interests, 
nobody  who  is  conversant  nith  tbe 
events  of  the  last  half  century  can 
doubt.  Not  to  speak  of  the  im- 
portant service    performed  by  our 


Kt  liim  to  in  tbe  order  of  a  soldier't 
calling  and  duties,  be  will  accomi 
plisb  it,— ay,  and  accomplish  weU 
without  any  previons  training.  Coni 
Eidei  how  our  battalions  are  dissi- 
pated and  scattered  at  home,  and 
narasaed  by  severe  colonial  duty.  S 
is  the  rarest  thing  in  the  world  t< 
find,  except  at  one  or  two  points,  ai 
much  as  a  whole  regiment  of  infantry 
together,  either  in  Great  Britain  oi 
Ireland ;  and  taking  into  account  theil 
progresseB   from  colony  to  colony, 


7 1 8  Past  and  Present  Condition  of  British  Poetry.       [June, 


day  I  A  few  specimens  of  the  elder 
poetesses — ^such  as  the  "Nocturnal 
Reverie,"  and  "The  Atheist  and  the 
Acorn,"  both  by  the  Countess  of 
Winchelsea,  it  would  be  very  difficult 
to  surpass,  or  even,  perhaps,  to 
equal ;  but  in  the  genem  qualifica- 
tions for  poetry,  ^th  natural  and 
acquired,  the  ladies,  since  Charlotte 
Smith,  far  surpass  their  female  pre- 
decessors. Mrs.  Norton  is  said  to  be 
the  Byron  of  our  modem  poetesses. 
"  She  has  very  much  of  that  intense 
personal  passion,*'  says  the  Quarterly 
Keviewer,  "  by  which  Byron's  poetry 
is  distinguished  from  the  larger  grasp 
and  deeper  communion  with  man  and 
Nature  of  Wordsworth.  She  has 
also  Byron's  beautiful  intervals  of 
tenderness,  his  strong,  practical 
thought,  and  his  forceful  expression." 
This  is  high  praise.  "Let  us  sug- 
gest, however,"  says  the  Atheniettm, 
"  that,  in  the  present  state  of  critical 
opinion,  the  compliment  is  somewhat 
equivocal,  it  bcmg  hard  to  decide 
whether  it  implies  a  merit  or  a  de- 
fect." If  Mrs.  Norton  is  an  emi- 
nently thoughtful  writer,  Miss  Bar- 
rett is  still  more  so.  She  is  the  most 
learned  of  our  lady-writers,  reads 
.^chylus  and  Euripides  in  the  ori- 
ginals with  the  ease  of  Porson  or  of 
I'arr,  yet  relies  upon  her  own  mother- 
wit  and  feelings  when  she  writes, — 

"  Nor  with  Ben  Jonson  will  make  bold 
To  plunder  nil  the  Roman  stores 
Of  poets  and  of  orators." 

If  Mrs.  Norton  is  the  Byron,  Mrs. 
Southey  is  said  to  be  the  Cowper  of 
our  modem  poetesses.  But  it  would 
be  idle  to  prolong  comparisons. 
Whatever  we  may  think  of  our  living 
poets,  we  have  every  reason  to  be 
proud  of  our  living  poetesses. 

We  will  conclude  with  an  anec- 
dote. A  charming  article  appeared 
about  six  years  ago  in  the  Quarterly 
Review,  entitled  "Modem  English 
Poetesses."  It  was  written,  we  be- 
lieve, by  the  late  Henry  Nelson 
Coleridge,  and  is  full  of  cautious 
but  kindly  criticism.  The  conclusion 
is  worth  quotation  :— 


"  Meleag^er  bound  up  bis  poets  in  a 
wrentb.  If  we  did  the  same,  w hat  flowers 
would  suit  oar  tuneful  line  t 

1.  Mrs.  Norton  would  be  the  Rvte,  or, 
if  she  like  it.  Love  Lies  a  UUeding. 

2.  Miss  Barrett  must  be  Greek  Fa- 
lerian  or  Laddar  ta  Heaven,  or,  if  she 
pleases.  Wild  Angelica. 

3.  Maria  del  Occidente  is  a  Pauianm 
Flower  confessed. 

4.  Irene  was  Grau  of  Parnatsut,  or 
sometimes  a  Roman  Nettie. 

5.  Lady  Emmeline  is  a  MagmtUta 
Grandiftora,  and  a  Croeut  too. 

6.  Mrs.  Southey  is  a  Meadow  Sage,  or 
Small  Teatel, 

7.  Ilie  classical  nymph  of  Exeter  is  « 
Blue  Belle. 

8.  V.  is  a  Violet,  with  her  leaves  bearu 
shaped. 

9.  And  the  authoress  of  '  Phanlas- 
mion '  is  Heart't't^se." 

The  complimentary  nature  of  the 
criticism  drew  a  world  of  trouble 
upon  John  Murray,  the  well-known 
publisher  of  the  QwarCerly.  He  was 
inundated  with  verse.  Each  of  the 
nine  in  less  than  a  week  offered  him 
a  volume, — some  on  easy  terms,  some 
at  an  advanced  price.  He  received 
letters,  he  received  calls,  and,  worse 
still,  volumes  of  MS.  verse.  But 
the  friendly  character  of  the  cri- 
ticism was  not  confined  in  its  in- 
fluence to  the  nine  reviewed ;  parcels 
of  verse  from  all  parts  of  the  country 
were  sent  to  receive  an  imprimatur 
at  Albemarle  Street.  Some  were 
tied  with  white  tape,  some  were  sewn 
with  violet  ribana,  and  a  few,  in  a 
younger  hand,  with  Berlin  wool. 
"  I  wished,"  Mr.  Murray  has  been 
heard  to  relate,  "  ten  thousand  times 
over  that  the  article  had  never  beoi 
written.  I  had  a  great  deal  of  trou- 
ble with  the  ladies  who  never  ap- 
peared before ;  and,  while  I  declined 
to  publish  for  the  Nine,  succeeded  in 
flattering  their  vanity  by  assuring 
them  that  they  had  already  done 
enough  for  fame,  having  written  as 
much  or  more  than  Collms,  Gray,  or 
Goldsmith,  whose  reputations  rested 
on  a  foundation  too  secure  to  be 
disturbed."  This  deserves  to  be  re- 
membered. 


1846.] 


Education  in  the  Army, 


719 


EDUCATION  IN  THE  ARxMY. 


Ik  common  with  all  right-minded 
persons,  we  are  glad  to  perceive  that 
the  attention  of  the  public  and  of 
the  goyemment,  seems  at  length  to 
be  cUrected  in  earnest  towards  the 
introduction  into  the  army  of  an  im- 
proved system  of  moral  and  intellec- 
tual discipline.    That  the  army  well 
deserves  this  care  for  its  best  interests, 
nobody  who  is  conversant  with  the 
events  of  the  last  half  century  can 
doubt.     Not  to  speak  of  the  im- 
portant service   performed  by  our 
troops  during   the  perilous  season 
when  England  was  at  war  with  the 
most  powerful  nations  in  the  world ; 
not  to  revert  to  their  sufferings  in 
the  Netherlands  under  the  late  Duke 
of  York ;  their  endurance  in  Holland ; 
their  valour  in  Egypt ;  their  patience 
amid  the  pestilential  swamps  of  St. 
Domingo,  and  under   the  burning 
suns  of  the  far  East;  not  to  dwell  too 
much  upon  their  triumphs  in  the 
Feninsula,  their  losses  in  .Ajnerica,  and 
the  crowning  glories  of  Waterloo, 
whereby  peace  was   purchased  for 
Europe,  which   has  continued  un- 
broken more  than  thirty  years, — we 
have  only  to  consider  tne  amount 
and  nature  of  the  duties  which  at 
this  moment  the  country  imposes 
upon  its  army,  and  we  shall  be  con- 
vinced at  once  that,  let  us  deal  with 
our  soldiers   ad   generously  as  we 
may^   we  cannot  come  up  to  their' 
deservings,  far  less  go  beyond  them. 
In  the  history  of  the  world  there 
has  never  been  heard  of  an  armed 
force  out  of  which  the  nation  that 
kept  it  together  took  so  much.  We 
really  seem  to  believe  —  as  Nelson 
professed  to  believe  before  us — that 
one  Englishman  is  worth  three  men 
of  any  other  nation,  not  in  the  battle- 
field exclusively,  as  was  his  view  of 
the  case,  but  in  the  still  more  harass- 
ing struggle  which  all  soldiers,  more 
or  less  sustain  against  exposure  to 
climate,  watching,  and  strong  temp- 
tation.    So  far  from  assenting  to 
the  opinions  of  the  Continentals  con- 
cerning us,  that  "  we  are  not  a  mili- 
tary  nation*'    we   seem   to   be   of 
opinion,  that  there  is  a  spirit  so 
essentially  military  inherent  m  every 
man  from  within  the  compass  of  the 
three  kingdoms,  that  wbatey^r  you 


set  him  to  in  the  order  of  a  soldier^s 
calling  and  duties,  he  will  accom- 
plish it, — ay,  and  accomplish  well, 
without  any  previous  training.  Con- 
sider how  our  battalions  are  dissi- 
gated  and  scattered  at  home,  and 
arassed  by  severe  colonial  duty.  It 
is  the  rarest  thing  in  the  world  to 
find,  except  at  one  or  two  jpoints,  as 
much  as  a  whole  regiment  of  infantry 
together,  either  in  Great  Britain  or 
Ireland ;  and  taking  into  account  their 
progresses  from  colony  to  colony, 
perhapt^there  is  not  a  soldier  in  the 
British  army  that  does  not  spend  a 
full  tenth  part  of  the  period  of  his 
service  on  board  of  ship.  And  as  to 
service  in  the  colonies,  very  many,  in- 
deed almost  all  of  which,  try  the  con- 
stitutions of  Englishmen  severely — 
it  absorbs  on  the  most  moderate  com- 
putation something  more  than  three- 
fourths  of  the  soldier's  time  under 
arms ;  if  he  be  sent  to  India  or  New 
South  Wales  early  in  his  career,  it 
probably  absorbs  the  whole.  For  the 
empire  of  the  Queen  of  Eneland  is  at 
once  the  most  extensive  and  the  most 
populous  that  ever  existed  among 
men ;  and  she  holds  it  against  foreign 
enemies,  and  preserves  peace  among 
its  heterogeneous  inhabitants  by 
means  of  an  army  scarcely  more  nu- 
merous than  Austria  employs  to 
secure  the  allegiance  of  her  Italian 
and  Hungarian  provinces. 

There  is  no  boon  which  this  coun- 
try has  to  bestow,  but  that  the  army 
by  the  extent  and  importance  of  its 
services  has  earned  it.  For  the  sake 
of  the  soldiers  themselves,  therefore, 
we  heartily  rejoice  that  there  appears 
to  be  some  prospect  of  getting  a  solid 
education  introduced  into  the  re^- 
ments  generally,  and  the  barracks  in 
which  tne  men  are  stationed  rendered 
fit  for  rational  beings  to  occupy. 
These,  thinc;s,  when  they  are  accom- 
plished, wm  indeed  contribute  to 
the  soldier's  respectability  as  well  as 
to  his  comforts.  They  vdll  cause  him 
to  respect  himself.  They  will  create  in 
him  tastes  for  higher  pleasures  than 
those  which  spnng  out  of  mere 
animal  gratifications.  They  will  save 
him  from  many  an  act  of  folly,  and 
its  necessary  result  of  suffering;  r  * 
above  idl,  they  will  proyide  fo^ 


720 


Education  in  the  Army. 


[Jaw, 


resources  against  the  time  when  bis 
countiy  Bball  have  dispensed  with 
his  serviceB,  and  restored  him,  an 
old,  and  perhai>s,  a  broken-down 
man,  to  the  town  or  villwe  whence 
he  waa  taken.  The^  will  fit  him, 
likewise,  for  such  sitnations  aa  it 
may  be  in  tiie  oontemplatiOD  of  the 
goTemment  to  reserve  iat  him: 
jiamelj,  (at  one  of  the  infraior  offices 
in  the  customs,  or  in  the  ezdse,  or 
in  the  p<dice,  or  about  the  post- 
office.  And  thev  will  thereby  retain 
him,  posublj  ouring  some  of  the 
best  years  of  his  life,  available  still 
in  case  of  invanon  from  abroad,  or 
riot  or  disturbance  at  home.  Of  fkr 
more  importance  to  him  therefore 
are  they,  thaa  even  good-oonduct 
stripes,  and  the  increase  of  pay  that 
accompanies  them.  For  uneducated 
men  are  not  rendered  either  the 
mote  happjr  or  the  more  virtuous  by 
the  acquisition  of  superabundant 
wealth.  On  the  contrarr,  as  soon  as 
you  put  the  nnlettereo  soldier  in 
poeaetsion  of  a  larger  amount  of 
moikey  than  may  be  required  for  bis 
subeiatence,  you  throw  additional 
temptations  to  profli^y  iu  his  way. 
Ue  has  no  idea  of  enjoyment  beyond 
that  which  may  be  found  in  the 
pnhlie-honsc,  or  the  canteen,  or  the 
tociety  of  loose  women ;  and  the 
consequence  is,  that  he  is  sure,  sooner 
or  later,  to  be  disgraced,  or  possibly 
to  forfeit  not  his  additional  pay 
alone,  but  all  claim  to  a  pension. 

It  would  be  presuniiituouB  in  us, 
after  the  full  and  able  discussion 
which  this  part  of  the  subject  lias 
received  both  in  the  Qiiarterly  iievieii- 
and  in  the  Times,  to  advert  to  it 
except  shortly.  Yet  it  does  appear 
that,  in  spite  of  the  acumen  which 
belongs  to  our  contempurariea,  they 
have  not  noticed  certain  parts  coUa- 
tera),  perhaps,  to  the  great  question, 

"—* '-  on  that  account  lc«a  im- 

the  question  itself.  Of 
rhich  will  occur  imme- 
e  more  reflective  of  our 
iiis,  that  God  has  not 
(land  the  dominion  over 
the  fureat  portions  of 
T  the  mere  aggrandise- 
iconotmcal  point  of  view, 
5  power.  We  are  roas- 
i,  m  order  that  through 
linations  of  heatheninn 
id  out.  We  are  lords  of 
Of  the  letands  <a  the 


Caribbean  seas,  in  order  that  ia  each 
of  these  there  may  Eprin°  up  a  rwc 
of  civilised,  moral,  and  religious  peo- 
ple. The  Polynesian  group  hu 
come,  or  is  coming  into  onr  excluiiit 
pnnncafiinn,  to  the  end  Uiat  there,  iIm, 
the  seeds  of  Christianity  and  of  p>ad 

Sivenunent  may  be  sown.  And  ia 
bina  tlie  crust  which  hid  hereti>- 
fore  resisted  all  pressure  from  with- 
ont  is  broken.  Now  by  whst  dw 
of  person  ia  the  intercoorse  which  we 
csUblieh  with  the  heathen  begun? 
And  who  are  they  that,  in  verj 
many  instances,  become  settlers  in  tlie 
bush  and  on  the  prurie  ?  In  bolb 
cases  soldiers  are  our  instruments;-- 
men  who  have  served,  or  are  flill 
serving,  in  the  raoks,  who  meet  ik 
heathen  in  battle  and  overthroK  ihem, 
and,  taking  military  possewion  of 
their  country,  give  to  them  their 
first  wd  most  enduring  imprwRon 
of  what  the  Christian's  religion  is,- 
wUo  win  them  to  adopt  our  mannm 
by  the  grace  and  purity  that  adom 
tbcir  own,  or  more  and  more  confinn 
them  in  the  usages  of  their  ftthers  by 
the  disgust  with  which  they  look 
upon  flie  white  man's  excesses- 
What  advantages  does  not  the  sol- 
dier possess  Ibr  good  if  he  husMir 
only  Icnow  what  good  is,  and  t«Le 
pleasure  in  the  perfonnaooc  of  it? 
What  an  incalculable  smounl  of 
evil  does  he  not  scatter  ronnd  him, 
if  the  people  whran  he  has  mattu 
learn  to  esteem  bim,  in  alJ  tbiag^ 
except  in  valour,  immeasurably  ineir 
inferiors  1  , 

That  the  powerful  effeet  foruKiW 
good  or  moral  erii  of  the  inter- 
course, be  it  more  or  less  inlimsM, 
which  our  trooiw  establish  with 
the  natives  of  heathen  couptnes, 
should  have  been  heretofore  oief- 
looked  or  disregarded  by  thwe  m 
high  military  authority,  by  no  wans 
surprises  us.  Commanders-iu-Mi'*'' 
aa  well  aa  adjutant  and  qnartennM'er 
generals,  naturally  assume  that  lh(7 
have  done  their  part  so  soon  m  tMy 
shall  have  converted  some  thou«n« 
of  country  bumpkina  into  smarti'^ 
tive,  and  well  set-up-soldiers.  Tl^ 
consider  that  for  thid,  and  only  6? 
this,  the  crown  grants  them  taeir 
commisstona  and  the  country  ^ 
them.  They  may  be  anioous,  to  * 
certain  extent,  about  the  herftb.jw 
what  they  consider  to  be  the  brtu/ 
ooinfbrts  of  the  troops,  beanuetbeir 


1 846.] 


Education  in  the  Army, 


721 


object  is  to  keep  the  army  effective, 
which  it  cannot  be  unless  the  men  be 
robust,  as  well  as  skilful  in  the  use  of 
their  weapons  and  steady  on  parade. 
But  their  anxiety  on  these  heads  is 
far  less  lively  than  in  regard  to  the 
clothing  and  drill  of  the  men;  for 
thev  have  a  medical  department  to 
look  to,  of  which  it  were  unfair  not 
to  acknowledge  that,  in  point  of  seal 
and  intelligence,  there  is  nothing  like 
it  attached  to  any  other  army  in  the 
world.  Hence,  while  they  catch  at 
new  inventions,  such  as  detonating 
muskets,  and  work  up  old  systems  of 
manoeuvre  till  they  seem  worthy  to 
be  called  new,  they  take  no  thought, 
or  next  to  none,  of  the  men*8  quar- 
ters, or  conveniences  for  cleanli- 
ness, and  scout  the  idea  of  every 
thing  like  an  approach  to  refinement 
among  them.  As  to  the  religious 
opinions  of  the  blackguards,  or  their 
moral  code, — so  long  as  they  keep 
clear  of  the  articles  of  war,  to  these 
things  they  pay  no  regard  at  all,  and 
would,  we  suspect,  pronounce  to  be 
insane,  or  at  least  enthusiastic,  any 
human  being  who  should  hint  that 
the  one  or  the  other  deserved  atten- 
tion. Now,  we  may  regret  this,  but  we 
do  not  at  all  wonder  at  it.  Command- 
ers-in-chief, and  adjutant  and  quar- 
termaster generals  are  seldom  very 
young  men;  they  have  spent  the 
whole  of  their  days,  moreover,  in  the 
service,  entering  it  in  boyhood  with 
minds  marvellously  little  cultivated, 
and  receiving  from  day  to  day  only 
impressions  of  a  particular  cast  and 
character.  Sixty  or  seventy  years 
old,  or  possibly  more,  they  began  their 
professional  career  at  a  time  when 
ministers  of  the  crown  were  not 
ashamed  to  declare  in  parliament 
that  the  greatest  scoundrels  made  the 
best  soldiers.  They  may,  or  may  not, 
have  imbibed  this  notion ;  but  ii  they 
did  not  imbibe  it  to  the  full,  they 
unquestionably  believed  at  the  mo- 
ment—  perhaps  believe  still — that 
morality  and  soldiership  have  no  ne- 
cessary eomiexion  one  with  the  other. 
How  often  have  we  heard  it  asserted, 
by  officers  of  standing  and  experience, 
that  "you  don't  want  very  good  men" 
in  the  ranks !  The  sort  of  fellows  to 
do  the  work  are,  according  to  this  the- 
ory dare-devil  scamps ;  that  is  to  say, 
men  who  part  with  their  own  lives, 
or  the  lives  of  others,  at  a  pin's  value 
—who  care  neither  to  God  nor  ii»n, 


except  for  their  own  officers  and  their 
own  regiments — who  will  plunder 
and  get  drunk  as  often  as  there  is 
chance  of  doing  so  with  impunity, — 
swear,  bluster,  seek  for  sweethearts 
wherever  they  go,  and  be  up,  accord- 
ing to  a  well- understood  phrase,  to 
any  thine».  Of  course,  gentlemen  who 
express  this  opinion  s^^ak  from  their 
experience  of  the  past.  They  look 
back  upon  great  battles  fought  and 
won  by  the  materials  which  tney  are 
commending ;  and  foivetting  that  such 
materials  were  moulded  and  kept  in 
shape  by  a  discipline  so  iron  that  it 
never  can  be  resorted  to  again,  they 
mistake  for  a  natural  advantage  that 
which  was  rendered  not  positively 
disadvantageous  only  through  an  ex- 
tent of  pressure  which  it  is  no  longer 
in  their  power  to  apply.  Of  course, 
too,  they  call  to  mind  that  the  dare» 
devUs  were  generally  clean  upon  pa* 
rade,  and  that  they  took  their  cor- 
poral punishment,  however  severe, 
without  flinching.  What  a  hideous 
subject  is  that  on  which  we  have 
just  touched!  Who  can  bear  to 
think  of  a  period  in  the  military  his- 
tory of  his  country,  when  regularly, 
as  each  fresh  morning  occurred,  the 
troops  were  paraded  for  pttniahment, 
and  men  and  officers  stood  to  vrxtness 
the  humiliating  spectacle  of  the  cat- 
o' -nine-tails?  However,  we  must  not 
dwell  upon  customs  which  are  hap- 
pily obsolete,  or  next  to  obsolete,  u 
the  service.  It  is  enough  to  have 
adverted  to  them,  with  the  single 
view  of  shewing,  that  if  times  be 
changed  as  regards  the  manner  and 
extent  of  punishing  crime  in  the  army, 
it  were  well  that  some  means  be  in- 
vented and  applied  for  the  purpose 
of  hindering  the  commission  of  crime 
— a  matter  which  is  in  truth  more 
important  than  ponishnient  a  thou- 
sand-fold 

It  was  the  necessary  consequence 
of  opinions  and  practices  such  as  we 
have  just  adverted  to,  that  soldiers 
should  be  regarded,  both  by  their 
officers  and  by  the  public,  as  mere 
machines.  Creatures  on  whom  it  was 
never  thought  worth  while  to  work 
by  moral  influences  oouM  not,  in- 
deed, be  accounted  any  better  than 
machines.  We  drilled  and  trained 
our  troops,  fifty  years  ago,  just  as  we 
drilled  and  trained  our  pointers— -^^^^ 
the  lash.  Sergeants,  and  ey^ 
ponds,  always  carried  oane 


724 


Education  in  ike  Army, 


[Junei 


of  {food* report;  or  whether  the 
Chnfltiftn*8  looee  talk,  mde  mannens 
dissipated  habits,  do  not  confirm  the 
pa^n  in  his  adherence  to  a  faith 
which  every  baptised  man  must  con- 
demn. They  do  not  reflect  that  of 
all  colonists  the  well-educated  and 
moral  soldier  forms  incomparably  the 
best,  not  merely  because  his  con- 
stitution is  robust  and  his  habits 
patient  of  fati^e,  but  because  planted 
upon  a  frontier,  as  in  Canada  or  at 
the  Cape,  he  becomes  to  the  province 
at  once  a  guardian  and  a  respectable 
member  of  society.  Now  men  who 
do  not  wear  the  queen^s  uniform,  or 
possibly,  having  once  worn  it,  have 
long  a^o  cast  it  aside,  do  consider 
these  things ;  and  if  it  should  here- 
after come  to  light  that  by  some  in- 
dividual so  circumstanced,  the  idea 
of  educating  the  soldier  was  started, 
and  has  been  worked  out,  then  will 
things  have  befiillen  in  the  order 
whicn  is  natural.  Old  oflScers  resist, 
because  they  look  only  to  one  side  of 
the  argument.  But,  by  degrees, 
their  resistance  will  grow  less,  and 
they  themselves  may,  perhaps,  live 
to  wonder  that  the  spint  in  whom  it 
originated  ever  should  have  arisen. 

Ii  the  rumours  which  are  afloat 
have  anv  foundation  in  truth,  the 
battle  of  education  for  the  private 
soldier  has  been  fought  and  virtufdly 
won.  It  is  whispered  in  military 
circles  that  great  changes  for  the 
better  are  about  to  be  introduced  in 
the  system  of  regimental  schools,  and 
that  some  of  the  suggestions  thrown 
out  by  our  contemporaries,  the  ftaarr- 
terfy  and  The  Times,  will  be  acted 
upon.  In  this  case  the  Royal  Mi« 
litary  Asylum  at  Chelsea  will  pro- 
bably be  remodelled,  and  school- 
masters trained  as  they  ought  to  be 
there  that  they  may  be  sent  to  the 
different  regiments  of  infantiy  and 
cavalry  for  the  instruction  of  the 
recmits  and  younff  sokliers.  So  far 
all  is  well;  but  they  who  take  an 
interest  in  the  subject  may  rely  upon 
it  that  unless  they  go  a  little  farther 
than  this  with  reform,  the  work  will 
not  be  complete.  It  will  never  do 
to  educate  the  private  soldiers  of  the 
army,  and  to  leave  the  oflicers  such 
as  wc  now  find  them ;  for  it  is  use- 
less to  think  of  disguising  the  truth. 
Here  and  there  you  meet  with  an  in- 
telligent and  well-informed  officer ;  if 

•  happen  to  find  near  you  one  or 


other  of  certain  re^moits  which  we 
could  name,  you  will  find  more  than 
one  or  two  members  of  the  mess  from 
whose  conversation  you  will  derive 
both  edification  and  rational  anmse- 
ment.    But,  takins  them  in  the  ag- 
gregate, it  would  be  as  impolitic  as 
unjust  to  deny  that  the  ofiioers  of 
the  British  army  constitute  the  most 
ignorant  as  well  as  the  idlest  set  of 
gentlemen  that  owe  alliance  to  the 
British  crown.    Do  we  blame  indi- 
viduals for  this  ?  Hy  no  means.   The 
result  arises,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
out  of  the   system  on  which  our 
gallant  army  is  managed.  The  queen, 
on  the  recommendation  of  the  com- 
mandcr-in-chief,  appoints  to  comet- 
cies  and  ensigndes  young  men  of 
whom  nothing  more  is  known  than 
that  they  are  the  sons,  or  nephews,  or 
proteges   of  persons  possessed  of  a 
certain  degree  of  influence ;  but  what 
the  parties  themselves  may  be,  in 
regard  to  intelligence,  manners,  or 
any  thing  else,  no  inquiry  is  ever,  as 
far  as  we  know,  made  in  any  quarter. 
We  doubt  whether,  in  the  queen^s 
service,  there  be  required  the  medical 
certificate  which  the  East  India  Com* 
pany  usually  expects  the  candidate 
lor  a  cadetship  to  produce ;  and  be- 
yond this  wc  are  confident  that  no 
questions  arc  asked.    The  boy  may 
be  an  idiot,  or  next  to  an  idiot,  aa  we 
have  known  more  than  one  of  her 
majesty's  gallant  subalterns  to  be; 
and  as  to  his  acquirements,  they  are 
never,  unless  he  happen  to  go  to 
Sandhurst,  inquired  into.    Hence  it 
comes  to  pass,  that  if  the  poor  youth 
be  suddenly  required  to  keep  a  com- 
pany's   accounts,   he   finds    himself 
forced  to  rely  absolutely  upon  his 
pay-sergeant.    The  sergeant  may  or 
may  not  be  competent,  honest,  sober, 
and  BO  forth ;  but,  in  either  case, 
Lieutenant  the  Honourable  George 
Ginglespura  is  entirely  at  his  mercy. 
The  time  has  come,  or  is  fast  ap- 
proaching, when  this  state  of  thiogss 
must  cease.    It  will  never  do  to  edu- 
cate the  privates  of  the  British  army, 
and  to  leave  their  superiors  free  to 
indulge  their  present  tastes  for  idle- 
ness; and  hence  the  great  question 
to  be  raised  resolves  itself  into  this, — 
how  far  will  it  be  judicious  to  go,  in 
the  first  instance,  in  an  endeavour  to 
excite  among  ofificers  a  desire  to  im- 
prove themselves  ? 
We  are  humbly  of  opinion,  in  spite 


1846.] 


Edueat%6n  in  tht  Army* 


723 


tlie  better  will  begin  spontaneously 
in  Fall-Mall  ?  No,  verily.  It  is  our 
conscientious  belief,  that  at  the  Ord- 
nance Office  matters  are  managed 
exactly  as  they  used  to  be  in  the 
days  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  we  are 
further  convinced  that  they  will  con- 
tinue to  be  so  managed,  until  some 
one  entirely  unconnected  with  that 
most  cumbrous  of  all  cumbrous  in- 
stitutions shall  force  the  light  of  day 
into  the  recesses  of  its  apartments, 
and  compel  changes  such  as  shall  much 
conduce  to  the  advancement  of  the 
public  service,  without  giving  to  in- 
dividuals more  inconvenience  than 
uniformly  attends  upon  a  change  of 
habits  somewhat  late  in  life. 

The  same  principle  which  operates 
against  change  in  the  Church  and  in 
a  public  office,  offers  a  steady  oppo- 
sition to  change  in  the  details  of  the 
management  m  the  army.  Officers 
high  m  rank,  whether  actively  em- 
ployed or  not,  remember  that  the 
existing  system  did  very  well  in  their 
day,  and  believe  that  it  may  do  very 
well  still.  Officers  in  public  em- 
ployment have  got  into  a  jog-trot 
routine,  and  not  being  alarmed  by 
mutinies  any  where,  or  the  threat 
of  mutiny,  they  persuade  them- 
selves that  any  deviation  from 
established  usage  must  be  for  evil. 
Who  has  forgotten  the  resistance 
that  was  offered  to  the  diminution  of 
power  in  regimental  courts-martial 
to  award  corporal  punishment  to  any 
great  amount.  **  Do  away  with  flog- 
ging I  Take  away  the  beardless  en- 
8ign*s  and  lieutenant's  authoritv  to 
award  three  hundred  or  five  hundred 
lashes  to  men  old  enough  to  be  their 
fathers,  and  scured  with  half-a-dozen 
honourable  wounds  I  You  are  under- 
mining the  discipline  of  the  army; 
you  will  never  be  able  to  manage 
your  regiments  again,  and  had  better 
disband  them  at  once.**  Was  not 
this  language  held  openly — in  every 
barrack,  in  the  clubs,  before  commit* 
tees  of  the  House  of  Commons,  where 
private  coteries  met,  and  in  the 
rooms  of  high  functionaries  at  the 
Horse  6uar£i.  Beyond  these  mili- 
tary circles,  however,  it  was  never 
heard,  and  the  civilians  having  taken 
the  notion  up,  that  corporal  pumsh- 
ment  degrades  and  brutalizes  the 
subject  of  it,  pressed  the  point  of  its 
virtual  abolition  till  they  prevailed. 
An^  what  do  we  findP    That  the 


aimy  is  just  as  trftctable  as  it  ever 
was;  that  the  barrack  cell  and  the 
nrovost  prison  have  been— at  least  in 
£nglana-~as  effective  in  exciting  fear 
as  the  lash ;  and  that  our  regiments 
continue  to  be  composed  of  fine  hearty 
young*  fellows,  who  march,  fire,  and 
fight  as  the  fathers  used  to  do,  and 
submit,  without  a  murmur,  to  a  dis- 
cipline which  they  feel  to  be  neces- 
sary, even  when  they  personally 
suffer  for  it.  And  the  very  persons 
who  were  the  loudest  to  condemn  the 
change  of  system  which  has  brought 
about  these  results,  are  now  driven 
to  acknowledge  that  they  were  mis- 
taken. 

We  do  not  pretend  to  know — we 
shall  not  so  much  as  venture  to  guess 
— with  whom  the  notion  of  educating 
the  soldier  has  originated.  If  the  idea 
came  from  the  Horse  Guards,  then 
must  we  fairly  admit,  that  for  once 
our  theory  of  reform  in  great  insti- 
tutions has  failed  us.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  high  military  autho- 
rities resist  it,  we  shall  say  no  more 
than  that  the  issue  is  precisely  such 
as  might  be  expected;  and  that  to 
be  angry  with  such  authorities,  or  to 
charge  them  with  intentional  wrong 
to  the  soldier,  would  be  ridiculous. 
They  are  doing,  in  1 846,  precisely  what 
the  great  body  of  the  clergy  did  in 
1835,  and  what  the  clerks  and  other 
functionaries  in  the  public  offices 
under  the  crown  will  do  as  soon  as 
there  shall  arise  some  individual  bold 
enough  to  attack  their  manner  of 
doiuff  business  and  expose  it.  They 
are  old  men,  who  have  spent  long  lives 
in  a  particular  profession,  and  look 
no  farther  than  to  the  manner  in 
which,  as  parts  of  a  complicated  ma- 
chine, the  members  of  tneir  profes- 
sion perform  certain  prescribed  du- 
ties. They  cannot  see  so  far  as  the 
day  when  the  soldier  shall  claim  his 
discharge.  They  never  stop  to  ask 
how  he  is  to  get  on  without  a  trade, 
without  the  snullest  spark  of  intel- 
ligence; ignorant  of  the  common 
accomplishments  of  reading  and 
writing,  after  the  country  shul  have 
used  him  up  and  cast  him  aside. 
They  do  not  consider  nor,  perhaps, 
care  what  the  effect  of  his  intercourse 
with  the  Hindoo  and  Chinese  is  to 
be;  whether  he  shall  lead  the  hea- 
then to  inquire  respectfully  into  the 
doctrines  of  a  religion  which  rendertF 
its  Yotaries  sober,  cbastei  b^^ 


726 


Education  in  the  Army. 


[Jmie, 


manlike.  He  hunts,  drives,  pla3r8, 
larks,  smokes  cigars,  talks  sliuig,  and 
IS  pronounced  by  his  brother-officers 
to  oe  '*  a  capital  fellow."  To  be  sure 
he  does,  witnout  intending  it,  serious 
hurt  in  many  instances  to  the  gentle* 
men  with  whom  his  sovereign  has 
commanded  him  to  associate.  Hav- 
ing plenty  of  money  to  throw  away, 
he  introduces  a  taste  for  expense  into 
the  corps,  which  young  men  that 
have  no  mone^  are  by  no  means 
bound  to  acquire,  but  which,  being 
very  enticing  in  itself,  is  apt  to  put 
prudence  to  sleep,  and  to  draw  into 
Its  vortex  multitudes  to  whom  in- 
dulgence, even  in  moderation,  is 
ruin.  Finallv,  after  the  military  life 
beffins  to  pall  upon  him,  he  sells  out, 
and  either  betalces  himself  to  Lin- 
colnshire, that  he  may  hunt  more  at 
his  ease,  or  plunges  into  the  vortex 
of  fashion  in  London.  He  generally 
winds  up  by  becoming  a  respectable 
county  magistrate,  and  it  may  be 
even  a  hignly  respectable  Protec- 
tionist member  of  parliament. 

The  second  case  in  which  gentle- 
men dedicate  their  sons  to  the  noble 
profession  of  arms  is,  when  thev  find 
that  the  young  gentlemen  will  not 
take  to  any  other  and  more  settled 
callings.  Hence  the  dullest  or  the 
idlest  member  of  a  family  is  invari- 
ably marked  out  to  be  the  soldier. 
"  What  am  I  to  do  %rith  Charles  ? 
I  have  tried  Eton,  and  he  would 
not  learn  any  thing  there.  I  sent 
him  to  a  private  tutor,  who  reported 
that  his  moral  conduct  was  unexcep- 
tionable, but  that  it  was  impossible 
to  get  him  to  study.  What  shall  I 
do  with  him  r  "  Send  him  into 
the  army,**  is  the  answer  invariably 
returned,  and  into  the  army  the  idler 
is  sent.  And  he  turns  out  such 
as  we  have  described  the  great  body 
of  British  officers  to  be,  a  spirited 
but  most  ignorant  youth,  though,  as 
his  colonel  reports  to  the  Horse 
Guards,  a  very  good  officer. 

Now  we  really  do  not  think  that 
these  are  the  proper  sources  whence 
the  great  supply  of  officers  for  the 
British  army  ought  to  be  drawn. 
For  it  is  a  great  mistake  to  suppose, 
that  even  in  x)eace  occasions  do  not 
arise  from  time  to  time  that  require 
both  knowledg^e  and  a  habit  of  judg- 
ing correctly  in  an  officer;  and,  m 
war,  we  all  know  that  both  are  in*- 
^iapensable  to  the  right  p^onnanoe 


of  h!s  duty.  Who  can  have  f<n-- 
eotten  the  memorable  instance  of 
Colonel  Brotherton  in  1831,  who, 
for  the  lack  of  a  little  firmness,  com- 
bined with  some  acquaintance  with 
the  constitutional  law  of  the  country, 
suffered  the  half  of  Bristol  to  be 
burned  down,  and  sacrificed  lives  as 
valuable  to  society  as  his  own  ?  And 
have  we  not  before  us,  in  the  case  of 
the  officer  who,  but  the  other  day, 
ran  his*  own  head  and  the  heads  of 
his  party  against  a  stockade,  filled 
with  savages,  in  New  Zealand,  a 
memorable  instance  of  the  unfitness 
of  a  mere  parade  colonel  to  under- 
take the  care  of  the  national  honour, 
and  of  the  lives  of  her  majesty*s 
troops?  Indeed,  what  was  it  that 
occasioned  the  loss  of  our  army,  and 
the  tarnish  upon  our  military  name 
at  Cabul  ?  That  which,  till  a  better 
system  arise,  must  for  ever  expose  us 
to  like  results  elsewhere,  namely, 
the  ignorance  and  incapacity  of  our 
commanders,~an  incapacity  arising 
from  this,  that  thev  were  never 
taught  in  their  youth  to  study  the 
principles  of  the  art  which  they  in 
manhood  had  practised ;  and  there- 
fore, though  abundantly  able  to  obey, 
and  to  acnievc  what  mere  bravery 
might  attempt,  were  quite  unequal  to 
combat  the  nrst  difficulty  that  arose, 
with  weapons  drawn  from  the  ar- 
mory of  their  own  judgment.  Nor 
are  these  instances  isolated  in  the 
militaiy  annals  of  this  country.  It 
is  a  remarkable  fact,  that  throughout 
the  whole  of  the  Peninsular  war, 
the  British  army  asserted  a  decided 
superiority  over  that  of  the  I^nch 
only  where  the  Duke  of  Wellington 
commanded  in  person.  True,  Lord 
Hill  managed  one  affair  admirably; 
and  the  battle  of  Albuerra  was  un- 
doubtedly won.  Lord  Beresford  com- 
manding. But,  in  the  first  case, 
Lord  Hill  succeeded  by  obeying,  with 
his  accustomed  fidelity,  the  directions 
given  bj  his  chief;  and,  in  the  se- 
cond, victoiy  declared  for  England 
in  spite  of  blunders  which  would 
have  destroyed  any  army  except  that 
which  Lora  Beresford  commanded. 
And  what  shall  we  say  when  we  look 
elsewhere  ?  Were  the  campaigns  of 
1812,  1813,  and  1814,  in  Canada, 
such  as  there  is  much  to  boast  of  when 
we  describe  them  ?  Mav  we  refer  to 
New  Orleans  as  affording  evidence 
that  our  military  system  is  perfect  P 


1846.] 


Education  fit  the  Artny» 


727 


We  object  to  the  officering  of  the 
British  army  with  the  idlest  and 
dullest  men  of  the  aristocracy ;  and, 
as  the  best,  and  indeed  the  only 
means  of  preventing  this,  we  urge 
upon  the  commander-in-chief  not  to 
exercise  his  patronage  until  he  shall 
be  satisfied,  by  some  process  or  ano- 
ther, that  the  young  man  recom- 
mended to  him  for  a  commission  be 
at  least  able  to  read  and  to  spell. 
We  express  ourselves  thus,  because, 
in  the  fist  of  our  personal  acquaint- 
ances, there  happens  to  be,  at  this 
moment,  more  than  one  gentleman 
honoured  with  her  majesty's  com- 
mission who  cannot  spell  the  com- 
monest word  if  it  exceed  two  syllables. 
Indeed,  we  venture  to  go  a  little  far- 
ther, and  to  suggest,  that  as  there 
are  at  least  twenty  applicants  for 
every  conunission  that  falls,  the 
twenty  young  gentlemen  be,  in  some 
wav  or  another,  put  upon  their  trials, 
and  the  least  ignorant  selected.  But 
if  we  might  propose  a  plan,  it  would 
be  this :  that  a  board  of  education 
be  established  at  the  Horse  Guards, 
before  which  every  aspirant  for  mili- 
tary glory  shall  appear,  in  order  that 
it  may  be  known,  not  only  that  he 
is  physically  capable  of  sustaining 
the  wear  and  tear  of  a  campaign, 
but  that  the  days  of  his  childhood 
have  been  devoted  to  the  acquire- 
ment of  true  knowledge,  and  to  the 
sharpening  of  the  faculties  which 
Nature  may  have  given  him.  The 
Quarterly  Review  says,  that  the  as- 
pirant ought  to  have  some  notion  of 
modem  languages,  and  be  able  to 
pass  a  moderate  examination  in  his- 
^179  geography,  and  mathematics. 
If  It  were  possible  to  go  on,  as  the 
Quarterly  su^ests,  with  the  young 
man*s  education  after  he  has  joined 
his  r^ment,  we  should  be  content 
to  countersign  the  petition.  But  not 
seeing  our  way  quite  so  far  as  yet, 
we  are  constramed  to  ask  for  some- 
thing more.  The  board  of  education 
ought  to  be  satisfied  that  the  candi- 
date is  animated  by  a  spirit  of  in- 
quiry, so  that  there  shall  be  some 
chance,  at  least,  of  his  pursuine  his 
studies  of  his  own  accord ;  and  the 
better  to  aid  them  in  arriving  at  this 
conclusion,  we  would  suggest,  that 
they  fix  no  maximum  standard  to 


heg^  with.  Thus,  if  ten  or  twenty 
young  men  appear  before  them,  and 
there  be  five  vacant  commissioDs,  it 
will  be  their  duty  to  recommend  the 
five  candidates  whose  intelligence 
seems  to  be  the  sharpest,  and  their 
knowledge  the  most  extensii-e,  due 
re^rd  being  paid  to  the  sort  of  ac- 
quirements which  tell  the  most  to- 
wards the  formation  of  the  soldier's 
character,  such  as  drawing,  fortifica- 
tion, land-surveying,  and  mechanics. 
By  these  means  we  shall,  at  least, 
ensure  a  good  supply  of  recruits  for 
the  time  to  come;  and  the  recruits 
of  this  year  will  be  as  anxious,  ten 
vears  hence,  to  raise  the  standard  of 
mtellectnal  excellence  in  their  own 
profession  as  we  can  be. 

So  much  has  already  been  written 
on  this  subject  in  various  quarters, 
that  we  are  unwilling  to  trespass 
more  than  is  absolutely  necessary  on 
the  attention  of  our  military  readers. 
We  could  not,  however,  seem  to  be 
indifferent  to  a  matter,  in  itself  so 
important,  and  now  happily  so  much 
discussed,  and  we  have,  therefore, 
ventured  to  add  these,  our  own  views, 
to  the  stock  which  the  reading  public 
has  accumulated,  or  may  hereafter 
accumulate,  in  regard  to  it.  One 
point,  moreover,  we  think  it  right 
to  urge.  If  any  thing  be  done  at  all, 
and  we  have  reason  to  believe  that 
much  is  in  progress,  we  do  hope  that 
it  will  be  done  heartily  and  with  a 
right  spirit.  No  man  nor  set  of  men 
ought  to  be  blamed  for  errors  in  a 
system  which  it  is  judged  expedient 
to  alter.  The  present  generation  did 
not  commence  the  system,  and  the 
past  only  took  it  up.  It  is  sufiSdent 
for  our  contemporaries  to  have  dis- 
covered, among  them,  where  the  de- 
fects lie,  and  it  is  wise  in  them  to 
apply  the  remedy.  For  ourselves 
we  reioice  in  the  assurance,  that  the 
impulse  having  once  been  given,  no 
power  on  earth  can  stop  the  progress 
of  real  improvement.  And  we  hope 
that  many  who  read  these  pages  will 
five  to  acknowledge  that  the  army, 
deserving  of  all  respect  and  gratitude 
as  it  is,  has  been,  both  in  a  moral 
and  social  point  of  view,  largely  im- 
proved by  the  better  education  of  its 
members. 


VOL.  XXXIII.  Ko.  cxcvm. 


3b 


7*28 


Contemporary  Orators. 


[JuDe» 


COSiTEMPORART    ORATORS. 

No.X. 

MB.  8HEIL. 


EvBBT  public  speaker  who  can  arrest 
the  attention  and  act  niK>n  the  feel- 
ings of  an  audience,  is,  in  the  most 
loose  or  enlarged  acceptation  of  the 
term,  an  orator ;  even  in  its  strict 
and  literal  sense,  the  same  definition 
would  almost  apply.  But  it  is  need- 
less to  remind  our  readers  that  there 
are  almost  as  many  gradations  of 
excellence  included  in  that  general 
term  as  there  are  in  similar  ones 
used  in  reference  to  painting  or  sculp- 
ture, or  poetry  or  acting.  As  toe 
circle  of  public  intelligence  becomes 
expanded,  by  the  greater  spread  of 
general  knowledge  among  the  people, 
and  the  more  universal  excitement 
of  all  classes  in  questions  of  a  political 
or  social  nature  in  reference  to  legis- 
lation, the  number  of  public  speakers 
who  excite  attention  and  maintain  a 
hold  upon  the  feelings  of  the  people 
becomes  almost  indefinitely  multi- 
plied ;  the  intellectual  quality  of  their 
speeches  is  deteriorated  in  proportion 
88  their  practical  utility  is  increased ; 
and  it  becomes  more  and  more  difficult 
to  settle  the  old  and  often-disputed 
question,  "What  is  an  orator?*" 
Several  speakers  have  already  been 
included  m  this  series,  and  more  will 
probably  follow,  whom  it  would  have 
been  absurd  to  place  upon  the  list  of 
those,  so  few  in  names,  but  so  bril- 
liant in  performances,  who,  by  the 
common  consent  of  mankind,  by  the 
testimony  of  history  and  the  eviaence 
of  their  works,  happily  undestroyed, 
are  recoj;nised  as  oemg  the  great 
masters  m  the  art  of  oratory,  let, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  individuals 
so  excluded  exercise  a  direct  and 
powerful  influence  over  their  fellow- 
countrvmen  scarcely  paralleled,  and 
oertainly  not  exceeded,  by  the  hiffher 
order  of  public  sneakers.  Tneir 
utilitarian  value  fully  comjiensates 
to  the  general  mind  for  their  want 
of  artificial  enhancement.  The  pub- 
lic, perhaps,  would  care  little  to 
know  what  were  the  brilliant  excel- 
lencies of  Mr.  Shell  or  Mr.  Macaulay, 
or  what  a  critical  analysis  would  dis- 


cover of  their  defects,  if  the  plan  of 
the  writer  gave  them  that  informa- 
tion on  the  condition  that  in  the 
exercise  of  a  somewhat  hypercritical 
judgment,  he  left  them  in  ignorance 
of  the  oratorical  qualifications  of  Lord 
John  Russell,  or  Sir  Robert  Peel,  or 
Mr.  Ck)bden,  or  even  Lord  Greorae 
Bentinck,  men  with  whose  names  the 
whole  countiT  is  ringing.  Yet  a 
speech  from  Lord  Lyndhurst,  Lord 
Brougham,  Mr.  Shell,  Mr.  Macaulay, 
or  Mr.  Disraeli,  or  from  Mr.  Fox  and 
some  of  the  most  distinguished  plat- 
form speakers,  wholly  differs  not 
merely  in  the  degree  but  also  in  die 
nature  of  its  excellence  from  those 
of  the  more  nractical  orators,— they 
who  really  lead  the  public  mind. 
The  one  is  a  study  for  the  intellect 
and  a  pleasure  to  the  imagination, 
for  its  intrinsic  excellence  or  beauty, 
while  the  other  derives  its  interest 
from  extraneous  causes,  ceasing  with 
the  excitement  of  the  hour ;  such  as 
the  position  of  the  speaker,  the  nature 
and  position  of  tne  subject  he  is 
handling,  and,  generally,  from  the 
exciting  political  causes  which  every 
year  of  struggling  perpetuates.  But 
the  men  ofthe  higher  order  have 
their  ultimate  reward.  The  others 
have  the  applause  ofthe  present  hour 
alone.  Their  lumbering  speeches  are 
dul^  reported  in  the  newspapers,  in 
their  inglorious  rivalry  whicn  diall 

{produce  the  greater  number  of  co- 
umns  of  print ;  but  after  the  lapse 
of  a  week  thev  are  forgotten,  or  only 
remembered  that  they  may  be  quoted 
at  a  future  time  against  themselves, 
when,  in  the  mutations  of  modem 
politics,  they  shall  find  it  necessaiy 
to  contradict  all  their  former  asser- 
tions and  argue  against  all  their  for- 
mer opinions.  But  the  real  orator 
of  the  nighest  class — ^he  who  has  had 
a  nobler  end  in  view  than  forensic 
sophistry  or  mere  dap -trap  and 
ctgolery — not  only  is  admired  at  the 
time  he  utters  his  speech,  but  is  re- 
membered long  after  his  temporary 
rivals  are  forgotten.    His  effusions 


1846.] 


Mr.  Shtil. 


729 


are  read  and  studied  as  models  by 
successive  aspirants  to  fame;  they 
are  admired  by  the  poet  as  he  ad- 
mires his  Milton,  his  Wordsworth, 
or  his  Tennyson ;  by  the  artist  as  he 
admires  his  Titian  or  his  Turner; 
and  it  is  to  them  also  that  the  most 
valuable  praise  of  all  is  accorded  — 
that  of  posterity.  The  practical  men 
secure  the  present  only,  the  men  of 
genius  enjoy  both  the  present  and 
the  future. 

Mr.  Sheil  is  a  man  of  genius,  and, 
making  allowance  for  some  defects 
which  shall  be  hereafter  adverted  to, 
an  orator  of  the  highest  order. 
Whether  his  speeches  be  read  in  the 
closet  years  after  they  were  delivered, 
or  whether  they  be  heard  with  all 
the  advantage  of  that  burning  elo- 
quence, that  brilliancy  of  diction, 
that  fiery  impetuosity  of  action,  which 
have  now  become  almost  associated 
with  the  name  of  Sheil,  thev  are  still 
the  same  powerful,  beautiful,  soul- 
stirring  works,  still  models  of  the 
finest  rhetorical  art.  Scarcely  any 
terms  of  admiration  would  be  too 
strong  as  applied  to  some  of  his 
speeches,  while  even  those  which  do 
not  rise  to  the  highest  pitch  of  ex- 
cellence have,  nevertheless,  so  de- 
cided and  so  distinctive  a  character, 
that  they  may  be  at  once  known  to 
be  the  production  not  only  of  a  su- 
perior mind,  but  of  the  particular 
man  from  whom  they  have  pro- 
ceeded. The  very  faults  of  his  style 
cease  to  be  defects  when  regarded  in 
connexion  with  the  pervamng  tone 
of  his  mind,  and  the  leading  features 
of  his  character. 

Mr.  Sheil*s  parliamentary  repu- 
tation is  now  of  about  fifteen  years* 
standing.  For  that  period  he  has 
reigned  without  a  rival  as  the  most 
bruliant  and  imafl;inative  speaker,  and 
the  most  accomplished  rhetorician,  in 
the  House  of  Ck)mmons.  That  as- 
sembly— heterogeneous  as  are  the 
materials  of  which  it  is  composed — 
possesses  a  marvellous  instinct  in  the 
discovery  and  the  appreciation  of 
oratorical  talent.  It  is  their  interest 
that  thev  should  have  among  them 
those  who  can  occasionally  charm 
them  from  the  plodding  realities  of 
legislation,  and  the  dull  lucubrations 
of  the  practical  men.  Therefore, 
they  are  always  aUve  to  excellence, 
and  stamp  it  at  once.  Kot  very  long 
lince  a  new  member,  a  Mr.  Gardwell, 


made  a  remarkably  valuable  speech 
ou  a  question  oi'  a  practical  nature, 
full  of  powerful  reasoning,  concen- 
tration, and  mastery  of  the  facts. 
Till  the  evening  when  he  made  that 
speech,  he  was  comparatively  un- 
known ;  but  he  had  not  been  on  his 
legs  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  before  the 
unerring  instinct  of  the  House  (which 
operates  as  closely  upon  good  busi- 
ness speeches  as  on  the  most  eloquent) 
discovered  that,  in  his  degree,  he  was 
a  superior  man,  and  the  cheering 
with  which  he  was  greeted  at  the 
close  of  his  address  was  the  stamp 
they  set  on  his  ability.  Sir  Robert 
Feel  was  among  the  listeners,  and  in 
a  few  weeks  afterwards  Mr.  Gardwell 
became  a  minister.  If,  in  these  days 
of  statistics  and  sophistry,  a  modest 
and  undistinguished  individual  was 
thus  singled  out,  d  fortiori  it  could 
not  have  been  lone  before  such  an 
orator  as  Mr.  Shiel  was  elevated  to 
the  highest  point  in  the  admiration 
of  the  House,  at  a  time  when  high 
oratory  was  more  valued.  He  came 
but  to  be  heard  and  to  be  triumphant. 
Heralded  by  the  hyperbolical  praise 
of  his  Irish  admirers,  his  first  speech 
was  looked  for  with  a  curiosity  not 
unmingled  with  doubt.  But  he 
passed  the  ordeal  successfully,  and 
from  that  hour  has  been  regarded 
as  one  of  the  most  distinguished  and 
remarkable  of  the  many  great  orators 
which  his  countrv,  fertile  in  genius 
as  in  natural  riches,  has  ever  pro- 
duced. 

Our  mention  of  the  Hibernian  ad- 
mirers of  Mr.  Sheil  reminds  us  that 
we  have  something  to  say  of  that 
gentleman  beyond  what  is  prompted 
by  a  recollection  of  his  speeches  in 
the  House  of  Commons.  For,  unlike 
most  of  our  most  distinguished  men, 
Mr.  Sheil  was  famous  as  an  orator 
long  before  he  entered  parliament. 
His  eloquence  had  not  been  the  least 
important  element  in  causing  that 
unanimity  of  feeling  among  the  peo- 
ple of  Ii'eland  which  ultimately  led 
to  the  great  political  and  religious 
revolution  of  1829.  There  are  very 
few  instances  on  record  of  men  who 
have  become  famous  as  speakers  at 
the  bar,  or  at  the  hustings,  or  at 
public  meetings,  having  equally  stood 
the  test  of  the  House  of  .Commons. 
It  is  one  of  Mr.  Shell's  manv  claims 
on  our  admiration,  that  having  been 
an  energetic,  enthusiastic,  ana  sue- 


730 


Contemporary  Orators* 


[June, 


cessful  leader  in  a  great  popular,  or 
rather  a  great  national  movement,  he 
should  have  had  the  taste  and  tact  to 
so  subdue  his  nature  in  the  very  hour 
of  triumph,  as  afterwards  to  adapt  his 
speaking  to  the  tone  most  agreeable 
to  the  House,  and  to  charm  them  as 
much  by  the  fire  of  his  eloquence  as 
by  the  delicacy  of  his  rhetorical  ar- 
tifices, without  the  aid  of  those 
stronger  and  more  stirring  stimulants 
to  the  passions  which  form  the  very 
essence  of  successful  mob-oratory. 
In  vexT  few  instances  indeed  has  he 
even  cuscarded  these  voluntary  fet- 
ters on  the  exuberant  vigour  of  his 
patriotism  and  nationality. 

Not  as  an  orator  merely  will  Mr. 
Shell  assist  to  rescue  this  age  from 
the  charge  of  mediocrity.  Thirty 
years  ago  he  first  began  to  be  known 
and  appreciated  as  a  poet — when  he 
was  only  looking  forward  to  the  bar 
as  a  profession,  and  long  ere  visions 
of  applauding  millions,  or  of  high 
ministerial  office,  or  a  place  in  the 
councils  of  his  sovereign,  ever  crossed 
his  ardent  and  aspiring  soul.  As  the 
author  of  the  tn^^edies  JSradne  and 
The  Apostate^  Mr.  Shell  already  oc- 
cupied a  high  place  among  the 
wnters  who  were  then  his  contempo- 
raries— a  place  not  very  much  unlike 
that  now  neld  by  Tal&urd.  In  the 
intervals  of  those  productions,  and 
for  some  time  afterwards,  he  con- 
tributed to  the  periodicals  of  the  dav, 
and  had  altogether,  even  at  the  early 
aee  of  twenty-two,  made  himself  that 
kmd  of  reputation  for  originality  and 
a  high  order  of  talent  which  floats 
about  society  and  interests,  b^  some 
means  or  other,  more  certain  m  their 
action  than  perceptible,  the  eeneral 
mind  in  the  career  of  particular  in- 
dividuals. Still,  although  there 
were  at  all  times  vague  predictions 
that  he  would  "do  sometlung"  some 
day  or  other,  no  one  seems  at  that 
time  to  have  suspected  that  he  con- 
tained within  him  the  powers  which 
soon  afterwards  made  him  second  but 
to  one  man  as  a  leader  of  the  Irish 
people,  and  ultimately  have  enabled 
nim  to  compete  with  the  most  illus- 
trious men  of  the  day  in  those  quali- 
fications which  ensure  parliamentary 
success. 

But  with  the  time  came  the  man. 
The  Roman  Catholic  question  had 
of  latp  «*»i«"  — -imed  a  great  parlia- 
me'  ,     The  stalking. 


horse  of  an  ambitious  par^,  the 
cause  had  come  at  last  to  be  re- 
garded as  "respectable.**  English 
statesmen  and  orators — ^men  who  in  a 
few  years  became  the  rulers  of  the 
country — succeeded  those  great  and 
eloquent  Irishmen  in  whom  the  ad- 
vocacy of  Roman  Catholic  fireedom 
from  civil  disabilities  had  always 
been  regarded  as  justifiable — najr,  a 
matter  of  duty.  In  the  meanwhile, 
all  the  legal  dexterity  of  Mr.  O'Con- 
nell  had  been  devoted  to  the  con- 
struction of  an  artful  but  compre- 
hensive scheme  of  agitation,  by 
which  the  people  of  Ireland  might 
be  organised  and  an  unanimous  call 
be  made  on  the  English  parliament 
for  emancipation.  This  organisation 
went  on,  with  more  or  less  success, 
for  years.  Under  the  name  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  Association  it  rose 
from  the  most  insignificant  revival 
(after  a  temporary  cGspersion)  in  the 
year  1823,  until  it  assumed  uat  gi- 
gantic shape  which  ultimately  terri- 
fied the  government  of  Enghuid  into 
an  undignified  submission.  It  was  in 
that  year,  1823,  that  Mr.  Shell  and 
Mr.  0*Connell,  who  were  destined  at 
no  very  distant  time  to  be  the  great 
leifders  of  the  Association,  first  met, 
under  circumstances  somewhat  ro- 
mantic, at  the  house  of  a  mutual 
friend  in  the  mountains  of  WickLow. 
There  a  congeniality  of  object  over- 
came the  natural  repulsion  of  anta- 
gonist minds,  and  they  laid  down  the 
plan  of  a  new  agitation.  That  their 
meeting;  was  purely  an  accidental  one 
made  tne  results  which  followed  still 
more  remarkable. 

Their  first  efforts  were  received 
with  indifference  by  the  people ;  but 
in  a  very  few  weeks  the  Association 
was  formed,  and  the  rolling  stone 
was  set  in  motion.  To  tiiose  who  are 
curious  in  such  matters  it  will  be  in- 
structive and  amusing  to  obso^e  the 
parallel  circumstances  of  the  origina- 
tion of  the  Roinan  Catholic  Associa- 
tion by  some  six  or  seven  enthusiasts 
at  a  bookseller*s  shop  in  Dublin,  and 
that  of  the  Anti-Com-I^w  League, 
by  a  few  merchants  at  Manchester, 
or  at  Preston — ^for  the  cotton-heroes 
of  the  late  campiugn  have  not  yet 
determined  at  whiui  place  the  nu- 
cleus was  formed. 

We  have  alluded  to  the  natural 
repulsion  of  antaffonbt  minds.  Con- 
trast more   marked  could  scarcely 


1 846.] 


Mr.  Shell. 


731 


exist  than  that  which  was  exhibited 
by  the  two  great  leaders  of  the 
Association.  That  their  mental 
qualities  were  so  different,  and  the 
sources  of  the  admiration  which 
each  in  his  sphere  excited  so  oppo- 
site, may  be  held  to  be  one  of  the 
causes  of  the  great  success  the  Associ- 
ation achievS.  If  Mr.  Sheil  was 
great  in  rhetoric, — ^if  his  impassioned 
appeals  to  his  countrymen  and  to  the 
world  stood  the  test  not  merely  of 
Hibernian  enthusiasm,  but  also  of 
English  criticism,  Mr.  O'Connell  was 
j;reater  in  planning,  in  organisation, 
in  action,  and  he  had  in  nis  rough 
and  vigorous  eloquence  a  lever  which 
moved  the  passions  of  the  Irish  peo- 
ple. He  perhaps  had  the  good  sense 
to  see  that  as  an  orator,  in  the 
higher  sense  of  the  term,  he  could 
never  equal  his  more  brilliant  and 
intellectual  coUea^e.  His  triumphs 
lay  in  the  council-chamber  on  the 
one  hand,  and  in  the  market-place  or 
the  hill-side  on  the  other.  It  was  in 
the  forum  or  on  the  platform  that 
the  more  elevated  ana  refined  elo- 
quence of  Mr.  Sheil,  adorned  with 
all  the  graces  of  art,  charmed  while 
it  astonished  a  higher  and  more  cul- 
tivated audience.  Thus  they  never 
clashed.  While  all  Europe  rang 
with  the  fame  of  the  "  peaceful  agi- 
tator," who  had  taught  his  country- 
men to  use  the  forms  of  the  consti- 
tution to  the  subversion  of  its  spirit 
and  objects;  every  scholar,  every 
statesman,  every  lover  of  the  beauti- 
ful in  oratory  as  an  art,  had  already 
learned  to  aomire  that  new,  thrilling, 
imaginative,  vet  forcible  style  of  elo- 
quence, which  ever  and  anon,  amid 
tne  din  and  clamour  of  noisier  war- 
fare, sounded  the  spirit-stirring  toc- 
sin of  nationality  and  relig^ious  liberty, 
breaking  forth  like  intermittent 
liehtning-flashes  amidst  the  thunders 
of  the  agitation.  Mr.  Sheil,  on  the 
other  hand,  looked  up  to  Mr.  O'Con- 
nell for  his  indomitable  energy  and 
perseverance,  his  craft,  cunning,  cau- 
tion, his  thorough  nationality  and 
identification  with  the  feelings  of  the 
people,  and  would  as  little  have 
thought  of  substantially  opposing  his 
decision  or  resisting  his  general  con- 
trol over  the  proceedings  of  the 
Association,  as  the  other  would  have 
attempted  to  vie  with  him  in  elo- 
(^uence.  So  they  went  on  together, 
side  by  side,  though  really  exercising 


so  distinct  an  influence,  with  scarcely 
any  of  that  jealousy  or  rivalry  whicn 
has  so  often  stifled  similar  under- 
takings in  their  very  infancy.  If 
Mr.  SheiFs  ideas  of  agitation  were 
more  grand  and  comprehensive ;  if 
he  would  fain  have  gone  by  a  more 
direct  and  manly  but  more  dangerous 
road  to  the  intelligence  of  the  En^r. 
lish  parliament  and  people ;  if,  in  his 
anxiety  to  impress  on  the  world  a 
deep  and  startling  conviction  of  the 
union  and  nationality  of  the  Irish 
people,  and  their  absolute,  even  their 
slavish  devotion  to  their  leaders ;  if 
in  this  his  superabundant  energy 
and  velocity  of  purpose,  he  would 
have  drawn  the  Association  into  the 
meshes  of  the  law,  there  was  Mr. 
O'Connell  at  his  right  hand  to  repress 
and  guide,  to  steer  clear  of  the  rocks 
and  shoals,  to  accomplish  by  that 
crafly  prudence  and  keen  dexterity  in 
escape  which  savours  so  much  of  po- 
litical cowardice,  those  objects  which, 
in  the  other  case,  would  have  been 
realised  by  a  more  manly  display  of 
political  audacity.  Mr.  Sheil  might 
be  the  braver  man  at  the  boarding- 
pike  or  the  gun,  but  Mr.  O'Connell 
was  the  safer  at  the  helm. 

To  Mr.  Sheil  was  owing  the  idea 
of  at  once  teaching  the  people  of 
Ireland  union  and  a  sense  of  their 
strength,  while  obtaining  an  universal 
expression  of  their  wish  for  emanci- 
pation, by  means  of  simultaneous 
meetings  tnrouffhout  Ireland,  in  every 
parish  in  the  kingdom,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  petitioning  parliament  to 
concede  the  Cathmic  claims.  He 
would  have  gone  further.  He  would 
have  had  a  form  of  prayer  prepared, 
by  means  of  which,  in  every  chapel 
in  Ireland,  the  people  might  simul- 
taneously join  in  an  appeal  to  Heaven 
for  the  advancement  of  what  they 
had  been  taught  to  believe  was  a 
sacred  cause;  that  millions  of  men 
and  women  might  breathe  the  same 
aspiration  to  their  Creator,  at  the 
same  moment  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  land.  The  con- 
ception, apart  from  its  impropriety 
in  a  religious  point  of  view,  was  a 
grand  one,  and  strongly  illustrative 
of  its  author's  character.  It  was  an 
idea  more  likely  to  occur  to  an  en- 
thusiastic and  ardent  imagination 
like  that  of  Mr.  Sheil,  than  to  th- 
more  practical  mind  of  Mr.  O''" 
nell ;  who  again  was  much  mo 


732 


Contemporary  Orators. 


[June, 


home  in  framing  a  resolution  or 
organising  an  association,  or  holding 
a  meeting,  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
evade  the  law.  It  was  his  successful 
boast  that  there  was  no  act  of  par- 
liament through  which  he  would  not 
drive  a  coach-and-six.  Mr.  Sheil  had 
a  poet*s  conception  of  agitation  and  or- 
ganisation ;  Mr.  0*Connell*s  was  that 
of  a  lawyer.  Characters  more  opposed 
could  scarcely  have  been  brought  to- 
gether; that  they  harmonised  so  well, 
liot  withstanding  the  many  daily  causes 
of  instinctive  antagonism  that  must 
have  arisen,  is  a  miracle  only  to  be 
accounted  for  by  the  influence  which 
a  popular  movement  always  exercises 
on  its  leaders,  so  long  as  thev  are  all 
pressing  lorward  towards  tne  same 
goal. 

The  Mr.  Sheil,  who  now  sits  and 
speaks  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
who  is  a  right  honourable  member 
of  her  majesty*8  privy  council,  and 
was  not,  so  very  many  yeai*s  ago,  one 
of  the  most  ornamental,  if  not  quite 
the  most  useful,  of  the  members  of 
the   Whig   cabinet,  is,  however,   a 
very  different  personage,  indeed,  from 
the    young,    enthusiastic  Irishman, 
barrister,  poet,  orator,  agitator,  whose 
fiery  spirit  fused  into  one  silver  flow 
of  brilliant  eloquence  so  many  pure 
elements  of  democratic  power.     Ex- 
cept at  intervals,  when  the  old  habit 
recurs,    or    when     some     tempting 
opportunity  presents  itself  to   urge 
the  wrongs  of  Ireland  without  com- 
promising his  new   associates,    Mr. 
Sheil  is  one  of  the  most  quiet,  silent, 
unobtrusive  members  of  the  House 
of  Commons.    Indeed,  he  has  become 
so  identitied  with  the  Whigs,  that 
you  scarcely  remember  him  even  as 
an  Irishman,  still  less  as  one  of  those 
who,  for  so  many  years,  defied  the 
whole  parliamentary  power   of  the 
empire.     He  has  oflate  years  thrown 
himself  almost  entirely  into  the  con- 
ventionalities of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  has  undergone  mutation 
'^om  a  popular  leader  iuto  a  [)artisan. 
his  is  said  in  no  spurit  of  disparage- 
eiit ;    on    the   contrary,    however 
SiToung  Ireland"  may  affect  to  scorn 
ch    apparent    lukewarmness    and 
hserviency  to  circumstances,  it  is 
•^ally  one  of  Mr.  Sheilas  most  solid 
'*«iu8  to  our  respect.    Nor  is  his 
^■"Htorical   power  diminished   when, 
^*   Occasion,  he  deigns  to  resort  to  it. 
*>  ^veral  occasions  he  has  delivered 


speeches  on  great  qaesUona  not  af- 
fecting Ireland  alone,  but  the  whole 
empire,  which,  for  vigour,  beauty  of 
imagery,  boldness  of  conception,  and 
sarcastic  power,  will  vie  with  the 
best  of  those  made  in  the  very  heat 
and  fervour  of  his  patriotism.  It  is 
not  that  his  strength  is  diminished, 
but  that  it  is  more  under  the  regu- 
lation of  his  taste  and  judgment. 

Some  of  the  speeches  —  harangues 
they  would  bear  to  be  called — nuule 
by  Mr.  Sheil  at  the  meetings  of  the 
Koman  Catholic  Association,  will  bear 
comparison  with  the  most  memorable 
ever  called  forth  by  the  spirit  of 
democracy.  Almost  from  the  first 
day  he  appeared  on  the  platform  of 
the  Association,  the  attention  of  the 
political  world,  indeed  of  all  think- 
ing men,  was  fixed  upon  him.  Those 
who  could  not  be  present  to  vritness 
the  powerful  aid  lent  to  his  burning 
words  by  his  striking  and  original 
action,  still  saw  unquestionable  genius 
in  the  exquisite  language,  the  novel 
metaphors,  so  bold  yet  so  well  con- 
trolled, the  forcible  antithesis,  the 
luxuriant  imagery,  the  unapproach- 
able sarcastic  power,  and,  aoove  all, 
in  an  irrepressible  spirit  of  patriot- 
ism, an  indignant  sense  of  insulted 
national  honour,  that  bore  onwards 
the  stream  of  his  thoughts  with  a 
wild  and  reckless  abandonment,  peril- 
ous at  every  fall,  yet,  torrent- like, 
free  again  at  a  fresh  bound  and  rush- 
ing far  away  in  flashing  beauty.  By 
the  side  of  the  deep,  steady  current 
of  Mr.  O'Connell's  eloquence,  slow 
moving  like  a  mighty  river,  the  rapid 
flow  of  Mr.  Shell's  pure,  clear,  poeti- 
cal diction,  gave  a  delightful  and 
refreshing  relief  to  the  mind.  Take 
up  the  proceedings  of  those  meetings, 
and  the  very  sentences,  so  short  and 
exquisitely  framed,  seem  as  it  were 
to  gleam  and  glitter.  Never  was 
sedition  clothed  in  more  seductive 
language,  or  democratic  principles 
made  more  fascinating  to  the  most 
fastidious  intellect.  In  his  strong 
conviction  of  the  justice  of  his  cause, 
he  would  certainly  at  times  broach 
doctrines  as  to  the  means  to  be  em- 
ployed, which  it  required  all  the 
moral  weight  of  Mr.  0*Connell  and 
his  timorous  prudence  to  counter- 
act. But  if  the  fierv  and  impetuous 
young  advocate  ot  a  people  was 
sometimes  thus  hurried  on,  by  the 
ardour  of  his  imagination,  to  lengths 


Hri 


1846.] 


Mr.  SkeiL 


733 


which  his  cahner  judgment  would 
have  hesitated  to  confront,  it  was  so 
elearly  only  the  irrepressible  enthu- 
nasm  of  the  poet-agitator,  not  the 
significant  appeal  or  the  designing 
demaffogue,  that  the  poison  of  the 
thought  had  its  antidote  along  with 
it  in  the  chosen  and  beautiful  words 
through  which  it  was  conveyed.  But, 
with  all  their  faults,  and  in  spite 
of  the  meagre  and  imperfect  reports 
of  them  which  appeared  in  the 
newspapers  and  the  published  pro- 
ceedings of  the  Boman  Catholic 
Association,  those  speeches  spread 
the  reputation  of  Mr.  Sheil  far  and 
wide,  wherever  public  opinion  was 
aroused  on  the  Roman  Catholic 
question — a  question  which,  to  the 
opponents  as  well  as  to  the  sup- 
porters of  the  Roman  Catholic  claims, 
was  growing  to  be  one  of  the  most 
▼ital  importance.  Their  faults  were, 
indeed,  many.  The  politician  might 
be  able  to  find  excuses  in  the  sin- 
gular position  of  the  then  leaders 
of  the  Irish  people,  and  the  mo- 
mentous nature  and  exciting  in- 
terest of  the  contest,  for  the  occa- 
aionid  bursts  of  anti-English  feeling, 
the  exultation  over  English  faults 
and  follies,  the  unconstitutional  tone 
of  many  of  those  orations,  by  which 
the  suppressed  hatreds  of  centuries 
were  arrayed  against  the  compara- 
tively innocent  statesmen  and  people 
of  a  single  age :  the  poisoned  arrows 
of  the  rash  rhetorician  might  rebound 
from  the  mail  of  principle  in  which 
the  Protestant  leg^islator  encased 
himself,  confident  in  its  strength 
against  all  but  the  artillery  of  po- 
pular enthusiasm  poured  in  b^  the 
more  crafty  and  designing  eemus  of 
0*Connell.  But  the  critic,  fastidious 
in  eloquence,  could  not  forgive  in 
one  whose  genius  he  was  compelled 
to  admire,  the  frequent  violations  of 

food  taste  which  the  rising  orator 
ad  not  then  learnt  to  avoid — the 
use,  without  selection  or  abstinence, 
of  metaphors,  whose  extravagance 
could  not  be  excused,  however  their 
boldness  might  be  felt  or  their  force 
acknowledged,  and  the  sacrifice  to 
political  passions  of  the  symmetry 
and  poetical  harmony  of  what,  but 
for  those  errors  of  a  luxuriant  fancy, 
might  have  been  grand  models  of 
oratorical  perfection  for  all  time, 
each,  for  its  eloquent  history  of  na- 
tional wrongs,  an  epic,  not  spoken 


only  to  listening  thousands,  but  re- 
corded as  at  once  a  delight  and  a 
warning  to  millions  yet  to  come. 
And,  indeed,  we  do  not  overrate  the 
political  value  of  those  speeches 
while  thus  looking  back  at  their 
faults.  Time  has  obliterated  their 
immediate  effects,  there  are  not  many 
who  remember  to  have  heard  them ; 
and,  of  the  multitudes  who  read 
them  and  felt  their  power  at  the 
time  they  were  delivered,  the  ma- 
jority have  forgotten,  in  the  excite- 
ment of  subseauent  contests,  the 
great  moral  innuence  which  they 
once  exercised.  But  history  is  al- 
ready recording  their  results,  and, 
happily  for  his  own  fame,  and  for 
the  gratification  of  his  countrymen, 
he  who  deliveied  them  is  yet  strong, 
ay,  still  stronger  in  those  powers 
which  he  possesses  in  such  rare  per- 
fection, toned  down  and  chastened  as 
they  now  are  in  their  exercise,  bv 
increased  intercourse  with  mankind, 
and  the  natural  effect  which  time 
and  the  absence  of  all  causes  of  ex- 
citement have  produced  on  an  ardent 
and  irritable  temperament.  The 
speeches  to  which  we  more  parti- 
cularly refer  were  delivered  at  inter- 
vals between  1823  and  1829.  Bad 
as  the  reports  of  these  speeches  are, 
still  their  intrinsic  worth,  their  pow- 
erful eloquence,  and  exquisite  beauty, 
make  themselves  felt  through  ever 
so  debased  a  medium.  Perhaps  the 
most  remarkable  of  his  speeches — 
the  most  original  and  characteristic 
of  his  peculiar  mind — were  those  he 
made  at  the  different  aggregate 
meetings  of  the  Roman  Catholics 
which  took  place  at  intervals  during 
the  agitation  for  emancipation.  Then 
he  hi^  a  wider  field  and  a  more  in- 
spiring audience  than  even  at  the 
meetings  of  the  Association ;  for,  at 
the  latter,  the  cautious  spirit  of 
0*Connell  prevailed  almost  without 
restraint;  the  jealous  eye  of  the 
government  watched,  with  Ivnx-hke 
precision,  every  movement  oi  so  dan- 
gerous an  organisation;  and  even 
the  enthusiasm  and  valorous  fancy 
of  a  Sheil  were  restrained  within  the 
limits  of  a  technical  construction  of 
the  liberty  of  public  speech.  But 
the  aggregate  meetings  were  more  a 
matter  of  open  public  constitutional 
right,  and  there  the  enthusiastic  and 
indignant  orator  revelled  in  the  wild 
freedom  of  conscious  power  and  irre- 


734 


Coniemporartf  Orators, 


[June* 


sistible  impulse.    The  full  force  and 
beauty  of  those  speeches  can  now 
scarcely  be  appreciated  but  by  those 
who  were  so  fortunate  as  to  hear 
them.  They  left  an  impression  which 
has  nerer  been  effaced  by  even  the 
more  perfect  and  chastened  produc- 
tions of  the  maturer  mind  of  the 
orator.    One  of  his  greatest  triumphs 
was  on  the  occasion  of  that  miracle— 
morally,  still  more  than  politically,  a 
miracle — the  Clare  election.     Nor 
should  we  forget  to  mention,  among 
his  great  orations,  his  speech  at  a 
great  meeting  (at  Carlow,  if  we  re- 
member righUv),  where,  taking  the 
fint  chapter  of  Exodus  for  his  theme, 
and  with  the  Bible  in  his  hand,  he 
quoted,  with  a  solemnity  and  effect 
electrical  on  the   sympathies  of  a 
religious  and  enthusiastic  people,  the 
woMs  of  the  inspired  writer,  and 
founded  on    them  an   impassioned 
appeal  to  his  countrymen  to  perse- 
vere in  their  career — to  press  on- 
wards to   the   goal   appomted  for 
them,  heedless  of  the  fean  of  the 
timid  or  the  suggestions  of  the  com- 
promising.    Words  are  inadequate 
to  convey  the  effect  of  this  speech : 
nor  was  the  speech  one  of  words 
only ;  it  was  the  action,  the  fine  har- 
mony between  the  thoughts  and  the 
exprefsion,  when  the  feelings  were 
wrought  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
tension  in  the  enthusiasm  inspired  by 
the  cause,  and  the  sympathy  of  the 
multitude  around;   all  these  drew 
forth  the  hidden  strength  of  his  na- 
ture till  he  poured  the  full  force  of 
his  fervid  soul  into  his  solemn  theme. 
A  very  short  period  found  him  in 
the  House  of  Commons.     As  soon  as 
th^  Emancipation-bill  qualified  him, 
as  a  Roman  Catholic,  to  sit,  his  am- 
bition, or  the  tactics  of  the  Associa- 
tion, led  to  his  being  put  forward  for 
the  county  of  Louth.    He  was  un- 
successful ;  and  was  ultimately  con- 
tent to  slip  into  Parliament  for  a 
nomination  borough — that  of  Mil- 
bume  Port    In  1831,  on  the  21st  of 
March,  he  made  his  first  speech  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  on  the  second 
reading  of  the  Reform-bill.    He  had 
not  long  proceeded  ¥rith  his  address 
ere  the  House  perceived,  and  acknow- 
ledged by  their  cheers,  that  they  had 
in  him,  as  in  Mr.  Macaulay,  a  mine 
of  oratorical  wealth,  and  a  perpetual 
''nuroe  of  the  highest  gratification, 
reputation  for  power  and  origi- 


nality aa  a  speaker  had  preceded  him ; 
and  the  utmost  anxiety  was  mani- 
fested to  hear  his  medden  essay. 
In  this  respect  he  was  differently 
situated  finom  his  eloquent  rival. 
From  Mr.  Sheil,  all  men  expected 
much;  Mr.  Macaalay*s  powers,  ex- 
cept, of  course,  as  an  essa^pst,  were 
known  only  to  a  comparatively  few 
of  his  personal  iriends,  and  those 
who  had  been  his  contemporaries  at 
Cambridge.  If  he  therefore  made, 
by  comparison,  a  more  briUtant 
speech,  and  achieved  a  more  com- 
plete triumph,  great  allowance  must 
be  made  ror  surprise.  Mr.  Sheil, 
notwithstanding  the  extravagant 
expectations  formed  of  him,  also 
achieved  a  triumph ;  but  it  took  him 
a  longer  time  to  acquire  his  absolute 
ascendancy  as  an  orator.  People, 
too,  were  always  afraid  that  his 
nationdity,  whidi  had  been  so  use- 
ful in  the  agitation,  would  every 
now  and  then  break  out  in  some 
anti-Enfflish  demonstration. 

But  Mr.  Sheil  shewed  himself 
almost  as  ^preat  a  tactician  as  he  was 
a  rhetorician.  The  war  over  and 
the  victory  won,  he  buried  the  sword 
and  forbore  to  exult  over  the  van- 
quished. Throughout  his  subae* 
quent  parliamentary  career,  he  has 
identified  himself  with  an  English 
party;  and,  while  still  advocating, 
with  eloquence  as  energetic  but 
more  chastened,  the  *^  wrongs**  of 
Ireland,  he  has  never  run  counter 
to  the  feelings  of  the  Enslish  as  a 
nation.  In  this  respect  ne  diffen 
from  Mr.  OOonnell  and  the  parH 
pretre  as  much  as  from  "  Young  Ire- 
land" or  the  party  republiGan. 
Gratitude  for  emancipation  made 
him,  together  with  the  new  Irish 
Catholic  members,  vote  with  the 
mass  of  the  English  people  on  the 
Reform  question.  That  gratitude 
has  never  died  within  him.  Ihe  penal 
laws  on  the  Roman  Catholics  he  con- 
ceived to  be  the  real  badge  of  na- 
tional subjugation ;  those  once  abro- 
gated, he  considered  himself  one  of 
the  people  of  the  British  empire, 
and,  while  still  urging  on  Parlia- 
ment the  gradual  fulfilment  of  the 
contract  of  1829,  in  what  he  would 
call  its  spirit  as  well  as  its  letter,  he 
never  forgot  that  iustice  to  England 
was  quite  as  sacred  a  duty  as  justice 
to  Ireland.    Not  so  all  his  friends. 

This  tact  and  abstinence  in  Mr. 


1846-] 


Mr.  Sheil. 


735 


Shcil  yery  materially  leflsen  the 
difficulty  of  criticising  the  speeches 
he  has  made  in  Parliament.  If  they 
are  ever  disfigured,  it  is  not  hy 
wrong  sentiment  or  the  undue  infu- 
sion of  political  feeline :  their  ble- 
mishes are  obvious  on^  in  a  critical 
point  of  view,  and  are  at  the  same 
time  so  entirely  counterbalanced  by 
their  beauties,  that  they  might  be 
passed  over,  were  it  not  that  their 
exposure  might  possibly  prevent  a 
very  seductive  example  being  follow- 
ed by  others.  It  should  be  added, 
too,  that  our  remarks  apply  to  Mr. 
Sheirs  speeches  as  delivered,  not  as 
printed  m  the  newspapers.  From 
the  extraordinary  rapidity  of  his 
utterance,  and  the  abrupt  transitions 
of  voice  in  which  his  enthusiasm  and 
ardour  lead  him  to  indulge,  even  the 
most  experienced  reporters  find  a 
difficulty  in  rendering  his  speeches 
with  perfect  fidelity  and  freedom. 
It  is  obvious  that  an  orator  whose 
beauties  of  style  depend  so  much 
upon  the  most  slight  and  evanescent 
touches,  the  nicest  discrimination  of 
language,  the  artful  collocation  of 
words  and  sentences  so  as  to  make 
emphasis  supply  in  many  cases  the 
thought  which  parliamentary  cus- 
tom will  not  permit  to  be  expressed 
in  words,  must  suffer  irrevocable 
damage  if  in  the  process  of  transmu- 
tation the  fine  aroma  is  lost,  or  the 
exquisite  tints  and  shades  confounded 
in  a  general  flatness  and  tameness  of 
colouring.  Nor  is  the  case  mended 
when  he  afterwards  writes  his  own 
speeches.  He  then  falls  into  nearly 
toe  same  error.  The  heat  of  his 
mind  has  cooled,  and  he  cannot  so 
speedily  reproduce  it.  Sometimes 
an  intelligent  and  able  reporter  will 
produce  a  better  version  than  his 
own. 

An  analysis  of  Mr.  Sheil*s  speeches 
would  shew  them  to  be  in  the  highest 
degree  artificial.  It  is  his  object  to 
produce  by  the  most  elaborate  selec- 
tion of  themes,  the  most  chosen  forms 
of  phrase,  and  the  most  refined  art 
in  tneir  arrangement,  the  same  effect 
which  the  spontaneous  efforts  of  an 
earnest  orator  would  have  had  in  the 
highest  powers  always  at  command. 
Mr.  Sheil  speaks  but  seldom,  and 
takes  much  time  to  prepare  his 
speeches,  which,  thongn  delivered 
with  all  the  air  of  passion  and  aban- 
donment which  the  enthusiasm  of 


the  moment  might  be  supposed  to 
inspire,  are  studied  even  in  the  most 
minute  particulars, — in  the  words 
chosen,  the  contrasts  of  ideas  and 
imagery,  the  tone  of  voice,  the  very 
gesture.  This  preparation  may  not 
extend  perhaps  to  every  part  of  the 
speech.  In  tne  level  portions,  or  in 
tnose  allusions  which  are  called  forth 
by  what  has  happened  during  the 
debate,  he  trusts  in  a  great  measure 
to  the  impulse  or  the  judgment  of 
the  moment,  though  even  here  yon 
may  every  now  and  then  detect  a 
phrase  or  a  thought  which  smells  of 
the  lamp ;  but  the  great  passages  of 
the  speech— those  which  the  world 
afterwards  admires,  and  which,  in 
fiict,  form  the  foundation  of  the  fame 
of  the  orator — ^these  are  hewn,  chi- 
selled, and  polished  with  all  the  ten- 
der care  of  a  sculptor,  rehearsed  with 
all  their  possible  effects,  and  kept  in 
reserve  until  the  moment  when  they 
may  be  incorporated,  in  all  their 
brilliancy  and  perfection,  with  the 
less  conspicuous  parts,  where  they 
shine  fortn  resplendently  like  bright 
gems  in  a  dull  settine.  It  is  in  rhe- 
toric and  sarcasm  that  he  is  most 
distinguished.  As  a  rhetorician  he 
is  almost  perfect.  No  man  whom 
this  generation  has  ever  heard  speak 
equals  him  in  the  power  with  which 
he  works  out  an  ioea,  an  argument, 
or  an  illustration,  so  as  to  make  it 
carry  all  the  force  and  weight  of 
which  it  can  possibly  be  made  ca- 
pable. And  this,  although  it  is 
really  the  result  of  such  art,  is  done 
by  means  apparently  so  simple  that 
the  hearer*s  mind  is  unconsciously 
captivated.  A  happy  adaptation  of 
some  common  thought,  an  infusion 
of  nervous  metaphor,  which  gives  a 
colouring  to  a  whole  passage  without 
leaving  open  anj  point  tangible  to 
opposition;  delicate  antithesis,  the 
more  effective  from  its  not  appearing 
forced ; — these  are  among  the  many 
arts  which  Mr.  Sheil  uses  to  insinu- 
ate his  views  and  feelings  into  the 
mind,  while  avoidinpf  the  appear- 
ance  of  making  a  dehberate  assault^ 
or  laying  himself  out  to  entrap  or  to 
persuade.  Occasionally  there  are 
bursts  of  passionate  eloquence  which 
it  requires  all  your  scepticism  to 
make  you  believe  are  not  the  warm 
outpourings  of  an  excited  mind ;  but 
so  you  may  say  of  a  Kemble  or  a 
Macready.    In  his  speeches  on  Irish 


i 


736 


Contemporary  Orators. 


[Jane, 


espeeially  this  apparent  ain- 
eerity  is  most  eoDs^cuoos.  Hu  heart 
always  appears  to  be  in  his  appeals 
to  the  English  nation  on  behalf  of 
his  country,  and  no  doubt  at  inany 
times  he  most  fling  off  his  habits  of 
preparation  and    give    rein    to  his 
feelings   or   his    imagination.      In 
spoking  of  Ireland  he  personifies 
lier — talksof  her  and  her  wrongs  as 
he  would  of  some  lovely  and  injured 
woman,  whose  cause  he  was  espous* 
ing.     Sometimes  his  propensity  to 
personify  runs  him  into  extremes. 
Speaking  of  the  address  for  a  Coer- 
cion*bill  in  1833,  he  characterised  it 
as  one  "•  which  struck  Ireland  dumb, 
and  clapped  a  padlock  on  her  lips ; 
though    it   never    could   stop    the 
throbbing  of  her  big  and  indignant 
h^rt  !**    One  of  his  most  remarkable 
and  beautiful  outbursts  of  nation- 
ality was  in  1837,  in  his  celebrated 
attack  on  Lord  Lyndhurst  for  his 
^  alien**  speech.      Alluding  to  the 
all^;ed  charge  that  the  Irish  were 
aliens  in  blood  and  religion,  he  de- 
livered this  roagnifioent  burst : — 

*«  When  WIS  Arthur  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington when  those  words  were  uttered  1 
Metbinka  he  should  have  started  up  to 
disclaim  them. 

'  The  battles,  sieges,  fortunes  that  he*d 
paaad 

ought  to  hare  come  back  upon  him.     He 
ought  to  have  remembered  that,  from  the 
earliest  achievement  ia  which  he  dis- 
played that  military  genius  which  has 
placed  him   foremost    in  the  annals  of 
modern  warfare,  down  to  that  Ust  and 
surpassing  oombat  which  has  made  his 
name    imperishable  —  from    A&saye    to 
Waterloo — the  Irish  aoldiers,  with  whom 
your  armies  were  filled,  were  the  iiise- 
parable   auxiliaries    to    the  glory   with 
which   his  unparalleled  successes   have 
been  crowned.     Whose  were  the  athletic 
arms  that  drove  your  bayonets  at  Vimiera 
through  the  phalanxes  that  never  leeled 
iu  the  shock  of  war  before  1     What  des- 
perate valour  climed  the  steeps  and  filled 
the  moaU  of  Badajos?     All,  all  his  vic- 
tories should  have  rushed  and  crowded 
back  upon  his  memory  ;  Vimieia,  Bade- 
jos.  Salamanca,  Albuera,  Toulouse — and, 
last  of  all,  the  greatest    Tell  me.  for  you 
were  there — I  appeal  to  the  gallant  sol. 
dier  before  me  (poiuting  to  Sir  Henry 
Hardiuge).  who  bears,  I  know,  a  gener- 
ous heart  in  an  intrepid  breast — tell  me, 
for  you   must  needa  remember,  on   that 
day  when  the  destinies  of  mankind  were 
trembling   in   the  balance,  while  death 


fell  in  showers  npon  them;  when  dia 
artillery   of    Franoe,   levelled   with  the 
precision  of   the  most  deadly  science, 
pbyed  upon  them;  when   her  legioai. 
incited  by  the  Toice,  inspired  by  the  ex- 
ample   of  their   mighty   leader,  rushed 
again  and  again  to  the  contest ;- tell  me 
it  for  an  instant,  when  to  hesitate  for  an 
instant    was    to    be    lost,  the  'alma' 
blanched  ?    A nd  when,  at  length,  the  mo- 
ment for  the  last  deciaive  movement  had 
arrired  ;  when  the  ralour,  so  long  witaly 
checked,  was  at  last  let  loose;  when  with 
words  familiar,  but  immortal,  the  great 
captain  exclaioned,   'Up.    lads,  and  at 
them  !*— tell  me  if  Catholic  Ireland  wiUk 
less  heroic  valour  than   the  natives  of 
your  own  glorious  isle  precipiuted  her- 
self upon  the  foe !     The  blood  of  Eng- 
land.   Scotland,  Ireland,  flowed  in  the 
same  stream,  on  the  same  field ;   whea 
the  chill  morning  dawned  their  dead  Uy 
cold   and  stork  together;   in  the  same 
deep  pit  their  bodies  were  deposited ;  the 
gre«n  arm   of  spring   is  now  breskug 
on  their  commingled  dust ;  the  dew  fiUli 
from   heaven   upon   their   union  m  the 
grave.      Partakers  in  every  peril,  in  the 
glory   ahall   we    not  participate!    And 
shall  we  be  told,  as  a  requital,  that  we 
are  estranged  from  the  noble  country  for 
whose  salvation  our  lifeblood  was  pound 
out  V* 

The  effect  produced  by  this  pas- 
sage wUl  not  be  easily  foigottw. 
The  passionate  vehemence  of  the 
speaker  and  the  mournful  music  of 
his  voice  were  a  living  echo  to  the 
deep  emotions  with  which  hie  soul 
seemed  charged.  Lord  Lyndhurrt 
was  in  the  house  at  the  tune,  siMl 
although  conscious  that  the  whole 
passage  was  only  a  beautiful  rinn- 
tasmagoria  raised  by  the  art  of  tnc 
rhetorician,  stQl  he  could  not  but 
admire.  It  would  seem  invidjoai  » 
attempt  to  neutralise  so  fine  »  *>™ 
of  feeling ;  but  a  few  words  of  trutii 
will  go  far  to  do  it  It  unfortanatcly 
happens  that  Mr.  Shell  himseH  ms 
speech  at  the  Roman  Catholic  Asso- 
mtion  in  January  1823,  laid  down 
in  distinct  and  unequivocal  term 
the  very  same  doctrine— that  toe 
Irish  were  ahens— for  giving  cur- 
rency to  which  he  so  successfully  s"^ 
sailed  Lord  Lyndhurst  with  the  iteea 
arrows  of  his  oblivious  passion. 

Metaphor  and  antithesis  are  the 
chief  agents  he  uses  in  his  speccfieJ. 
Sometimes  the  latter  is  exquisitely 
perfect;  sometimes,  on  the  wicr 
hand,  laboured  and  clumsy,  «»  *^ 
forced  as  to  defeat  itself.    Too  often 


1 846.] 


Mr,  SheiL 


737 


he  is  run  away  with  by  the  aednc- 
tion  of  this  pleasing  but  mechanical 
mode  of  pointing  thoughts,  to  the 
manifest  mjury  and  weakening  of 
his  arsument  or  of  the  general  tone 
he  wi^es  to  convey.  Ihen  you  see 
that  he  is  only  the  orator,  the  sen- 
tence-maker, the  painter  of  brilliant 
pictures ;  that  he  wishes  his  triumphs 
to  be  more  over  the  passions  or  the 
imagination  than  over  the  reason  or 
the  judgment  His  style  has  other 
defects  akin  to  these.  For  instance, 
he  will  often  sacrifice  the  real 
strength  of  a  phrase  and  endanger 
the  success  of  the  thought  or  argu- 
ment it  conveys,  led  away  by  the 
seductive  sound  of  some  word  or 
words  rhythmically  pleasing  in  com- 
bination, but  the  application  of  which 
in  such  a  manner  the  judgment  re- 
jects ;  and  he  will  also  lose  the  force 
and  beauty  of  real  antithesis  in  the 
glitter  or  the  novelty  of  its  false 
counterpart.  For  an  odd  paradoxical 
phrase  ne  will  risk  the  simplicity  and 
truth  of  a  sentence.  Speaking  of 
the  Whig  Tithe- bill,  he  exclaimed, 
**  Tithes  are  to  be  abolbhed.  How  ? 
By  providing  for  them  a  sepulchre 
from  which  they  are  to  rise  in  an 
immortal  resiucitaUon  T  This  is  an 
abuse  of  language.  His  metaphors 
are  bold  and  striking.  Among  many 
brilliant  things  in  his  speeches  against 
Lord  Stanlev  he  said, — "  The  people 
of  Ireland  behold  the  pinnacles  of 
the  Establishment  shattered  by  the 
lightning  of  Grattan*s  eloquence." 

He  excels  in  sarcastic  humour, 
which  is  generally  conveyed  in  the 
most  delicate  touches.  He  is  like 
Lord  Lyndhurst  in  the  apparent 
ease  and  artlessness  with  which  he 
infuses  the  most  keen  and  cutting 
allusions  by  the  addition  of  a  word 
or  the  turn  of  a  sentence  in  the  midst 
of  the  most  level  argument.  He 
seldom  makes  a  **dead  set**  at  his 
victim,  like  Lord  Brougham ;  and  he 
therefore  produces  the  more  effect. 
Some  of  his  smartest  hits  of  this  kind 
were  at  Lord  Stanley.  It  was  he 
who  spoke  of  that  minister  as  'Uhe 
then  Secretary-at-war  vrith  Ire- 
land;" and,  when  alluding  to  Sir 
James  Graham  in  council  with  the 
noble  lord,  he  spoke  of  them  as 
"  Ix)rd  Stanley  and  his  confederated 
On  another  occasion,  speaking  of 
"divine  service,"  as  referred  to  in 
an  act  of  parliament,  he  jetted  in  a 


parenthesis  ("  divine  is  an  aUaa  for 
rrotestant")  well  understood  by  the 
Roman  Catholics,  and  having  as 
much  force  as  twenty  elaborate 
speeches.  He  is  not  very  reverent 
in  his  jokes.  Alluding  to  the  Tem- 
poralities-act, he  observed  that  "Lord 
Stanley  had  struck  off  ten  bishops 
at  one  blow :  he  blew  off  ten  mitres 
from  the  head  of  the  hierarchy  at  s 
single  puff."  If  he  can  make  a  witty 
point  or  shape  a  felicitous  phrase,  no 
fastidiousness  of  taste  or  delicacy  of 
feeling  restrains  him  from  wreaking 
his  wit  on  an  antagonist.  There  are 
several  instances  on  record  where  he 
has  done  this  towards  individuals, 
though  never  in  an  ill-natured  or 
spiteful  spirit.  He  is  equally  liberal 
in  his  sarcastic  allusions  to  classes  or 
bodies  of  men,  and  not  more  deli- 
cate. We  remember  an  instance  in 
one  of  his  speeches  which  illustrates 
this  peculiarity  in  his  style.  He  had 
been  drawing  a  somewhat  elowine 
and  overcharged  picture  of  the  good 
results  to  ensue  from  church  reform, 
and  he  summed  them  up  in  terms 
of  characteristic  power,  and  of  a  de- 
gree of  coarseness  not  often  met  with 
in  his  speeches.  He  said,  as  a  climax 
to  his  anticipations  of  good,  that 
when  these  reforms  should  have  been 
effected,  **the  bloated  paunch  of  the 
unwieldy  rector  would  no  longer 
heave  in  holy  magnitude  beside  the 
shrinking  abdomen  of  the  starving 
and  miserably  prolific  curate." 

Sometimes  nis  sarcasm  on  indi- 
viduals is  really  searing,  sometimes 
playfully  severe.  We  remember 
one  amusing  instance  of  the  latter. 
One  day,  at  the  Catholic  Association, 
a  volunteer  patriot — a  Mr.  Addis, 
we  believe— came  forward  and  made 
a  very  strong  speech,  more  remark- 
able for  enthusiasm  than  prudence, 
in  which  he  offered,  if  necessary,  to 
lay  his  head  on  the  block  in  the 
cause  of  Ireland.  His  address  was 
rather  a  dangerous  one  to  those  whom 
he  professed  to  serve,  as  the  crown 
lawyers  were  at  that  time  more  than 
usually  on  the  alert.  Mr.  Sheil  de- 
sired publicly  to  counteract  the  pos- 
sible mischief.  He  rose,  and,  with 
his  peculiar  sarcastic  emphasis,  ob- 
served, "  The  honourable  gentleman 
has  just  made  us  an  oblation  of  his 
head :  he  has  accompanied  his  offer 
with  abundant  evidence  of  the  value 
of  the  sacrifice."    Columns  of  abuse 


738 


Contemporary  Orators. 


[June, 


from  Mr.  O'Connell  would  not  have 
proved  half  so  effectual  as  this  quiet 
rebuke. 

But  we  must  draw  these  observa- 
tions to  a  close.  The  characteristics 
and  defects  of  his  speeches  have  been 
more  dwelt  upon,  because  his  eccen- 
tricities of  delivery  have  been  fre- 
5uently  and  powerfully  described, 
'here  is  a  striking  correspondence 
between  his  personal  peculiarities  and 
the  l^iding  features  of  his  speeches. 
He  is  unique  as  an  orator.  There  is 
a  harmony  between  the  outer  and 
inner  man  which  you  do  not  find  in 
others, — for  instance,  in  Mr.  Macau- 
lay.  Having  read  his  speeches,  if 
you  see  him,  you  are  not  surprised  to 
find  that  it  was  from  him  that  they 
proceeded.  Small  in  stature,  de- 
licately formed,  with  a  strongly 
marked  countenance  full  of  expres- 
sion, he  looks  the  man  of  genius,  and 
betrays  in  every  motion  that  im- 
pulsive temperament  on  which  ex- 
citement acts  like  a  whirlwind.  He 
seems  ^^  of  imagination  all  compact.** 
You  see  the  b^y,  but  you  think  of 
the  mind.  It  is  embodied  passion, 
thought,  fancy ;  not  mere  organised 
matter.  **  Look !  what  comes  here  ? 
— a  grave  unto  a  soul,  holding  the 
Eternal  Spirit  against  its  will !  you 
are  tempted  to  exclaim  with  the  poet 
who  of  all  others  could  have  appre- 
ciated such  rare  products  of  Nature's 
love-labour,  such  unusual  blendings 
of  the  spiritual  and  the  material. 
Yet  there  is  nothing  of  the  beautiful 
in  a  physical  sense,  little  of  that  per- 
sonal perfection  or  refinement  wnich 
made  a  Byron  or  a  Shelle^r  so  loved 
or  worshipped  by  their  intimates. 
The  charm  of  Mr.  Sheil*s  appearance 
consists  in  the  striking  and  powerful 
developement  of  intellect ;  in  the 
quick  reflex  of  thought  in  the  fea- 
tures; the  mobility  of  body,  the 
firm  grasp,  as  it  were,  which  is  taken 
by  the  mind  of  the  corporeal  frame, 
making  it  the  ready  and  obedient 
slave  of  its  slightest  and  most  sudden 
will.  Thoroughly  masculine  in  mo- 
ral strength,  in  the  intensity  of  his 
feelings,  and  the  strong  power  vrith 
which  he  impresses  them  on.others, 
Mr.  Shell  has  also  all  the  feminity 
nh  to  our  idea  of  the 
rament,  though  it 
in  personal  delicacy 
nuch  as  in  a  supreme 
brol  over  the  body 


by  the  spirit.  There  is  more  of  Ed- 
mund Kean  than  of  Shelley  in  this 
transparency  of  the  corporeal  man  to 
the  intellectual  light  within.  A 
writer,  who  would  seem  to  be  well 
acquainted  with  his  subject,  has  said, 
speaking  of  Mr.  SheiPs  personal  ap- 
pearance,— 

**  Small  in  stature  and  make,  like  so 
many  men  of  genius,  he  bears  the  marks 
of  a  delicate  orgaoisation.  The  defects 
of  a  figure  not  disproporttoned,  end  yet 
not  strictly  symmetrica),  are  overlooked 
in  the  play  of  the  all-ioforming  mind, 
which  keeps  the  frame  and  limbs  in  rapid 
and  harmonious  motion  when  in  action. 
The  body,  though  bo  small  in  itself,  is 
surmounted  by  a  head  which  lends  it 

dignity, a  head,  though  proportionately 

small  in  size,  yet  so  toll  of  intellectual 
developement,  so  wide-browed,  that, 
while  it  seems  large  in  itself,  it  raises 
the  apparent  stature  of  the  wiry  frame  <m 
which  it  rests.  The  forehead  is  broad 
and  prominent,  but,  at  first  sight,  it  ra- 
ther contradicts  the  usual  developement 
of  the  iDteliectual;  though  really  deep 
and  high,  it  seems  to  overhang  the  brow. 
Under  it  gleams  an  eye,  piercing  and 
restless  even  in  the  repose  of  the  mind, 
but  indescribably  bright  and  deep-mean- 
ing when  excited.  The  mouth,  small, 
sharp — the  lips  chiselled  fine,  till,  under 
the  influence  of  passion,  they  are  almost 
transparent  like  a  shell -~ is  a  quick  ally 
in  giving  poiot  and  meaning  to  the  sub-  * 
tlest  ideas  of  the  ever-active  brain ;  apt 
in  its  keen-like  expression,  alike  of  the 
withering  sarcasm,  the  delicate  irony,  or 
the  overwhelming  burst  of  sincere  and 
passionate  vehemence.  The  featoree  ge- 
nerally are  small,  but,  under  the  influence 
of  ennobling  emotion,  they  seem  to  ex- 
pand, until,  at  times,  they  look  grand,  al« 
most  heroic.  Yet  when  the  baser  passions 
obtain  the  mastery  over  this  child  of  im- 
pulse—as they  will  aometiraes  ovw  the 
best  in  the  heat  of  party  warfare — these 
features,  so  capable  of  giving  expression 
to  all  that  elevates  our  moral  and  m- 
tellectual  nature,  become  contracted,  the 
paleness  of  concentrated  passion  over- 
spreads them.  Instead  of  the  eloquent 
earnestness  of  high-wrought  feeling,  you 
see  (but  this  is  rare,  inde^)  the  gloating 
hue  of  suppressed  rage,  the  tremulous 
restraint  of  cautious  spite.  In  place  of 
the  dilated  eye,  and  festnres  flashed  with 
noble  elevation  of  soul,  or  consoioos 
pride  of  intellectual  power,  yon  have  a 
keen,  piercing,  adder  •like  glanoe^  wither- 
ing, fascinating,  but  no  longer  beautiful. 
Yet  the  intellect,  though  for  a  time  the 
slave  of  passion,  is  the  intellect  still." 

His  peculiar  style  of  eloqneiioe» 


1846-1  Mr. 

hii  rapidity  of  utterance,  variety  and 
impreamvenen  of  action,  and  har- 
roonion*  tones  of  voice,  now  deep 
and  richly  melodioQi  in  the  exprenion 
of  aolenm  emotion,  now  load  and 
piercing  in  the  exdtemeat  of  passion, 
almost  defy  description.  Lnagine 
all  the  beauties  of  Eean's  performance 
ofOlhello  crowded  into  half  an  hour's 
highly  aastained  e1o(|ueDce,  and  you 
have  some  tan^ble  idea  of  what  is 
the  effect  While  the  impulse  is  upon 
him  be  seems  as  if  possessed,  his 
nature  is  stirred  to  its  very  depths, 
the  fountwna  of  his  soul  pour  forth 
nnceasingly  the  living  waters.  His 
.head  glows  like  a  ball  of  fire,  the 
sou!  stru^les  through  every  outlet 
of  expression.  His  arms  now  raised 
aloft,  as  if  in  imprecation,  are,  in  a 
moment,  extended  downwards,  as  if 
in  supplication,  the  clenched  finger? 
clasped  hke  those  of  one  in  strong 
agony.  Anon,  and  the  small,  thin, 
delicate,  wiry  hand,  is  stretched  forth, 
the  &ce  assumes  an  expression  the 
very  ideal  of  the  sarcastic,  and  the 
finger  of  scorn  is  pointed  towards  the 
object  of  attack.  A  thousand  vary- 
ing expressions,  each  powerful  and 
all  beautiful,  are  crowded  into  the 
brief  time  during  which  his  excite- 


ment (which,  like  that  of  actors, 
though  prepared,  is  genuine  while  it 
lasts)  hurries  him  on  to  pour  forth 
his  whole  soul  in  language  of  such 

elegance  and  force. 

Mr.  Sheil  occupies  a  position  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  most  of  his  coun- 
trymen in  parliament.  The  Irish 
member  who  most  approaches  him 
in  intellectual  qualities,  thoush  not 
in  actual  eloquence,  is  Mr.  W'yse. 
Like  Mr.  Wyse,  he  haa  associated 
himself  with  the  Whig  party,  who 
chose  him  to  be  one  of  their  minis- 
ters when  they  desired  to  fraternize 
with  the  Irish  Catholics,  because  he 
was  at  once  talented,  moderate,  and 
respectable.  For  joining  them,  he 
has  been  made  the  subject  of  virulent 
abuse  by  the  extreme  party  in  Ire- 
land; but  he  bas  too  much  steadiness 
of  purpose  and  good  sense  to  be 
much  affected  by  it.  His  position 
in  the  House  is  well  earned,  not 
merely  by  his  eloquence,  but  also  by 
the  generalamenity  of  his  disposition. 


bers  like  Mr.  Sheil,  the  Irish  ques- 
tion might  be  speedily  and  satisfac- 
torily settled. 


Tkt  Caged  Lark. 


THE  CAOZD  LACK. 

HouB  by  boui  tbe  dreorj  day 
Slowly,  M^ly  wore  aw»y ; 
Heavy  dropa  or  eeuelm  rain 
Besting  'gainst  the  window-pane; 
Bitter  winds  with  gusty  iouad 
Monmfally  were  waiiing  round. 
Till  at  loEt  the  oatward  gloom 
Seem'd  to  (ill  my  quiet  room. 
And  1  look'd  with  tearful  eyea 
Upward  t«  the  weeping  Bkies. 
Now  and  then  a  few  quick  feet 
Faa8'd  aioTiK  the  Tillage  street. 
Now  and  then  a  child  e  ibrill  cry 
Mingled  with  the  wind's  deep  sigh. 
Many  a  thought  of  other  days — 
Fairer  scenes  and  brighter  Uayi — 
Fill'd  my  discontented  heart: 
I,  who  oft  had  taken  part 
In  the  gladness  of  tbe  spring ; 
I,  whose  jov  it  was  to  sing 
Of  tbe  eartb'g  awakening 
From  her  ice-bound  wintry  ileep. 
Now  could  only  pine  and  weep, 
For  my  soul  grew  faint  and  dull. 
Longing  for  the  beautiful. 

"  Spring  was  wont  of  old,"  I  said, 
"  Btestinga  on  my  path  to  shed. 
Once  her  skies  were  all  serene, 
All  her  fields  of  richest  green. 
All  her  flowen  of  loveliest  sheen. 
Then  the  hidden  cuckoo  sang, 
Till  the  leafy  greenwood  rang 
With  his  lay,  aud  thousands  more 
Sounding  till  the  day  was  o'er ; 
Nor  were  even  hush  d  at  night 
Songs  and  echoes  of  delight. 
Then,  where'er  my  feet  might  tiead. 
Starlike  flowers  were  gaily  spread : 
Studded  were  the  banks  and  fields 
With  the  primrose'  fellow  shield*, 
Cowslip-bells  and  Tiolets  small 
Blossom'd  ere  the  grass  was  tall. 
And  tbe  murmur  of  the  bee 
Ever  rose  unceasingly, 
"TTiere  the  scented  fune  uoroll'd 
tanners  fair  of  green  and  gold. 
Tien  the  bright-wing'd  butterfly, 
like  a  dream  of  joy,  flew  by, 
>r  awhile  in  quiet  bu"g 
Vhere  the  tufted  harebells  swung. 
Ill  of  old  was  brisht  and  glad, — 
f  uw,  alas  I  bow  changed  and  sad  I 
low  tbe  skies  are  cold  and  gnj, 
Lnd  throughoni  the  live- long  day, 
'riaon'd  in  my  room,  I  hear 
lot  a  sound  of  joyous  cheer — 


1846.]  The  Caged  Lark,  741 

Nothing  but  the  ceaseless  rain 
Beating  *gunst  the  window-pane, 
And  the  wind,  with  hollow  tone, 
Bound  my  dwelling  making  moan. 
Few  and  pale  the  leaves  I  see 
Budding  on  yon  chestnut-tree. 
Here  and  there,  ¥dthin  the  bound 
Of  my  plot  oC  garden-ground, 
Some  stray  flower  of  fairest  dye 
Half  unveils  its  timid  eye. 
Till  the  storm-blast,  rushing  by, 
Blights  its  charms,  but  half-reveal*d, 
And  its  early  doom  is  sealed. 
Spring-time — season  sad  and  drear. 
Once  the  sayest  of  the  year, 
I  am  alterd  e*en  as  thou  I 
Pain  hath  left  upon  my  brow 
Shadows  that  may  ne'er  depart ; 
Care  hath  brooded  at  my  heart, 
Till  I  feel  I  cannot  be 
£*er  aeain  in  spirit  free. 
Now  1  have  no  spells  to  raise 
Thoughts  that  cheered  my  brighter  days ; 
Other  visions  life  hath  brought, 
Sadder  lore  than  once  I  sought.*' 

Thus,  in  lonely  hour,  I  said. 
Half  believing  joy  had  fled. 
And  my  own  bright  hopes  were  dead. 
Suddenly,  while  still  I  spoke. 
Blithest  music  near  me  woke. 
Piercing  through  the  gloomy  air, 
Like  a  voice  of  praise  and  prayer. 
Though  the  wind  blew  loud  and  shrill, 
Yet  it  had  not  power  to  chill 
Gladness  such  as  fiird  that  strain  ; 
And  the  shower  beat  in  vain 
Round  the  prison,  where  had  birth 
Those  rich  sounds  of  dauntless  mirth. 
Well  I  knew  the  strains  I  heard 
Came  from  an  imprisoned  bird. 
One  whose  nature  was  to  cleave 
Freest  air  from  mom  till  eve. 
Prone  to  greet  with  fearless  wing 
Sunshine  and  the  breath  of  spring. 
Yet,  though  men  had  done  him  wrong, 
Still  arose  his  cheerful  song ; 
Still,  although  the  clouds  were  dark. 
Wildly  sang  that  captive  lark. 
Quickly  faded  the  distress 
Of  mine  hours  of  loneliness. 
Near  me  seem'd  to  pass  once  more 
Lovely  things  Td  seen  of  ^ore ; 
Sense  of  all  the  love  and  joy 
Time  and  change  could  ne*er  destroy. 
Thoughts  of  eves  whose  loving  light 
Still  could  make  my  dwelling  bright, 
O'er  my  spirit  rush  d  again, 
At  the  bidding  of  that  strain ; 
And  my  humbled  head  I  bent, 
Heedful  of  the  lesson  sent 
To  rebuke  my  discontent. 


742  The  Caged  Lark.  [June, 

Brightly  falls  the  sanshine  now 
On  each  bloeaom-laden  bough. 
Every  moes-grown  apple-tree 
Is  a  lovely  sight  to  see, 
With  its  bloom  in  clusters  fair 
Opening  to  the  sunny  air. 
Breezes,  stealing  round  about, 
Shake  the  hidden  fragrance  out. 
Flinging  on  the  ground  below 
Frequent  showers  of  mimic  snow. 
Gleams  of  purest  white  are  seen 
*Mid  the  chestnuts  tufts  of  green ; 
Pyramids  of  pearly  flowers 
Peeping  from  their  thick-leaved  bowers. 
*Mong  the  boughs  light  breezes  pass. 
And  the  shadows  on  the  grass 
Move  the  while  like  living  things ; 
Many  a  pendent  blossom  swings 
From  the  lolly  sycamore, 
And  along  the  turfy  floor 
Thick  the  lowly  daisies  beam ; 
King-cups  shed  a  golden  gleam 
0*er  the  meadows  near  the  stream. 
Proud,  and  beautiful,  and  strong 
Still  the  river  sweeps  along. 
Here  and  there  a  pleasant  shade 
Elm  or  hawthorn-bough  hath  made. 
Or  the  willow's  streamers  gay 
Throw  their  shadow  on  its  way ; 
Beauty  more  than  gloom  they  ^ed 
0*er  the  river's  sunlit  bed. 
Swallows  in  their  merry  flight 
Haunt  the  stream  from  mom  till  night. 
GraoefuUy  as  fiury  boat 
On  a  magic  lake  mif  ht  float, 
Now  and  then  a  mific-white  swan 
In  his  stately  joy  moves  on. 
Yet  thoueh  spring's  rich  beauty  glow 
As  it  did  long  years  ago, 
I  am  but  a  captive  stiU 
With  an  oft-impatient  will ; 
But  whene'er  my  heart  is  fain. 
In  its  weakness  to  complain, 
Hark !  for  once  a^pdn  t  hear 
Blithest  music,  rismg  dear 
From  that  other  captive  near. 
Little  of  the  sky  he  sees, 
Little  of  the  flowers  and  trees ; 
Little  he  was  used  to  rove, 
Houses  round  him  and  above! 
Yet  upon  the  sod  he  stands 
(Laid,  perchance,  by  kindly  hands 
On  hs  prison-floor)  and  sings. 
E'en  as  if  his  folded  wings 
Still  were  free  to  rmi^  at  will 
Higher  than  the  highest  hilL 
AsA  again  my  heart  will  heed 
This  sweet  lesson  in  its  need ; 
A-- '  ■  •  hiiss  ivyoice, 

'  'iptive's  vmoe. 


1846.] 


The  B.  O.  and  the  N.  G. 


743 


THE  B.C.  AND  THE  N.O. 
▲  TBW  WORDS  ON  THE  GAUGE  DISPUTE. 


RAiutoADs  have  awakened  so  much 
interest  of  late,  interest  so  profoundly 
melancholy  in  those  who  have  ap- 
proached the  subject  as  stags,  so 
ea^r  and  hopeful  in  those  who  look 
at  It  as  a  pecuniary  iuTestment,  or  as 
an  immense  national  question,  that 
we  feel  little  apology  is  due  to  the 
readers  of  the  Magazine  for  dedi- 
cating a  few  pages  to  a  railroad  dis- 
pute which  18  going  on  with  great 
activity  at  this  moment — ^the  dispute 
of  the  broad  and  narrow  gauges.  A 
number  of  pamphlets  have  b^n  sent 
to  us  upon  this  question,  with  the  Com- 
missioners* Beport,  and  an  abstract 
of  the  lengthened  examinations  into 
iffhich  those  gentlemen  entered.  We 
have  before  us,  A  BaUttay  Traveller* t 
MeoMons  for  Adopts^  Uniformity  of 
Gauge;  Railway  Mecentrice^  exem* 
pUffing  the  Inconsistencies  of  Men  of 
Oemus;  The  Oavge  Question^  by 
Wyndham  Harding ;  The  Broad 
Cfuuge  the  Bane  of  the  Great  Western 
Company  ;  The  Broad  and  Narrow 
me^  by  Henry  Lushington,  Esq. ; 
BepLy  to  the  Ohsermtkms  of  the  Great 
Western  BaHway  Company;  and. 
Gauge  Evidence:  the  Hiiary  and 
ProSpects  of  the  BaUway  System  ;  Il» 
lustrated  hy  the  Evidence  men  before 
the  Gauge  Commission^  oy  Samuel 
Sidney,  with  a  Map. 

The  Railway  Traveller  takes  a 
rapid  and  pathetic  view  of  the  lug- 
ga^  and  umbrella  question.  He 
points  out  the  inconvenience  families 
suffer  in  turning  out  at  Gloucester  at 
the  break  of  gauge.  He  asks  Mr. 
Brunei  how  he  would  like  Mrs. 
Brunei  and  her  children  to  be  sub- 
ject to  the  same  annovanoe?  '^Jeames 
of  Buckley  Square  has  published  a 
little  pamphlet  in  Punch  upon  the 
same  side.  Jeames  says  he  lost  his 
infant  at  Gloucester,  and  until  he 
acknowledges  the  recovery  of  that 
interestinff  child,  leaves  the  world  to 
suppose  that  Mr.  Brunei,  in  a  man- 
ner, is  guilty  of  ito  abstraction. 

^  RaO wav  Eccentrics  **  are  Messrs. 
Brunei  and  Saunders,  the  two  chief 
advocates  of  the  broad  gauge,  who 
are  both  brought  to  book  for  naving, 
at  former  periods  of  their  existence, 
uttered  qmte  different  opinions  on 
various  railway  matters  to  those 
VOL.  zxxnz.  Ko.  cxcvm. 


which  thev  now  advocate.  The 
largest  work  of  the  anti-Brunei  series 
is  that  of  Mr.  Sidney. 

Mr.  Samuel  Sidney  opens  his 
^  Brief  History  of  the  Gauge  Ques- 
tion** with  an  apt  quotation  from 
Captain  Law*s  evidence :  '*  We  owe 
all  our  railways  to  the  collieries  in 
the  north :  the  difficulties  which 
their  industry  overcame  taught  us  to 
make  railways,  and  to  maSce  loco- 
motives to  work  them.**  The  coal- 
owners  and  workers  of  Northumber- 
land and  Durham,  wanting  to  trans- 
port their  coal  from  the  pit*s  mouth 
to  the  water,  invented  tram-roads. 
Seeing  the  success  of  these,  the  mer- 
chants and  manufacturers  of  Liver- 
pool and  Manchester  beUiought  them 
of  making  use  of  similar  means  for 
the  transport  of  their  goods  between 
these  two  great  towns,  and  did  not, 
in  their  fint  undertaking,  contem- 
plate any  thing  beyond  *'a  solidly 
constructed  tram-way  worked  by 
horse-power.** 

George  Stephenson  was  the  man 
whom  the  Liverpool  and  Manchester 
manufacturers  employed  to  execute 
their  plan.  Before  the  works  were 
completed,  he  had  discovered  that 
^  carriages  driven  by  steam  were  ca- 
pable of  surmountmg  gradients  of 
considerable  altitude  bv  the  force  of 
their  weight  alone,  and  proposed  to 
employ  locomotive  instead  of  horse- 
power for  the  merchandise  and  pas- 
senger traffic.**  The  gauge,  or  width 
between  the  rails,  adopted  on  the 
Liverpool  and  Maiichester  line,  was 
four  feet  eight  and  a-half  inches, 
which  has  smce  been  designated  the 
"Narrow  GauA».** 

The  idea  of  a  steam  locomotive 
caused  much  akurm  to  a  body  of  the 
shareholders.  They  took  counsel 
with  two  eminent  engineers,  one  en- 
saged  in  public  worp,  and  the  other 
m  steam-engine  builcUng ;  and  both 
these  authorities,  in  a  "very  able 
document,**  proved  the  practical  and 
commercial  mexpediency  of  Mr.  Ste- 
phenson*8  project.  Two  of  Stephen- 
son's pupils— Robert,  his  son,  and 
Joseph  Locke — answered  this  docu- 
ment in  another  still  more  able ;  for 
the  horse  scheme  was  abandoned,  and 
the  company  determined  on  trying 

3  c 


the  Btearo  looomotiTeB.  A  priie  of 
5001.  was  offered  by  tlie  directon  of 
the  Maocbeater  and  Liverpool  Rail- 
way, "  and  in  the  memorahle  year 
1830,  CDginH  from  the  worksbope  of 
the  StephenBtnu',  Bnithiraite,  and 
Rothwell,  in  the  dght  of  BMembled 
thoumndB,  raolved  the  railway  pro- 
blem." 

Most  of  the  railways  which  were 
planned  in  cooceanenGc  of  the  mccess 
of  the  Liverpool  and  Manehester 
experiment,  were  constructed  by  Ste- 
phenson and  his  pupils.  All  these 
lines  were  laid  down  on  the  same 
pngc.  The  oppoaidon  to  the  system 
m  general  waa  prodigious.  Immense 
bribe!  were  necessary  to  orercome 
the  reluctance  of  lanmords  to  treble 
the  Talue  of  their  estates ;  oiliea  and 
tinirernties  resisted  whh  the  most 
pathetic  eanteMnets;  and  the  pro- 
tecton  were  obliged  to  divert  tddr 


ina  entirely  snecenfiil.  In  1883 
the  Great  WeMern  BaOway  was 
projected,  and  the  biaad  oadqi  was 
employed  by  hlr.  Brunei.  Hie  report 
of  the  Kheme  set  fhrfh, — 

"  Tbit  tha  country  vooK  aveatuitly 
be  diTided  into  railway  diitrico,  each  of 
wLicJi  wDuSd  be  served  by  oaa  comwmy ; 
that  Id  tbese  dialricfs  the  congtiuelion  of 
railroada  ahonld  be  accommadilBd  lo  the 
rmlara  af  lb*  conolrj,  as  lo  gnulienli, 
gauge,  6ie. ;  tbat  ii  rach  dialnet  woold 
hiTe  bat  liitle  diraet  cotxirid nidation 
with  tlie  othsra,  a  rariatian,  or  brack  of 
gauge,  vonld  be  no  inGontaniene*)  ibaC 
tba  weat  of  England  would  fom  one  oF 
■bate  diatricu,  a  distiitt  iu  which  the 
fraffic  would  be  chiefly  piuienger  IrolGc  ; 
that  Ibis  IriAic  would  be  moat  nlisrac. 
toriljr  conducted  by  one  or  two  Tcry 
large  traiui  dail;  ;  and  that  it  would  b« 
economical  lo  pj  to  eitraordlnary  *i. 
pSnae  jn  reducing  tbe  Hna  to  excellent 
gradieDti,  Hnd  Ujlng  it  dawn  on  the 
broad  giDge,~(htt  ii  to  itTi  "tidpatlag 
■  great  ipeed  and  ■  gr«M  •eoanny  in 
worbing  from  Ihe  ptU  autUi  in  con- 
Mruction.  On  roads  where  tha  currca 
were  more  frequaot  and  abarp,  and  tha 
niarcaalile  triAio  bore  a  Jargar  proportion 
to  the  pBBSengeia  Uiiin  on  the  wee  tern 
road,  Mr.  Brunei  admitted  tbat  a  narrow 
gauge   might   be    more   adrantigeoaily 


There  were  superbly  comfbrtable  car- 
riagta  for  the  first-dase  passengers,  a 
magnificent  conTeyance  for  her  mji> 
jeaty,  a  smooth  road,  and  a  quick 
pace.  Some  tteriations  ftom  the  afi- 
ginal  plant  were  marked :  fiir  irManee, 
the  ten-feet  dnrmg-wheeU  were 
abandoned ;  the  carriagea,  which  were 
to  have  been  within  the  wheels  (ia 
contrast  to  the  nnsafe  practice  of  uie 
narrow-gange  lines),  were  put  upon 
the  wheels,  as  in  tbe  latter  roadi. 
Bat  concerning  these  changes  the 
pablic  knew  or  eared  nothing. 
'~'   """    "some  to  3ie  i 


And  I 
prwress, 
of  tneSve-foot  gsoge:- 


!  nae, 


«: 


'•Mem  Bailw^  wu  at  kat  optocd. 


.  _.  __J«  Ibe 
niperiuleiidenceofltlr.  Brailbwiile,  who, 
as  hefora  mentiooad,  wai  ■  casdidale  far 
the  locomoiiTB  piiM  on  tbe  opanii^  of 
Ibe  Liverpool  and  MancheatSr  Railway. 
The  propriety  of  adoptiDf  tbe  breed 
gaugawMdiiGuuetl  j  avenluaDy.agtage 
of  5  feet  wai  adopted,  on  the  leeonimeo- 
dation  of  Mr.  Braitbwaite,  who  fouDd, 
from  actual  admeaauramenl  of  the  snginea 
he  nta  coDatrncIiQB,  (bat  91  iachea  in 
width  would  giTfl  all  tha  additionai  apace 
he  required. 

"  Id  SeolliBd  and  in  Ireind,  gangea 
iirtermadiate  between  the  narrow  and  tbe 
broad  bate  been  conatmeted ;  but  lo  diem 
it  is  not  neceaaary,  fbr  lb*  pgrpoaea  of 
Ibe  preaent  iketefa ,  to  reler. 

"  When  the  Northern  and  Eaitam,  aa 
cilenaion  of  the  Esalern  CountiBa,  wu 
made, tha  en|ineer,Mr.  Robert S I epben. 
sou,  in  order  to  secure  Ihe  uniformity 
which  be  conaidered  one  of  the  otoit 
impotlant  nrinciplea  in  Ibe  railway  ays. 
tem,  laid  It  down  on  the  6-fiNSt  page, 
and  thiitwai  aroUed  an  opportonitr  of 
pTodoeiaf  what  hsa  ainee  ocaoiooM  m 
maeh  aensalkm  and  diaetonon  in  tha 
r^waj  world — t  bi«ak  of  gloge. 

"  After  an  iatarral  of  aoBi*  Tear*, 
duiiag  wbicb,  according  to  Mr.  Braitb. 
waite  a  evidence,  improTeinenli  in  tbe 
conatruelion  of  enginet,  eapedallr  the 
adoption  of  outaide  cjfiadaia,  bad'qailc 
anpeneded  tbe  neeeaait;  for  ilu  addimnal 
Sj  inche*  of  width  fbr  whtob  be  had  fct- 
meHy  been  ■niiooa,  an  ajtleMfoD  of  (be 
Uldlaad  Connliaa  breagbl  t  aatrow- 
gauge  line  ia  eontact  wiA  the  Eaataaa 
and  Nortbertt  and  Eaalern  bnet;  and  in 
order  to  obtaiD  nnituBJiy,  both  were  re- 
daoed  to  tha  oiiginit  gauge  of  4  IWt  84 
incbea,  under  the  direction  and  with  tha 
fall  Gonenrrena*  of  Mi.  Bnilbwaite," 

In  Jane  1644,  the  Biisld  hmI 
.fUovcMter  Baihnjr,  wbieh  htd  betn 


754 


Index  to  Vol  XXXIII. 


Shetlanders.  Their  Mannera,  Traditions 
and  Saperatitions,  631  *  ' 

Sikhs,  the,  and  the  late  Campaign,  606 

SikhB»  the.  Their  Rise  and  Progress,  478 

Sir  James  Graham.  Contempoiarj  Ora« 
tors.    No.  YII.  136 

Sir  Robert  Peel  and  his  Cabinet;  What 
is  the  Position  ofl  369 

Something  more  about  Victor  Hago,  515 

Spains  and  the  Spaniards.  By  Morgan 
RutUer,  379 

Spoiled  BeantjT,  the  Pride  of  a.  Adapted 
from  the  French  of  Balzac.  Chap.  I. 
46  ;  Chap.  II.  and  Conclusion,  180 

Stirn,  Francis  David,  235 

Storittfor  th$  SiatoM,  revieir  of,  495 

Straws,  an  Illustrative  Chapter  on.  Beiog 
the  first  Specimen  of  a  new  Diction- 
ary, 1«7 

Superstitions,  Manners,  and  Traditions 
of  the  Shetlanders,  631 

Sycion,  a  Legend  of.  The  first  Flower- 
Painter,  7t 

Tale  of  Fact  in  Humble  Life.  Milly 
L ,395 

Tales  and  Narratives :  The  Philosophy  of 
Crime,  with  Illustrations  from  Fami- 
liar History.  No.  I.  William  Home,  7 ; 
No.  II.  Irancis  David  Stirn.  235— 
Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of 
Napoleon.  No.  I.  The  Italian  Cam« 
paigns.  Chap.  I.  S3;  Chap.  II.  35. 
No.  II.  Chap.  III.  157 ;  Chap.  IV. 
163.  No.  III.  Chap.  V.  276;  Chap. 
VI.  413 ;  Chap.  VIL  424.  No.  V. 
The  Campaign  of  Marengo,  Chap. 
VIII.  545.  No.  VL  The  Campaign  of 
Austerlits,  Chap.  I.  649;  Chap.  II. 
657— The  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beauty. 
Adapted  from  the  French  of  H.  de 
Balsac.  Chap.  1.  46 ;  Chap.  II.  180 
-.The  first  Flower-Painter.  A  Legend 
of  Sycion,  72— The  Lady  of  Elm- 
Wood.  Chap.  LI  13;  Chap.  IL  116 
..The  Legend  of  Gelnhausen.  From 
the  History  of  the  TwelfUi  Century, 
143 — A  Letter  from  Rippoldsan,  211 
mmmA.  Diutter  in  Ancient  Bgypt,  229— 
Le  Jeu  de  Noel.  From  the  Notes  of 
an  Old  Traveller,  269— Counsel  Mai- 
a^propos,  288  —  Margaret  Lucas, 
Duchess  of  Newcastle,  292— Milli. 
ners'  Apprentices,  308..Tbe  Village 
of  Lorette,  and  the  New  Settlement  of 
Vale  Cartier,  323. The  Common 
Lodging-Hottse,  342 — Milly 


A  Tale  of  Fact  in  Humble  Life,  395— 
An  Anecdote  about  an  Old  Mouse,  434 
Dining  Out,  445— Murillo;  or,  the 
Painter  without  Ambition,  488— The 
Old  Judge ;  or.  Life  in  a  Colony.  The 
Lone  House.  By  the  Author  of  Sam 
Slick  tht  Cloekmakir,  the  Attaehi^  &c. 
505— 1  he  Chamber  of  the  Bell.  Chap. 
I.  530;  Chap.  II.  535;  Chap.  IIL 
541 —  Elephant- Shooting  in  Ceylon, 
561 — Manners,  Traditions,  and  Su. 
pera^tious  of  the  Shetlanders,  63 1... 
On  Beggars,  666— Ernest  Walkin. 
worm's  Opinion  of  Seville.  In  a 
Letter  to  Mr.  Grubley,  683 

The  Caged  Lark,  740 

The  B.  G.  and  the  N.G.  A  few  Words 
on  the  Gauge  Dispute,  743 

Theiner's  Bntritt  Mur  Deuiu^'KathUit' 
ehen  Reform,  review  of,  694 

Theories  and  Character  of  Mr.  Newman, 
253 

Titmarsh's  Letter  to  the  Rer.  Francis 
Sylvester  on  the  History  of  a  Literary 
Alan,  Laman  Blanchard,  and  the 
Chances  of  the  Literary  Profession,  332 

Titmarah*8  Tour  through  Turkeydoro,  85 

Titmarsh,  Michael  Angelo.  Ronsard  to 
his  Mistress,  120 

Titmarsh,  Michael  Angelo.  On  aome  Il- 
lustrated Children's  Books,  495 

To  one  who  was  moved  to  Tears  at 
Sight  of  ImhofiTs  Statue  of  Hagar,  at 
Rome,  275 

Tour  from  Comhill  to  Cairo.  By  M«  A. 
Titmarsh,  85 

Traditions,  Manners,  and  Superstitions  of 
the  Shetlanders,  631 

Traveller's  Notes..  Le  Jeu  de  Noel,  269 

Trial,  on  a  late  French,  621 

Turkeydom,  Titmarsh's  Tour  through,  85 

Vale  Cartier,  the  New  Settlement  of,  and 

the  Village  of  Loiette,  323 
Velateof  cr^  Memoirt  efa  Page,  456 
Victor  Hugo,  Something  more  about,  515 
Village  of  Lorette,  and  the  New  Settle- 
ment of  Vale  Cartier.     Tbe  Village 
of  Lorette,  323;  the  New  Settlement 
of  Vale  Cartier,  325 

Walkinworm's,  Ernest,  Opinion  of  Se- 
ville.   In  a  Letter  to  Mr.  Gmbley,  683 

What  is  the  Position  of  Sir  ^Robert  Peel 
and  his  Cabinet  1 369 

William  Home,  7 


I 

r 

s 


END  OF  VOL.  XXXIU. 


cf 


LONDON : 
atSOMI  BAIOLAT,  QAWTLE  STSSIT,  LllOltm  SQVAIB 


184&] 


A  Few  Wiftdi  on  the  Oaugt  Dispute. 


745 


pfojeeted  m  the  narrow  gange  as  an 
extension  of  the  Birmmgham  and 
Gloucester,  but  had  got  into  the 
hands  of  the  Great  Western,  and 
heen  laid  down  on  the  broad  gauge, 
was  opened;  the  two  systems  met, 
and  the  bsbax  of  oaugb  began. 

"  It  was  soon  foand  that  mercbandiae 
did  DOt  flow  so  smoothly  and  continuously 
over  this  route  as  over  the  Grand  June* 
tioo,  the  London  and  Birmiogham,  the 
IMidlands,  and  other  lines,  where  no  in. 
terruptton  of  gauge  occurred.  Passen- 
gers walked  across  the  platform  with  all 
their  small  baggage,  in  order  to  change 
from  broad  to  narrow,  from  four-abreast 
carriages  to  tbree-abresst  carriages,  and 
vice  versd.  This  was  unpleasant  in  the 
night-time,  and  in  cold  weather,  and 
highly  inconvenient  to  mothers  with 
families,  and  to  the  lame,  halt,  and  blind. 
But  as  this  was  an  inconvenience  to 
which  travellers  had  been  accustomed, 
although  without  any  necessity,  at  Bir- 
mingham, through  the  want  of  arrange- 
ments between  the  London  and  Birming- 
ham and  Grand  Junction  Companies 
(since  amalgamated) ;  and  as  the  mothers, 
and  lame,  halt,  and  blind,  are  not  unfre- 
quent  travellers,  but  very  powerless  in 
agitating,  if  the  evil  had  been  confined 
to  them  it  might  have  long  remained  un- 
redressed. The  Cork  pig -drivers  in 
charge  of  Devonshire  oxen  for  the  Mid- 
land markets,  experienced  still  more 
difficulty  and  delay  with  their  charges ; 
but  the  agricultural  mind  is  notoriously 
patient  and  slow  to  be  aroused  (o  anyno  vel 
exertion.  But  among  the  other  parties 
displeased  by  the  unpacking  and  re- 
packing  incident  to  the  change  of  gauge, 
were  the  merchants  and  manufacturers  of 
Birmingham,  a  town  famed  for  its  taste 
for  grievances  and  public  meetings. 
When  they  found  packages  intended  for 
shipment  at  Bristol  delayed  and  mislaid 
at  Gloucester,  while  goods  intended  for 
Cheltenham  travelled  to  Bristol,  and  the 
hardware  goods  ordered  by  Bristol  travel- 
led on  to  Cheltenham,  they  evinced  as 
much  indignation  and  amazement  as  if 
(as  the  authors  of  the  break  gauge  re. 
marked),  the  worst  railway  did  not  aiPord 
ten  times  the  accommodation  of  the  best 
road-wagon  establishment  or  canal  ever 
devised. 

"  But  such  is  the  nature  of  man,  or  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon  man  at  any  rate, — give 
him  a  better  and  he  desires  a  better  still. 
It  is  probably  this  discontented  and  en- 
croaching spirit  which  has  raised  him 
from  the  skins  and  caverns  of  his  British 
ancestors  to  broad  cloth  and  slated  houses. 
To  be  sure,  it  has  thrusts  Celtic  man  into 
the  cellar  of  the  House  of  Commons. 

'*  The  Birmingham roanpfactarers  called 


a  meetings  which  was  attended  by  the 
officials  of  the  two  railways  over  which 
their  manufactures  passed  on  their  way 
to  Bristol;  and  at  that  meeting,  after 
making  every  allowance  for  bad  manage- 
ment and  want  of  proper  understanding 
between  the  two  Iraes,  it  was  admitted 
by  Mr.  Wyndham  Harding,  who  attended 
as  manager  of  the  Bristol  and  Gloucester 
line,  that  the  break  of  gauge,  causing,  as 
it  does,  a  complete  transfer  of  merchan- 
dise, as  well  as  of  cattle  and  passengers, 
from  one  line  to  another,  was  '  a  seriout 
evil^  a  commercial  evil,  vf  the  first  tnagni« 
tudeJ 

*'  From  this  Birmingham  meeting  may 
be  dated  the  first  agitation  against  the 
break  of  gauge." 

In  1845,  the  Great  Western  and 
London  and  Birmingham  companies 
competed  before  parliament  for  a 
line  between  Oxford  and  Wolver- 
hampton. The  Board  of  Trade  (now 
defunct)  decided  in  favour  of  the 
latter*8  project,  and  against  the  for- 
mer, on  account  of  the  broad  gauee 
and  break«of-gange  objections.  "  If,** 
the  Board  said,  *'  there  is  one  point 
more  fully  established  than  another 
in  the  practice  of  railways,  it  is  that 
the  inoonvenienoe  occasioned  by  want 
of  unMbrmit^  of  gauge  is  of  such  a 
serious  description  as  to  detract  most 
materially  from  the  advantages  of 
railway  communication." 

The  Committee  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  however,  reversed  the  de- 
cision of  the  Board  of  Trade.  The 
line  proposed  bv  the  Great  Western 
Company  seemed  the  more  advantage- 
ous one  to  the  House,  which  declined, 
however,  to  consider  the  gauge  ques- 
tion at  all.  **Even  a  select  com- 
mittee of  the  House,**  said  Mr.  Shaw 
(the  chainnan  of  the  committee  in 
the  Oxford,  Worcester,  and  Wolver- 
hampton group),  ^'  has  not  yet  been 
able  to  come  to  a  satis&ctory  con- 
clusion what  the  uniform  gauge  onsht 
to  be.**  And  who  was  to  decide  be- 
fore the  oracular  select  committee  f 
The  Oxford,  Worcester,  and  Wol- 
verhampton chairman,  however,  yea* 
tured  to  state,  that,  if  practicable,  a 
uniformity  of  gauge  would  be  con- 
venient and  desirable,  and  so — ^gave 
his  vote  in  favour  of  the  noncon- 
formist gauge.  The  Lords,  in  their 
wisdom,  adopted  the  sentence  of  the 
Commons. 

Meanwhile  attention  was  ex'"**^ 
to  the  subject  in  the  house, 
members  thought  that  an  i 


1846.] 


A  Few  Words  on  the  Gauge  Dispute. 


747 


"  Second.  That,  unless  by  the  consent 
of  the  legislature,  it  should  not  be  per- 
mitted to  the  Directors  of  any  Railwav 
Company  to  alter  the  gauge  of  such 
railway. 

*'  Third.  That  in  order  to  complete 
the  general  chain  of  narrow  gauge  com- 
munication from  the  north  of  England  to 
the  southern  coast,  any  suitable  measure 
should  be  promoted  to  form  a  narrow 
gauge  link  from  Oxford  to  Reading,  and 
thence  to  Basingstoke,  or  by  any  shorter 
route  connecting  the  proposed  Rugby  and 
Oxford  line  with  the  South  Western 
Railway. 

"  Fourth.  Tliat  as  any  junction  to  be 
formed  with  a  broad  gauge  line  would 
involve  a  break  of  g^uge,  proyided  our 
first  recommendation  be  adopted,  great 
commercial  con  venience  would  beobtained 
by  reducing  the  gauge  of  the  present 
broad  gauge  lines  to  the  narrow  gauge, 
of  four  feet  eight  inches  and  a  half;  and 
we,  therefore,  think  it  desirable  that  gome 
equitable  means  should  be  found  of  prom 
dncing  suck  entire  uniformity  of  gauge,  or 
of  adopting  such  other  course  as  would 
admit  of  the  narrow  gauge  carriages 
passing,  witliout  interruption  or  danger, 
along  the  broad-gauge  line." 

The  commissioners,  and  their  pre- 
mises and  their  conclusions,  nave 
been  attacked  by  yarious  broad- 
gauge  advocates,  and  by  one  espe- 
cially, Mr.  Henry  Lusnington,  late 
fellow  of  Trinity  College,  with  un- 
common wit,  keenness,  and  bril- 
liancy. His  pamphlet,  entitled.  The 
Broad  and  the  Narrow  Crouge;  or^ 
Remarks  on  the  Report  of  the  Oauge 
Commissioners^  is  the  hardest  of  all 
the  hits  that  have  been  delivered  at 
the  narrow-gauge  system.  It  is  as 
amusing  as  a  novel.  It  is  full  of 
play,  eloquence,  and  a  happy  ex- 
posure of  adversaries*  weaknesses ;  it 
almost  persuades  a  man  to  follow 
Brunei. 

Mr.  Lushington  urges  that  the 
broad  gauge  is  a  great  advance  on 
the  narrow ;  its  comfort  indisputably 
greater.  Now  notoriously  quicker, 
the  large  engine  is  as  yet  of  undeve- . 
loped  powers;  while  the  small  one 
has  reached,  probably,  its  maximum 
of  force.  It  IS  to  the  rivalry  with 
the  broad  gauge  we  owe  the  ame- 
lioration or  its  opponent.  Abolish 
the  one,  and  the  other  will  fall  back 
into  its  old  state :  to  abolish  it  will 
be  **  a  most  chilling  discouragement 
to  inventive  genius,  a  deliberate  re- 


establishment  of  a  lower  standard  for 
every  benefit  which  railways  confer 
upon  society,  a  sacrifice  at  once  of  a 
great  reality  and  a  greater  possibi- 
lity." 

About  the  possibility  let  us  speak 
anon.  In  regard  of  the  reality,  the 
broad-gauge  opponents  argue  that 
its  inventors  never  contemplated  the 
present  extension  of  the  railway  sys- 
tem, and  that  it  was  founded  upon 
quite  a  different  plan  to  that  of  which 
now  every  body  sees  the  necessity. 
Surely  a  railroad  is  not  now  a  local 
convenience,  but  a  national  necessity. 
The  Bristol  and  Exeter  is  not  now  a 
line  between  those  cities  merely,  but 
part  of  a  line  from  Exeter  to  Carlisle. 
Had  Mr.  Brunei  foreseen  in  what  a 
manner  railroads  would  spread,  he 
never  could  have  proposed  a  ^uge 
which  insulated  the  western  district 
from  the  rest  of  the  country;  nor 
were  words  ever  more  entirely  falsi- 
fied than  those  which  explain  the 
projector's  own  ideas  regarding  his 
line.  "  It  could,"  said  he,  in  his 
Report  to  the  directors  of  the  Great 
Western  in  December  1838,  "/if 
could  have  no  connexion  with  any  other 
of  the  main  lines^  and  the  principal 
branches  likely  to  be  made  were  well 
considered,  and  almost  formed  part 
of  the  original  plan ;  nor  can  these  be 
dependent  upon  any  other  existent  lines 
for  the  traffic  which  they  unll  bring  to 
the  main  trunk.  The  Great  Western 
was,  therefore,  free  to  adopt  its  own 
dimensions,  and  none  of  the  difficul- 
ties which  would  entirely  prevent 
such  a  course  in  the  north  of  Eng- 
land had  any  existence  in  the  west, 
and  consequently  all  the  general  ar- 
guments advanced  and  the  compari- 
sons made  on  the  supposition  of  such 
difficulties  occurring — all  excellent  in 
case  they  did^we  totally  inapphcable 
to  the  particular  case  of  the  G.  W. 
Railway." 

Mr.  Wyndham  Harding's  excellent 
pamphlet*  demolishes  this  unlucky 
statement  entirely :  — 

"  '  The  inap,*  he  says,  '  with  the  rail* 
ways  constructed,  in  progress,  and  pro* 
jected,  marked  upon  it,  including  the 
branches  of  the  Great  Western  Railway 
itself,  is  the  best  answer  to  them ;  it  is 
there  evident  that  railways  are  spreading 
themselves  over  the  face  of  the  country 
like  a  network,  and  are  intersecting  each 
other  at  a  hundred  different  points. 


*  The  Gaage  Question,  by  Wyndham  Harding. 


748 


The  B.  G.  and  the  N.  G. 


[June, 


«' '  Where*  thM,  thaU  w«  fix  tlie 
boundaries  of  the  districte,  the  ndlwejrs 
in  which  are  to  have  no  connexion  with 
thoee  in  any  other  \ 

"  *  Tbecompleted  or  projected  branches 
of  the  Great  Western  Railway  itself— 
which  was  expected,  as  we  have  seen,  to 
have  no  connexion  with  any  other  existing 
line— DOW  join  it  to  most  of  the  other 
nain  lines  in  the  country.  For  la* 
•tance : — 

*'  *  To  the  Grand  Junction,  and  to  the 
projected  Shrewabury  and  Birmingham 
Railways,  at  Wolverhampton. 

"  *  To  the  Grand  Janotion,  London  and 
Birmingham,  and  Midland  Railways  at 
Birmingham. 

"  *  To  the  London  and  Birmingham, 
the  Midland,  and  the  proposed  Trent 
Valley  and  Chumet  Valley  Lines,  at 
Rugby. 

**  *  To  the  London  and  Birmingham 
Railway  as^ain  at  Warwick. 

•' '  To  the  Birmingham  and  Gloucester 
Railway,  at  Cheltenham  and  Worcester. 

<*  *  To  the  South  Weatem  Railway,  at 
Basingstoke  and  Salisbury. 

"  *  To  the  projected  Dorchester  and 
Southampton  Railway,  at  Dorchester. 

"  *  To  the  proposed  Welsh  Midland 
Line,  at  Hereford  and  Swansea. 

"  *  To  the  Bristol  and  Gloucester  Line, 
with  which  it  is  already  connected,  at 
Bristol  and  Stooebouse.' 

"  [AU  these  are  narrow  gauge  Unas, 
with  the  exception  of  the  last,  which  is 
a  broad-gauge  line  at  present ;  but  its 
proprietors  have  announced  their  desire 
and  intention  of  obtaining  powers  to  con* 
yert  it  into  a  narrow-gauge  line  J 

••  •  And  if  the  Great  Western  Railway, 
with  its  broad-gauge  branches,  does  not 
go  to  these  lines,  they  with  their  narrow- 
gauge  branches  will  come  to  the  Great 
Western.*  Thus  connecting  by  railway 
almost  every  county  and  town  in  the 
kingdom  wiih  every  other. 

"<  What  are  all  these  branches  projected 
for,  except  to  bring  traffic  from  the  lines 
and  districts  with  which  they  communi- 
cate, or  to  take  traffic  to  them  from  one 
extremity  of  the  country  to  another  1 
and,  therefore,  over  the  narrow  gauge  on 
to  the  broad  gauge,  or  over  the  broad 
gauge  on  to  the  narrow  gauge  1  The 
difficulties  attending  a  change  of  gauge, 
then,  which,  as  was  admitted,  would  in 
1638  *  have  entirely  prevented  in  the 
north  such  a  course'  as  one  railway 
adopting  different  dimenaions  from  tlu9 
real,  now  have  '  existence  in  the  west.' 


<'  The  eama  gaadenan  also  depoisd 
before  the  Gauge  Commisstooan,  tbst 
(4510),  starting  from  Oxford,  a  broad 
gauge  line,  a  biU  for  which  has  bssn 

Sassed,   ia  projected    from    Oxford  to 
Lngby,  and  that  a  branch  firom  this  to 
Birmingham  ia  alao  projected,  passinff 
through  Warwick,  whiehhas  also  reoeivta 
the  sanctiflo  of  parliament,  and  is  sobiset 
to  the  deeiaioD,  as  regards  the  gauge,  of 
the  Board  of  Trade.      Another  broad, 
gauge  line,  extendinff  firon  Oxford  by 
Woroeater  to  Wolverhampton,  has  siso 
received  the  sancdoo  of  parliament,  sub- 
ject to  the  same  conditions  as  to  gangs 
between  Worcester  and  Wolverhampton. 
A  broad-gauge  line  is  projected  from 
Oxford  to  Cheltenham,  and  so  on  to 
Gloucester.    A  broad-gauge  line  is  pro- 
jected from  near  Worcester  to  nesr  Lud- 
low.   A  broad-gauge  line  is  pwj^^ 
from   Bristol   to   Monmouth,  Hereford, 
and  Leominster,  joinmg  the  Worositsr 
snd  Ludlow  line  near  that  place.     A 
broad-gauge  line  ia  also  projected  from 
Gloucester  to  Hereford.    A  braed-gauge 
line  is  projected  from  Standtsh,  proceed- 
ing by  Newport,  Cardiff,  and  Neath,  iato 
Pembrokeshire.    From  Ludtow  s  broad- 

fauge  line  is  projected,  by  Newtown,  to 
•ort  Dynllaen.  Another  broad-gauge 
line  is  projected  from  Ludlow.by  Sbrewi- 
bury  and  Whitchuroh,  to  Chester,  near 
which  a  branch  leaving  it  proceeds  bv 
Tarporley  to  Manchester  on  the  one  hand, 
and  to  Liverpool  on  the  other,  croaang 
the  Giand  Junction  near  Northwicli. 
In  the  foregoing  statement,  all  the  puea 
named  at  thoie  through  which  the  f«"^^ 
quettion  pan,  are  pohat  qfinttneetum^o^ 
other  prqfeeted  fiarrow-gauge  Iwe*.  ™ 
statement  refers  exclusively  to  proj««» 
north  of  Brietol  and  Oxford," 

"  If  the  Great  Western  RailW 
does  not  go  to  these  lines,  thejr  with 
the  narrow-gauge  branches  will  go 
to  the  Great  Western."  The  b^ 
nificent  excliuiveness  of  the  broad 
gauge  is  broken  up  for  erer.  It 
mustn't  and  it  can't  lire  in  isolation; 
the  country  won't  consent  to  the 
existence  of  a  West  End  in  rail^J»- 
The  broad-gauge  rails  lie  on  the 
ground  still;  but  under  the  Ima; 
and  the  works,  the  base  of  the  broad- 
gauge  argument,  is  surely  completely 
desfioyed;  and  the  rails  on  vhicp 
the  Great  Mammoth  engines  tn* 
umphantly  run— to  the  admiration  d 


•  "  ^oie  to  the  4ffc  Edition.— The  projected  lines  on  the  map,  excluding  all  ^rej^ 
competing  lines,  give  rise  to  about  twenty  points  of  break  of  gauge,  beyoad  thwj 
mentioned  above;  in  all,  then,  about  thirty  points  of  break  of  gauge,  similar  to  tasi 
At  Gloucester,  will  be  established  in  the  course  of  the  next  five  years,  if  govermaev 
does  not  interfere  to  prevent  it" 


1846.] 


A  Few  Wordt  on  the  'Gauge  Dispute, 


749 


Mr.  LmhlDgton^are  running  up<»i 
fidse  foondiiaons. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  fact 
stated  by  him  in  sunport  of  his  &- 
Yourite  megatheria,  toiat  it  is  to  the 
rhrahry  with  the  broad-gange  line 
that  we  owe  the  amelioration  of  its 
opponent  in  respect  of  speed.  We 
owe  that  benefit  undoubtedly  to  Mr. 
BraneFs  great  engines  B. ;  the  smaller 
ones  have  been  put  upon  their  met- 
tle, and  now  Mr.  Stephenson  is  ready 
to  back  a  small  engine  for  10,OOoI 
against  one  from  the  big-gauge  fac- 
tories. Can  any  one  suppose  that 
the  impulse  once  given,  the  people  in 
England  will  allow  the  narrow-gauge 
en|;uies  to  crawl,  when  they  have 
dnyen  their  opponents  off  the  road  f 
It  is  not  so, — no,  not  in  a  contest  of 
busses.  Give  the  sreat  public  the 
advantage  once,  ana  it  is  an  outrage 
to  their  common  sense  to  suppose 
they  will  foreco  it.  What  is  the 
noise  and  battk  made  about  now? 
— About  the  loss  of  time  occasioned 
by  this  very  break  of  oauge. 

Because,  then,  pe<^fe  say,  the  nar- 
row ffauge  completely  eatablished 
over  the  country  will  do  our  wiH-k, 
convey  ourselves,  our  ffooda,  our  cat- 
tle, our  coals,  better  than  the  broad 
gauge,  who  has  a  right  to  sav  that  the 
narrow  gauge  is  "  daiberatefy  re-esta- 
blishing a  lower  standard  of  railroad 
benefits?''  A  giff  is  a  lower  standard 
than  a  chaise-and-four,  but  if  thegi^ 
accommodates  you  equally  well— if 
you  can  afford  to  keep  tnree  gigs  in  va- 
rious parts  of  the  country  at  tue  cost, 
and  to  do  three  times  the  service,  of 
the  larser  vehicle,  who  is  to  say, 
"  Let  us  nave  chaises-and-four  every- 
where?" Only  the  most  prod^l, 
generous,  and  imaginative  economists, 
surelv.  And  the  question  is  not 
whether  you  can  make  the  gnmdest 
dash  and  figure  with  the  bis  caniue 
on  race-day,  but  which  is  me  usend 
vehicle  for  all  the  days  of  the  year? 

And  unon  this  head  comes  forward 
a  pamphleteer  with  the  fintal  signa- 
tnre  or  £.  s.  if.,  whose  arguments  are 
addressed,  in  the  most  pathetic  man- 
ner, to  the  broad-ffauge  proprietors 
themselves ;  and  who  says  that  Mr. 
Brunei "  has  learned  to  sliave  on  their 
chins."  *'  Bemark,  gentlemen,"  saya 
this  shrewd  £.  «.  c?.,  **  that  in  no  in- 
stance has  a  company  for  forming  a 
broad-gauge  line  formed  itself  except 
under  the  shadow  of  the  Great  West- 


em  ComiMmy,  promoted  by  its  di- 
rector, designed  Dy  its  engineer,  and 
supported  by  its  money.'*  TThe  whole 
country  declares  against  the  ma^;- 
nificent  gauge.  JiJid  what  is  the 
cause  ?    £.  s.  d.  is  the  cause, — 

"  On  every  mile  of  the  176  worked  by 
the  I^ndoa  aud  BiriniogbaiD  (ourrow 
gauge)  Railway,  there  remains  appHcahla 
to  a  dividend,  after  paying  all  charges 
upon  the  revenue,  per  balf.year,  the  sum 
of  f  095/. 

"  On  every  mile  of  the  140  miles 
worked  by  the  Grand  Junction  (nanow 
gauge),  there  remains  applicable  to  a 
dividend,  after  paying  all  cnarges  on  the 
revenue,  the  sum  of  1 160/. 

"  On  every  mile  of  the  240  niilee 
worked  by  the  Great  Western  (broad 
gauge)  Railway,  the  grand  trunk  line 
westwards,  there  remoiiis  appUcabls  to  a 
dividend,  after  paying  all  cnorges  on  the 
revenue,  the  sum  of  768/." 

Such  are  the  returns  of  profits  on 
the  broad  and  the  narrow  gauge 
lines,  which  £.  $,  d,  submits  to  the 
consideration  of  the  sharehdding 
world— and  of  the  Great  Westera 
shareholders  in  particular.  Are  they 
willing,  he  asks,  to  receive  six  per 
cent,  at  the  best,  for  their  capital, 
when  laid  out  on  the  narrow-gauge 
lines  it  may  be  made  to  return  four- 
teen ?  Are  they  willing,  in  order  to 
perfect  their  scheme  in  the  West, 
where  they  must  form  lines  over 
districts  less  favourable  to  com- 
merce than  those  which  diey  work  at 
present,  to  take  upon  themselves  the 
responsibility  oi^  twenty  millions 
more  ?  Is  their  system  so  good  that 
they  can  hold  it  against  the  stronger, 
the  cheaper,  the  more  profitabte — 
the  national  system,  in  a  word-*of 
the  narrow  gauge  ? 

They  can^t  even,  as  Mr.  Harding 
argues,  give  fair  scope  and  advantage 
to  the  people  in  their  own  country* 
In  connexion  with  the  enormous 
trunk  line  the  branches  must  be 
eoonnous.  If  it  be  difficult  to  make 
the  great  stations  pay  now,  how 
much  more  will  it  be  to  establish 
small  ones,  which  henceforth  ought 
to  be  a  condition  of  all  ndlroads? 
The  small  tradesman,  the  poor  vil- 
lage, the  small  farmer  can't  afibrd 
an  outlet  for  their  goods  which  is  to 
be  purchased  at  such  a  tremendous 
expense  of  road-majdng.  These  hare 
as  good  a  ruht  to  communicate  with 
the  main  raurond  stream  now-a-days. 


750 


The  B.  G.  and  the  N.  G. 


[June,  1846. 


as  i/  to  be  fed  by  thdr  oootriba- 
tknL  It  is  no  longer  a  conrenienee, 
as  we  lutye  said ;  a  liixniy,  like  the 
QnicksilYer  coach,  to  be  adopted  by 
those  who  could  afford  it,  wnile  the 
Old  Bine  was  trayelling  for  the 
Tulgar  at  six  miles  an  hour — ^but  a 
right  to  which  erery  member  of  the 
English  industrial  republic  ought  to 
lay  claim. 

And  grant  that  the  big  en^e  is 
swifter  at  an  express  and  the  big  fint 
carriage  more  comfortable  than  the 
small  (though  even  this  is  a  question, 
as  many  gentlemen  who  haye  run 
away  with  interesting  jawof  ladies 
in  a  narrow-gauge  covpi^  with  two 
seats,  declare  the  oonyejrance  the 
most  iigBe^ble  in  the  world) : — but 
grant  that  the  big  engine  is  the 
swifter — and  this  is  all  you  get. 
That  swiftness  has  so  enchanted  the 
most  brilliant  of  the  broad-gauge 
adyocates  that  he  calls  it,  in  a  noble 
image,  ^  eauiyalent  to  the  creation  of 
time,**  and  so  holds  up  the  broad 
gauge  as  the  sign  of  human  adyance- 
ment,  and  the  narrow,  by  conse- 
quence, as  the  type  of  the  degrada- 
tion of  mankind— a  deliberate  re-esta- 
blishment of  a  lower  standard  for 
eyery  benefit  which  railroads  confer 
on  mankind. 

Why  BoP  Tou  haye  not  giyen 
this  system  fair  play.  As  a  partial 
system,  if  its  benefits  haye  be^  pro- 
digious, they  become  incredibly  mul- 
tiplied when  it  is  a  national  scheme. 
It  is  "  tvrice  blessed**  for  the  share- 
holder and  the  trayeller.  It  is  a 
spring  of  wealth  as  yet  undeyeloped 
for  the  one ;  for  make  the  narrow,  or 
any  gauge  scheme,  a  national  one, 
and  Uiere  is  no  knowing,  no  calcu- 
lating how  yast  its  resmts  may  be. 
Look  at  its  progress  since  it  was  bom 
fifteen  years  ago.  The  i>etitions  of 
the  uniyersity  bigwies  against  it,  and 
the  declarations  of  tne  engineers  who 

Sublished  the  *'  able  document**  con- 
emninff  it,  are  scarcely  more  absurd 
than  Mr.  BruneFs  declaration,  that 
the  Great  Western  Line  **  would  not 
interfere**  with  the  other  lines  in 
England.  The  West  must  and  ou^ht 
to  mterfere  with  the  North,  and  Irish 
pigs  to  trayel  oyer  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  country  as  well  as 
Durham  coal,  or  Suffolk  oxen,  or 
Welsh  iron,  or  Cornish  tin.  Let  us 
-uit  (though  Mr.  Stephenson  is 


there  with  10,0002.  to  say  no)  that 
the  broad-gauge  racer  can  beat  the 
narrow-gauge  engine.  What  then  ? 
The  narrow-guage  express  can  still 
trayel  fifty  mues  an  hour— the  nar- 
row-gauge trains  go  to  this  day  as 
muck  as  the  broadr— and  is  the  na- 
tion such  a  fool  as  to  depriye  itself 
€iihe  benefits  which  it  has  got? 

Make  it  a  national  scheme.,  and 
you  haye  the  whole  country  in  hand. 
Neyer  mind  about  the  expresses. 
Take  the  gau^  which  already  oc- 
cupies seyen-eighths  of  Uie  railroad 
country ;  not  because  it  is  three 
times  as  cheap  and  profitable  as  its 
opponent;  not  because  the  Great 
Western  shareholders  themselyes 
would  profit  immeasurably  by  an- 
nexation to  the  railroad  republic, 
but  because  the  narrow*«auge  doa 
occupy  seyen-eighths  of  the  country. 
One  thing  is  clear,  the  small  unpay- 
ing  line  can  neyer  swallow  the  great 
productiye  one:  the  broad-gauge 
line  may  become  narrow  gauge  with- 
out hindrance  to  the  commerce  of 
the  country,  the  narrow  gauge  can 
neyer  become  broad. 

But  a  period  is,  perhaps,  at  hand 
when  large  and  small  engines  shall 
disappear  altogether;  when  Mr. 
Stephenson*s  new  galloper,  backed 
at  10,0002.  against  twice  his  weight; 
when  the  Mammoth  enginei,  big  and 
beautiful  as  they  are,  splendidly  rush- 
ing down  their  broad  streams  of  iron, 
shall  giye  place  to  something  still 
more  rapid  and  powerful — the  At- 
mospheric Principle,  which  Mr.  Bru- 
nei oelieyes  in.  Then  let  them  be 
rolled  to  the  National  Museum,  and 
take  thdr  plaoes  beside  Henry  Vin.*s 
ffun,  or  the  figure  of  the  dethroned 
Jupiter,  or  the  statute  of  the  repealed 
Corn-laws. 

Meanwhile  there  neyer  was  a 
clearer  moral,  as  we  take  it  to  be, 
got  out  of  any  series  of  yolumes,  and 
pamphlets,  and  inquiries,  than  that 
the  railroad  system  of  the  country 
ought  to  be  <mtf;  and  we  dutifully 
concur  in  the  opinion  submitted  to 
her  mijesty  by  her  dutifhl  Com- 
missioners :— * 

'*  That  the  gauge  of  four  feet  ei^t 
inches  and  •  half  be  declared  by  the  legis- 
lature to  be  the  gauge  to  be  used  in  all 
public  nilwaya  now  under  conatruction, 
or  hereafier  to  be  constructed,  in  Great 
Britain." 


INDEX  TO  VOL,  XXXIII. 


Ancient  Egypt,  a  Dinner  in,  S29 

Anecdote  about  an  Old  House,  434 

Annette,  503 

Apprentices  of  Milliners,  308 

Army,  Education  in  the,  719 

Arnold's  Lectures  on  Modem  History, 

596 
Ansterlitz,  tlie  Campaign  of.    Chap.  I. 

649 ;  Chap.  II.  657 
Authorship,  Female,  460 

B.G.  and  the  N.G.  A  few  words  on  the 
Gauge  Dispute,  743 

Balzac,  H.  De.  I1ie  Pride  of  a  Spoiled 
Beauty,  Chap.  I.  46;  Chap.  II.  and 
Conclusion,  180 

Beauty,  the  Pride  of  a  Spoiled.  Adapted 
from  the  French  of  H.  De  fiafaac. 
Chap.  I.  46;  Chap.  II.  and  Con- 
clusion, 180 

Beggars,  666 

Bekentnisae  von  Ublich,  review  of,  694 

Bell,  Chamher  of  the.  Chap.  I.  530; 
Chap.  II.  535  ;  Chap.  HI.  541 

Bible  in  Spain,  by  George  Borrow,  379 

Blanchard,  Laman.  A  Brother  of  the 
Press  on  the  History  of  a  Literary 
Man,  and  the  Chances  of  the  Literary 
Profession.  In  a  Letter  to  the  Her. 
Francis  Sylvester  at  Rome,  from  Mi- 
chael Angelo  Titroarsh,  Esq.  332 

Borrow,  George,  Tht  Bible  in  Spain,  379 

British  Poetry,  Past  and  Present  Con- 
dition of,  577;  Part  IL  and  Con- 
clusion, 708 

Brother  of  the  Press  on  the  Historv  of  a 
Literary  Man,  Laman  Blanchard,  and 
the  Chances  of  the  Literary  Profession. 
In  a  Letter  to  the  Rev.  Francis  Sylves- 
ter at  Rome,  from  Michael  Angelo 
Titmarsh,  Esq.,  332 

Cabinet,  Mysteries  of  the,  121 

Cabinet  and  Sir  Robert  Peel,  What  is 
the  Position  of?  369 

Caged  Lark,  the,  740 

Campaign,  the  Late,  and  the  Sikhs,  606 

Campaign  of  Austerlits,  Chap.  I.  649; 
Chap.  II.  657 

Campaign  of  Marengo,  545 

Ceylon,  Elephant  Shooting  in,  561 

Chamber  of  the  Bell,  Chap.  I.  530 ; 
Chap.  II.  535  ;  Chap.  III.  541 

Chapter  on  Straws,  being  the  first  Spe- 
cimen of  a  New  Dictionary,  127 

Character  and  Theories  of  Mr.  Newman, 
253 

Childrens*  Books  reviewed  by  Michael 
*AngeIo  Titmarsh,  495 

Chimes  for  the  New  Year,  1 

Colony,  Life  in  a;  or,  the  Old  Judge. 
The  Lone  House.  By  the  Author  of 
Sam  Slick  the-Cloekmaker,  The  AttacM, 
&c.  505 

Common  Lodging-housei  342 


Condition,  Past  and  Present,  of  British 
Poetry,  577  ;  Part  II.  and  Conclusion, 
708 

Contemporary  Orators,  No.  VI.  The 
Right  Hon.  T.  B.  Macaulay,  77  ;  No. 
VII.  The  Right  Hon.  Sir  James  Gra- 
ham. 136;  No.  VIII.  Lord  Palmers- 
ton,  317;  No.  IX.  Earl  Grev,  466, 
Lord  Morpeth,  474 ;  No.  a.  Mr. 
Shell,  728 

Counsel  Mal-a-Propos,  288 

Crime,  Philosophy  of,  with  Illustrations 
from*  Familiar  History.  No.  I.  Wil- 
liam Home,  7 ;  No.  IL  Francis  David 
Stim,  235 

Dictionary,  the  First  Specimen  of  a  New. 
An  Illustrative  Chapter  on  Straws, 
127 

Dining  Out,  445 

Dinner  in  Ancient  Egypt,  229 

Dragon,  Fight  with  the.  From  the  Ger- 
man of  Schiller,  591 

Duchess  of  Newcastle,  Margaret  Lucas, 
292 

Earl  Grey.    Contemporary  Orators,  No. 

IX.  466 
Education  in  the  Army,  719 
Egypt,  A  Dinner  in  Ancient,  229 
Elephant  Shooting  in  Ceylon,  561 
Elm- Wood,  The  Lady  of.  Chap.  I.  113 ; 

Chap.  II.  116 
Ernest  Walkinworm's  Opinion  of  Seville. 

In  a  Letter  to  Mr.  Grubley,  683 
Euay  on  the  Develnpement  rf  Chrittian 

Doctrine,    By  John  H.  Newman,  253 

False  Alarm.    A  True  Story,  232 

Familiar  History,  Illustrations  from.  Tlie 
Philosophy  of  Crime.  No.  I.  William 
Home,  7 ;  No.  II.  Francis  David  Stira, 
235 

Felix  Summerly's  Home  Treatury,  re- 
view of,  495 

Female  Authorship,  460 

Fight  with  the  Dragon.  From  the  Ger- 
man of  Schiller,  591 

First  Flower -Punter.  A  Legend  of 
Sycion,  72 

Francis  David  Stirn,  235 

French  Trial,  On  a  late,  621 

French  Newspapers  and  Newspaper 
Writers,  French  Farceurs  and  Feuil- 
letonists, French  Duellists,  French 
Actresses,  &c.  In  a  Letter  to  Oliver 
Yorke  from  Benjamin  Blunt,  formerly 
a  Bencherman  and  Trencherman  in  the 
Inner  Temple,  now  a  Rentier  of  the 
Rae  RivoU  in  Paris,  674 

Gammer  Gurton*t  Stonf'Bodks,  revised  by 
Ambrose  Merton,  Gent.,  review  of,  495 

Gelnhauaen,  the  Legend  of.  From  the 
History  of  the  Twelfth  Century,  143 


752 


Index  to  Vol.  XXXIII. 


Gennany,  BeUffioai  Movement  in,  694 
Good-Katured  Sear,  review  of.  495 
Grabtm,  the    Right    Hon.    Sir  Junes. 

Coiitmponry  Orstore.    No.  VII.  136 
Grer,    Eirl.      Conttnporcry    Oraton. 

No.  IX.  466 

Hand'Bcok  for  TrAvelUn  in  Spain  avd 

Readers  at  Home,  579 
Hietory  of  Pantomimes,  in  a  Letter  to 

Oliver  Yorke,  Esq.  43 
Home,  WilUam,  7 
House,  Anecdote  about  an  Old,  434 
Hugo,  Victor,  Something  more  about, 

515 

Illustrations  from  Familiar  Histonr*  The 
Philosophy  of  Crime.  No.  I.  William 
Home,  7  ;  No.  II.  Francis  David 
Stira,S35 

Illustrative  Chspter  on  Straws.  Being 
the  First  Specimen  of  a  New  Dic- 
tionary, 127 

Imhoff's  Statue  of  Hagar  at  RomOi  To 
One  who  was  Moved  to  Tears  at  Sight 
of,  275 

Judge,  the  Old ;  or.  Life  in  a  Colony. 
The  fifnili  Houae.  By  the  Author  of 
Sam  Sir  the  CUekmaker,  The  Attaehi, 
&c.  5C    X 

Lady  of  Elm- Wood,  Chap.  L 113 ,  Chap. 
II.  116 

Late  Campaign  of  the  Sikhs,  606 

Late  French  Trial,  621 

Latin  Pamphleteers.    Sallust,  194 

Lectures  by  Arnold  on  Modern  History, 
596 

legend  of  Gelnhausen.  From  the  His- 
tory of  the  Twelfth  Century,  143 

Legend  of  Sycion.  The  First  Flower* 
Painter,  72 

Le  Jeu  de  Noi;l.  From  the  Notes  of  an 
Old  Traveller,  269 

Letter  from  Kippoldsan,  211 

Leitersi  Public  Patronage  of  Men  of,  58 

Letter  to  Oliver  Yorke  on  French  News. 

fipers  and  Newspaper  Writers,  French 
areeurs  and  Feuilletonists,  French 
Duellista,  French  Aetreases,  &c.  By 
Bei^amip  Blunt,  formerly  a  Bencher- 
man  and  Trencherman  in  the  Inner 
Temple,  now  a  Rentier  in  the  Rue 
Rivoli  in  Paris,  674 

Letter  to  Oliver  Yorke,  Esq.  on  the  His- 
tory of  Pantomines,  43 

Life  10  a  Colony;  or,  the  Old  Judge. 
The  Lone  Houae.  By  the  Author  of 
3^01  Slick  the  Cloekmaker,  The  AttaohS, 
&c.  505 

Lodging-Houae,  the  Common,  342 

Lord  Morpeth.  Contemporary  Oratora. 
No.  IX.  474 

Lord  Palmerston.    Contemporary   Ora- 
tora.   No.  VIII.  517 
eratte,  the  Village  of,  and  the  New  3et- 
Uemeat  of  Vale  Cartter,  323 


Love,  Preaent  and  Past,  226 
Lttcai,  Margaret,  duchess  of  Newcastle, 
292 

Macaqlay,  Right  Hon.  T.  B.  Contem- 
porary Orators.    No.  VI.  77 

Mal*a>rropos,  Counsd,  288 

Manners,  Tmditiotts,  and  Siq>entitions 
of  the  Shetlanders,  631 

Marengo,  the  Campaign  of,  545 

Margaret  Lucas,  ciucheas  of  Newcastle, 
292 

Men  of  Letters,  Public  Patronage  of,  58 

Milliners'  Apprentices,  308 

AliUjr  L .  A  Tale  of  Fact  in  Hum- 
ble Life,  395 

Ministers,  the  Position  of,  246 

Miigion  der  DeuUch-KathiUihenf  von  G. 
G.  Gervinus,  review  of,  694 

Mr.  Newman,  his  Theoriee  nod  Charac- 
ter, 253 

Mr.  Sheil.  Contemporary  Oratora.  No. 
X.728 

Modem  Hietory,  Arnold's  Lsrturvi  m, 
596 

Modern  Paintert,  ficc  358 

Morgan  Rattler  on  Railways,  97 

Morgan  Rattler  on  the  Spains  and  ths 
Spaniards,  379 

Morpeth,  Lord.  Contemporary  Orators. 
No.  IX.  474 

Mttrillo;  or,  the  Painter  without  Am- 
bition, 488 

Museus,  437 

Mysteries  of  the  Cabinet,  121 

Napoleon,  Principal  Campaigns  to  the 

Rise  of.  Nol.  The  Italian  Campaigns. 

Chap.  I.  23 ;  Chap.  II.  35.     No.  II. 

The  Italian  Campaigna.     Chap,  III. 

157;  Chap.  IV.  163.    No.  111.    The 

Italian   Campaigns.      Chap.   V.  276. 

No.    IV.      The  Italian   Campaigns. 

Chap.   VI.    413;    Chap.  VII.    424. 

No.  V.    The  Campaign  of  Marengo. 

Chap.  VIII.  545.      No.   VL     The 

Campaign    of  Auaterlita.     Chap.   I. 

649  ;  Chap.  II.  657 
Neae  und  dock  alte  Feinde,  von  Johannea 

Ronge,  review  of,  694 
Newcastle,  Margaret  Lneaa,  doehess  of, 

292 
Newman,  Mr.;  his  Theories  and  Cha- 
racter, 253 
New  Settlement  of  Vale  Cartier,  aad  the 

Village  of  Lorette,  323 
New  Year's  Chimea.  1 
Noel,  Le  Jen  de.    From  the  Notes  of  an 

Old  Traveller,  269 
Notea  of  an  Old  TraTcUer.    Le  Jen  de 

Noel,  269 

06  Sehriftl     Ob  Geitt?     Verantwortung 

gegen   Meine  Ankldger,    von    G.    A. 

Wialicenua,  Pfiarrer  in  Halle,  review 

of,  694 
Of  Railways.     By  Morgan  Rattler,  Esq. 

An  Apprentice  of  the  Lnw»  97 


Index  io  Vol  XXXIIL 


753 


Of  tha  Spaint  and  the  Spantaids.    By 

Morgan  Rattler,  379 
Old  House,  Anecdote  about  an,  434 
Old  Judge ;  or,  Life  io  a  Colony.    The 

Lone  House.    By  the  Author  of  Sam 

Slick  ih$  Cloekmaker,  Tk$  AttacM,  &c 

505 
On  Beggars,  666 
On  a  late  French  Trials  6tl 
On  some  Illustrated  Children's  Boolca. 

By  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh,  495 
On  the  Hiatory    of  Pantomimes.     In 

a  Letter  to  Oliver  Yorke,  Esq.,  49 
Orators,  Contemporary.    No.  VI.    The 

Right  Hon.  T.  B.  Maeanlay,  77  ;  No. 

VII.      The    Right   Hon.  Sir  James 

Graham,  1S6;  No.  VIII.    Lord  Pal. 

merstoD,  317 :    No.  IX.  Earl  Grey, 

466;   Lord  Morpeth,  474;   No.    X. 

Mr.  Sheil,  728 
Our  Chfanes  for  the  New  Year,  1 

Poifitoff,  Modem,  See.  358 

Painter,  the  First  Flower.  A  Legend  of 
Syeion,  72 

Painter  without  Ambition,  the,  488 

Palmeraton,  Lord.  Contemporary  Ora* 
tors.    No.  Vni.317 

Pamphleteers,  Latin.    Sallnst,  194 

Pantomimes,  on  the  History  of.  In  a 
Letter  to  Olirer  Yorke.  i!iq.  43 

Past  and  Present  Condition  of  firitiah 
Poetry,  577;  Part  II.  Concloiton, 
708 

Patronage.  Pnblie,  of  Men  of  Letters,  58 

Peel,  Sir  Robert,  and  his  Cabinet;  What 
is  the  Position  of?  369 

Philosophy  of  Crime,  with  Illnstratioos 
from  Familiar  History.  No.  I.  Wil- 
liam Horn,  7  ;  No.  II.  Francis  David 
Stim,  235 

Poetry,  Past  and  Present  Condition  of 
British,  677  ;  Part  II.  Conclusion,  708 

Poetry :  Ronsard  to  his  Mistress.  By 
Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh,  120— Lore, 
Present  and  Past,  226— A  False  Alarm. 
A  Tme  Story,  232  —  To  One  who  was 
moved  to  Tears  at  Sight  of  Imhoff*B 
Statue  of  Hagar  at  Rome,  275  >-  The 
Fight  with  the  Dragon*  From  the 
German  of  Schiller,  591 

Politics:  Contemporary  Oratots.  No. 
VL  The  Rt.  Hon.  T.B.Macaukly,  77  ; 
No.  VII.  The  Right  Hon.  Sir  James 
Graham,  136 ;  No.  VIII.  Lord  Pal. 
merston,  317;  No.  IX.  Ea/I  Gr^, 
466;  Lord  Morpeth,  474;  No.  X. 
Mr.  Sheil,  728  — M^rtterica  of  the  Ca. 
bioet,  121 — The  Position  of  Ministers, 
S46— What  is  the  Position  of  Sir  Ro- 
bert  Peel  and  his  Cabinet?  369— The 
Sikha,  their  Rise  and  Progress,  478-^ 
The  Sikhs  and  the  late  Campaign,  606 
•—Religious  Movement  in  Gennany, 
694— Education  in  the  Army,  719 

Position  of  Ministers,  246 

Position  of  Sir  Robert  Peel  and  his  Ca* 
binet,  What  is  tke  1169 


Fraetieal  Ceok*    By  J.  Bregien  and  Anne 

Millar,  457 
Present  and  Past  Love,  226 
Pride  of  Spoiled  Beauty.    Adapted  from 
the  French  of  H.  De  Balsae.    Chap. 
I.  46;  Chap.  II.  and  Conclusion*  180 
Principal  Campaigns  in  the  Rise  of  Na- 
poleon. No.  I.  The  Italian  Campaigns. 
Chap.  I.  23 ;  Chap.  IL  35.    No.  II. 
The  Italian  Campaigns.    Chap.  III. 
157  ;  Chap.  IV.  163.    No.  ill.    The 
Italian  Campaigns.     Chap.  V.  276. 
No.    IV.      The   Italian    Campaigns. 
Chap.   VI.   413;    Chap.   VII.   424. 
No.  V.    The  Campaign  of  Marengo. 
Chap.  VIII.  545.    No.VL  The  Cam. 
paign  of  AusterUtz,    Chap.  I.  649; 
Chap.  II.  657 
Progress  and  Rise  of  the  Sikha,  478 
PubKe  Patronage  of  Men  of  Letters,  58 
Railways.     By  Morgan  Rattler,  Esq. 

An  Apprentiee  of  the  Law,  97 
Rattler,  Morgan,  on  Railways,  97 
Rattler,  Morgan,  on  the  Spains  and  the 

Snuiidrds,  379 
Redding,  Cyrus.     V$kueo;  or,  Momoirt 

of  a  Pogo,  review  of,  456 
Religions  Movement  in  Gennany,  694 
Reviews :  A  Tour  from  Con'  '  to  Cairo. 
By  M.  A.  Titmamh,  85—  ay  on  tho 
DovotopmoKt  of  Ckriitian  . '  nrino.  By 
John  Henry  Newman,  253— Modfm 
Peialsffl,  ^c.  By  a  Graduate  of  Oz« 
ford,  358— TKe  Hand^Book  for  Travel' 
ler$  in  Spain  and  Readert  AtJiomi,  388 
-.7!h«  Biblo  tn  Spain*  Bt  George 
Borrow,  S9B^m,Velaseo ;  or,  Uomokt  of 
a  Pago*  By  Cyrus  Reading,  457-. 
FeUx  SummerUf*t  Homo  TVtastiry,  495 
m^Gammor  Gurton*$  SlorymBooki,  Re- 
vised by  Ambrose  Morton,  Gent,  495 
-^Storioi  for  tko  Soaiont,  495  —  The 
Good-natured  Bear,  ^9&.^ntrodnct€ry 
Lecture*  on  Modem  Hittory  delivered  in 
Lent  1842,  vftfi  the  Inaugural  Lecture 
delivered  in  December  1841.  By 
Thomas  Arnold,  D.D.,  Begins  Pro- 
fessor of  Modem  Histiwy  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Oxford,  and  Head-Master 
of  Rugby  School,  596 — Miteion  dor 
Deuteeh'Kathelikett.  Von  G.  G.  Ger- 
vinns,  694  —  Theiner's  BHtritt  sur 
Deuttch'^Katholitehen  lUform,  694-- 
OhSchrift?  ObGeitt?  Verdntwmtung 
gegen  Meint  AnkSlgar,  VoB  G.  A. 
WisBoenne,  Pfan«r  in  Halle,  694— 
•  Btlbiitntneeon  UhUeh,  694^— Ksns  nnd 
'  dock  alte  Feinde.  Von  Johannes  Ronge, 
694 
Rippoldsan,  a  Letter  from,  211 
Rise  and  Pro|p:ess  of  the  Sikhs,  478 
Ronsard  to  hia  Mistress.  By  Michael 
Angelo  Titmarsh,  120 

Sail  oat.    Latin  Pamphleteers,  194 
SdriHer'aFight  with  the  Dragon,  59i 
SevUle,  Ernest  Walkinworm'a  C 
of.    la  •  littttr  to  Mr.  Orubl 


754 


Index  to  Vol.  XXXITl. 


S(i«tlind«n.  Their  Muin«t,  Tiadiiiooi 
tuid  SuptTtlition*,  631 '  - 

Sikhi,  (he,  uid  tbeUts  Campaign,  606 

8i][hi,lha.  Their  Rue  idJ  [>ni;reu,479 

Sir  Jwaai  Gnhun,  Coalcmpaiarr  On- 
ion.    No.  VII.  136 

Sir  Robert  Peel  tud  hii  CiUaeli  Wltit 
u  tba  Poiition  of  1  369 

Sonathing  more  aboul  Viclsr  Hueo,  515 

Sp«iiu  and  Ihs  Spaniard*.  By  Morg;aa 
KatUar,  379 

Spoilad  EieaBi7,  th«Fndaora.  Adapted 
from  iha  Fiaoch  of  Babac.  Chap.  I. 
46 ;  Chap.  It.  and  CooeluaioD,  ISO 

Stira,  Francii  Duid,  tSS 

£Mrui/«-  tht  SwsRu,  rarieir  of,  495 

Straws.  ■nllluatntiTeChapteroa,  Buiag 
ths  Grjt  Spacimaa  of  a  new  Diction- 
ary, ItT 

Supantitiona,  Manners,  and  Traditioni 
of  [heBhstlaodera,  631 

Sjoian,  a  Legend  of.  The  drat  Flower- 
Piintsr,  711 

Tela  of  Fact  in  HiunbU  Lift.  Uilly 
L ,395 

TalM  and  N  vr«tiT«a :  Tha  Fhilowiphj  of 
Crime,  with  lllnatrationa  from  Fami- 
liar Historr.  No.  I.  WiUiam  Home,  7  ; 
No.  II.  Fnueu  Darid  Stirn,  «35_ 
Frinoipal  Campai^a  in  the  Kiw  of 
Nqi^n.  No.  I.  The  IbJiui  Cam. 
paignt,  Cbsp.  I.  13;  Chap.  II.  Si. 
No.  II.  Chap.  III.  157  ;  Chap.  IV. 
163.  No.  111.  Chap.  V.«T6;  Chap. 
VI.  413 ;  Chap.  VII.  4U.  No.  V. 
The  Campaign  of  Maronro,  Chap. 
VIII.  545.  No.  VI.  The  Campaign  of 
Aaaterliti,  Chap.  I.  649;  Chap.  II. 
657— I'be  Pride  of  a  Spoiled  Beaatr. 
Adapted  from  the  Fnnch  of  H.  d« 
lUuc.     Chap.  I.  46  1   Chap.  II.  IBO 


Wo^.    Chip.  1.113;  Chap.  II. 

_l'he  Legend  of  Galnbauun.     From 

Ihfl  Hialorj  of  the  Twelfth  Canturj, 

143— A  Letter  ham  Rippoldaaa,  til 

_A  Dinner  in  Ancient  Egjft,  f t9— 

I.  t™  Jo  K^}      »■«,„  ih,  Nolea  of 

— CoDnael  Hat- 

rgaret      Luoai, 

e,    19!— Milli. 

)_T1ie  Villa^ 

M  SetUamont  of 

Tha    Common 

-Milly    L 


A  Tale  of  Fact  in  IlDnibleLiIe,395- 
An  Aorcdote  nboat  nn  Old  Honaa,  431 
Dining  Oat,  444— Mnrillo;  or,  the 
Painter  witbout  Ambition,  48S~-Th« 
Old  Jndgw  ;  or.  Life  in  a  Colonv.  llw 
Lone  Houae.  B;  the  Author  of  Ska 
Slick  IA>  Clfckimaktr.  i A>  ^lluM,  tec. 
505— 1  he  Cbsmbm'  of  the  Bell.  Chu. 
I.  530;  Chap.  II.  535;  Chap.  HI. 
54t — Elepbent- Shooting  in  Ctjkn, 
561  —  Manners,  Tradition!,  and  Su- 
peratitioua  of  the  SliMlanden,  6Si— 

On   Befgtn,    666 Emeat    Walkin. 

•rorm'a  Opinion  of  Serille.  In  a 
Lwter  to  Mr.  Gmblej,  683 

The  Caged  Urk,  740 

The  B.  U.  and  tha  N.  G.  A  few  Woida 
on  the  tiinge  Dispute,  743 

Tbeinar'a  BtitriH  mut  DttuuK-KtUulu- 
tlun  Rrforu,  rariaw  of,  694 

Theoriea  and  Character  of  Mr,  Newman, 
353 

Hcmanh'a  Letter  to  tbo  Rer.  Franoii 
SyWatler  on  the  Hietorr  of  a  Utmij 
Men,  Laman  Blancbard.  and  Ili* 
Chaneei  of  the  Literary  Profeaajim,  SM 

Titmanh'i  Toar  through  Taiktjdaa.iS 

Titmanh,  Michael  Angela.  Roneerd  to 
hii  Miitr«u,  ItO 

Titmanh.  Michael  Angelo.  On  iMie  11- 
luatnted  Children's  Hooka.  495 

To  one  who  wai  moved  to  Ten  at 
Sight  of  Imhoff*!  Statue  of  Hagar,  at 
Roma,  175 

Tour  from  CombUl  to  Cairo.  Bj  U.  A. 
Tilmarab,  85 

Tradition!,  Hannen,  and  SupentiliMi  of 
the  Shetlanden,  631 

TnTellai'aNotta..  La  Jan  de  Noel.  169 

Trial,  on  a  lale  French,  6«l 

Turkejdom,  Htmarali'a  Tour  throng,  8i 

Vale  Cirtier,  the  New  SetiUmsDi  of,  and 

tha  Village  of  Loretta,  313 
VilaKSf  <>r,MnudrtrfaPttt,*56 
Victor  Hugo,  Something  more  abool,  515 
Village  of  Loratie,  and  the  New  Settle- 
ment of  Vale  CarUer.     The  Village 
of  Lorelle,  323;  the  New  Settlemeal 
of  Vale  Cartiar,  3*5 

Walkinworm'a,  EmMt,  OpiDton  of  Se- 
ville.   lnaUllerloHr.Grubl<T,M3 

What  it  the  Foaitioa  of  Sir  Robert  I'm! 
and  hU  Cabinet  1369 

Willum  Home,  7 


END  OF  VOL.  XXXIU.